Fuck your “Box”

I think the most interesting people operate two sides of very different worlds.  They have the complexity to traverse between those interdependent realms with ease, pulling off either role seamlessly.  I often think about how heavily we judge people based on what we see through our own eyes, and the socially obstructed veil that ever looms before them.

I was thinking about this the other day when wondering about what people think when they read my blog.  I wonder if any homely woman stops by my page and subsequently renders me a slut.  I wondered if they read me speak of affairs openly, understanding instead of condemning, perhaps even congratulating people on harnessing their own happiness.  I have been the recipient of so many insults aimed directly at my sexuality; they seem to bounce off my thick skin without much thought.  Further yet, I wondered how many people judge me specifically on the basis that I am passionate about being in a 24/7, monogamous, marital, M/s relationship.  The thought of my taboo sex life complicating any other information or solid advice I bestow in my writing.  How many people even bother to read it as soon as they see “BDSM” in the category cloud to the right.  I’m sure you’re asking, “Why do you care?”  You’re right.  I don’t necessarily care for the approval, but I care from the standpoint of analysis and principle:  Why do some people follow the socialistic patterns they were taught?  Is there truly some people that have not a single part of them inclined to understand what lurks behind the unopened door?

“If all I did was stare at polka dots, my eyes would starve for stripes”

I know people see me and believe I desperately hang from the outstretched hand of my financially savvy husband.  You see me in my body hugging, cleverly revealing, yet professional sheath dresses and think I have a library full of beauty magazines.  You assume I obsess over dieting, refrain from eating carbs, spend my entire life on a treadmill, or get plastic surgery.  Perhaps you see me strutting through the grocery store in one of my many pair of 6 inch stiletto heels, and assume I carelessly sling them over the shoulders of men for enjoyment.  A tasteful amount of cleavage escapes the v-neck of my sweater and you assume these beautiful, full breasts are fake; again, you assume they are probably a purchase that my meal ticket husband or my affair partner bought me.  I place a high value on physical appearance; I choose to never leave the house without being “done up”, so I must be under-educated and compensating for my miserable intellect.  I carry myself with poise, so I must be a conceited bitch.  You see me with my kids and assume I’m their biological mother as you watch them hold my hand, tell me they love me, and scurry beside me in their splendor.  You assume I listen to Carrie Underwood, ask my husband to make sweet love to me, grace a pew every Sunday, and obsess over the next episode of some popular reality T.V.  Oh my…

I am financially independent and always have been.  I have maintained my professional career throughout several personal setbacks.  I fully embrace my sexuality, to all degrees possible.  I haven’t touched a beauty magazine since my early 20’s, and don’t define myself by any standard other than that of my approval and that of my Dom.  I have an intense passion for cooking; therefore, I possess an even greater passion for eating.  I don’t deny myself anything that brings me pleasure, nor make myself feel guilty for embracing the pleasures in life.  I sling my 6 in heels over the muscular, mountainous shoulders of my husband, my Dom.  My favorite necklace is a collar.  I am well educated.  I am high maintenance; preferring my husband to parade me about as his trophy wife than walk 10 steps ahead of me while I trudge along in my tattered sweat pants.  I am confident, powerful, and outspoken.  I would still wear my 6 inch stiletto heels while stomping the heads of zombies, should I ever need to do that sort of thing.  I choose to be my husband’s full time submissive, because I have never met a man who can handle me until him.  They were small in spirit.  They were insignificant in presence.  They were boring in entirety.  I wait on my husband hand and foot; I make his meals, plate his food, wash his body, fold his clothing and carry his cum inside me with equal pride.  I serve him and his every request, relentlessly.  We blast NIN, Rob Zombie, Deftones, Massive Attack, Portishead, Tool, Puscifer, A Perfect Circle (yes, they deserve to be listed separately as I have an obsession with Maynard).  I fucking hate Carrie Underwood and her male bashing, spiteful “bitch in a pair of cowboy boots”, country bumpkin, lyrically trite, bullshit example of “music”.  Oh, and those kids…They are my step-children.  I love them as if I’d birthed them.  I love them with a power so great, it instills a fear of jealousy so vile in their mother that feels it’s necessary to punish them for saying my name.  We raise them with confidence, strength; provide them with an example of what love, appreciation, adoration and respect looks like in a marriage.  We eat family dinners together at the table, insist they use their impeccable manners, and share all the pleasurable tales of simplicity of their day.  We look forward to family game night, weekly.  I don’t pray to God, but openly worship my God (my D/Husband).  I am agnostic; but, possess a deep regard for souls, energy, and the possibility at previous lives.  My breasts and every part of this glorious body, often dressed so beautifully in the knot work of my D, are 100% authentic.

Try to place me in a box now…

About FervidM

A Sensual Side of BDSM - The romance of servitude, submission, pleasure and pain. View all posts by FervidM

7 responses to “Fuck your “Box”

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