Rebellion.
I have nothing against religion. I have nothing against those with strong beliefs. But, I do have a problem with those who force feed their doctrine on their friends, neighbors, perfect strangers, and their own children. Believe what you want. Your life is yours. It's your spiritual journey. Guide others gently if you're called to do so. Push too hard and shit hits the fan.
What about me? It doesn't matter what I believe. What matters is what happened when I was caged.
I wore polish on my nails one day to school. I took it out of my mother's drawer in the bathroom. She wasn't much for makeup, feeling it was sinful vanity, but on occasion, even she would sin. Clear and somewhat shimmery, I painted a thin layer over my nails and felt pretty. My teacher, a nun we kids nicknamed "Hairy" due to her unibrow, scolded me and actually splintered a bone in my middle finger when she beat me with a ruler. My mother threw out her nail polish (or hid it), and I was sent home to remove it from my hands. It didn't upset me. It was all good fun. I went to school with a hard-to-miss splint on my middle finger for a couple weeks. FUCK YOU HAIRY.
I wasn't allowed to date. All my "suiters" were cast away by my family, but it didn't stop my many admirers. I would deliberately sit in public places--the mall, coffee shops, libraries, even at church--with my school's uniform skirt hiked a bit higher up my thigh, a few too many buttons undone on my blouse, and runs I made in precarious places in my stockings. My parents were both furious with me, calling me a slut, a wannabe whore, or whatever negative names they could muster. It only made me hate them. It only made me want to break out of the box. I knew I didn't fit their mold.
I brought boys home--and later some girls--and sent them out through open windows if someone came home. I explored the human body and what it could do. Food, kitchen utensils and bathroom accessories became erotic. Don't ask me what I've done with a vacuum or a car battery. It'd blow your mind. It certainly blew mine. My youth and rebellion from conformity--the opposite of what my family wanted me to be--became the lasting life experiences that shaped my future.
I moved out at 17. I found a job and a shit-hole apartment I shared with some older goth guy into vampires and actual blood drinking. Didn't bother me. He didn't need my blood. His lifestyle was always with sexual consent and I wasn't into him or him into me. I learned from him however. He took me to places where I met kinky people into all sorts of things. It opened a window I had been opening for my lovers to escape from when I still lived at home. The kink scene was hot. New. Exciting.
My mother's love is her one redeeming grace. I know I'm loved regardless of her disapproval. I told her today that I've taken my university degrees to a new level and I'm now writing erotica. She wouldn't discuss it with me. My private life should stay private, she told me. Writing about sex would only bring focus on me in a negative light. *GAG* Her opinion can't touch me.
I'm accepted as the black sheep of the family, but I'll never be accepted by them for what I do. I've had many lovers. I've had many relationships. I've lived all over the world and have seen and done a lot of kinky things. It's my life. I was raised in a cage and now I'm free.
So why do I write erotica? Why the fuck not? I love sex. I love learning new things about sex. I like writing about sex because it makes me feel good to do so. I am a woman. I am a sexual creature, and I refuse to be any which way society or my family tells me I must be. FUCK YOU (Sorry Mom).
Accept all people for who they are. We're all made of the same thing and it's only the truly wicked who make a mess of the world. Sex and erotica are not wicked. If you're not into it, don't read it. I won't judge anyone. It's not my place. Erotica is just one form of expression, art, desire, and self-fulfillment.
"Self Portrait" January 5th 2014
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