Lost & Found: Finding FemDom, a Love Letter.
The Dommes I've had the pleasure of getting to know often talk about always being different, always falling outside of what is expected of a woman in our society, at this time. Often it's being raised by a strong, confidence-instilling parent or perhaps the opposite, fighting for control from an early age. Regardless of origins, there seems to be a similar path to discovery. The incubation of dominant tendencies in youth, the realization and rejection of self in young adulthood and the eventual acceptance of oneself. This story of identity often parallels that of the submissive men who provide our counterpart. A wonderfully complimentary journey through rejection and acceptance, laced together with only empathy. On this day, December 17th, International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers, I've written my story in the form of a love letter to all my fellow sex workers, but in particular, my fellow Dommes. Living in the margins is often isolating, sometimes dangerous. For those who join me on this path, I see you, and you will always be safe with me. Everyone's story is different, here's mine...
She's come here for the resistance. They have sought each other out countless times and as she meets it here again it shows her it's newest form. It manifests itself within her body this time, an immense weight, pressuring her, begging her to succumb to the pull. The earth wants her back, gravity pleading for reason but she simply responds with a smile. This red, morning sky feels just right. As the atmosphere thumps down upon her, her eyes fall toward something new, joining her in the cock pit today. It's me, a small, red cardinal being pressed into the seat beside her, an immense introduction but how would I know? The sky fills the eyes of this red bird and as my molecules are rearranged by the force, I am tempered for resistance. The pilot knows she must land, returning to the easy earth but right now she can only see the sun and the widened eyes of her new, tiny cardinal.
From above I could see everything but here, I am lost. The flight is a distant memory and at times it feels imagined, surreal, a lonely game of telephone, echoing and warping endlessly throughout time. There is no structure here just the damp deadfall of these woods and the hum of loss, a taunting stitch that sears at every recollection. The crawling is the worst part and sometimes I succumb to the pain, laying still for days at a time. I awaken from my nightmares into this damp bed of dead leaves and I know only one thing, I don't belong here. My memory lapses and, occasionally, I can smell salt in the air. Every night I dream of a boat and try to recall where I am, what this forest looked like from above. But I'm so heavy and farther away from the clouds than I ever imagined possible. I dream of a deep tunnel, the sound of an oncoming train awakes me, I can smell salt. I start crawling again.
I pour from the forest onto the sand. I feel the blackness of the sky open above me and I breathe it in. The salt air fills every corner of my form and I unfold, finally. Inflating to the harmonic hum of the crashing waves, an incredible resonance filling my body. There is room for me here and the vastness of the universe above me is matched only by my expansive stillness. The boat that I dreamt of is anchored in the sea and my eyes follow the path of the moon to the shore. I see the others now, filling up, stretching out. I've found my coven in the dark, I've awoken to the sound of human voices. As the last memories of yesterday's sun stain the edges of the sky red, my eyes fill with the ocean, the salty tears that guided me home, a quiet, beautiful companion meant only for those who listen carefully. I feel a hand enter mine on either side, together we submerge and as our feet lift from the last inches of sand, we swim.
To my coven in the dark.
Lovely, little sadist living in Toronto, Ontario. This is my journal, where my brain gets to play.