Category Archives: acceptance

Bonding over Bitching

I work in an office of women and it’s quite discouraging.  Through the course of a single day, the topics of conversation include: Reality T.V, how much they hate their bodies, celebrities, plastic surgery, cosmetics, and how annoying their kids/boyfriends/husbands are.  I have never had much in common with women, especially the “modern” woman.  Perhaps my lack of appreciation for the modern women stems from my facing constant rejection by many of them due to the way I live my life.  I am openly submissive.  I love my husband and he rarely annoys me.  I enjoy meeting his needs, and I love to take care of him in any way necessary.  I don’t like to be an inconvenience to him and I refuse to be a nag.  Thus, I have a relationship that is relatively free from any resentments or drama, save the occasional squabble over something stupid like him not picking something out for dinner off his bi-weekly menu I make him.  We have a relationship that, I would deem, comes as close to perfection as possible. My relationship and my lifestyle, it would appear, would be the cause of my lack of steady female companionship. I am rarely unhappy with any part of my personal life or myself, so I appear haughty I’m female circles. The perception of haughtiness is threatening and the antithesis to female bonding over bitching.

I also don’t hate my body.  I appreciate my body.  I am happy with the way it looks and feel very comfortable naked.  If I come into a pattern of low self-esteem over something about my body, I’ll make an expeditated move to fix it in whatever manner possible.  If I feel like I’m hanging onto a few extra pounds, I amp up my workouts and cut back on some of the foods that could be holding me back from my goal.  I have nothing against plastic surgery, and may find myself in need of some in the future.  But, I don’t see a need to discuss it at length with other women. How does airing discomfort provide comfort? Can women only dish a complement without the need for one in return if they perceive themselves as equal or better than the person they are paying the compliment to?

How does this fix anything?  How does this make these women feel better?  Perhaps, female comradery is built upon a foundation of self-hate and negativity. Do women have to demean themselves to find acceptance from other women and feel as though they fit in?  Why are the lives of celebrities (or their assumed lives based upon what the media portrays) fascinating enough to cover the span of an hour or more in near constant communication?  Who the fuck cares? Any significant amount of time spent discussing celebrities is an utter waste of time. If each moment brings us closer to our death, I don’t want to spend it discussing the Kardashians for an hour.

My life experience thus far has revealed that to share a relationship of any depth with another woman you must be at least mildly miserable with yourself and your life.  You must enjoy complaining.  Complaining seems to be the very thread essential to the fiber of the female friendship. People within earshot of such pointless, meaningless and seemingly endless jabber should be the newest victims to form a hashtag movement. Are you having to listen to women bonding over bitching and it’s making you miserable? #metoo.


Mastrophobia

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The first thing I did when I got home was strip off my top and hold each breast within each hand.  I kneaded them between my fingers, the flesh extending through the spaces in between my fingers like porcelain colored dough.  I relished the warmth of them against the palms of my hands, the blood accumulating there in response to my stimulation.  I ran my erect nipples through each separated digit like a flapper on a prize wheel, closing my eyes and appreciating the sensitivity I’ve been afforded with these glorious accumulations of tissue.  I held my breasts in my hands, for what must have been over twenty minutes, appreciating the natural texture of my flesh and the intricate network nerves, tissues and glands that nestles below.  I tugged and pinched my nipples in between my fingers and watched as the skin stretched outward and rebounded back into a perfect mound of taught flesh.  I thought heavily about what I would do if I were to lose these, seemingly pointless (as I’ve never had nor wanted children), breasts that I’ve connected with on a far more intimate level than ever in my past.  The thought brought a mist to my eyes.  Although my femininity consists of far more than my breasts, I’d be lying to say that I don’t associate a healthy amount of pride toward my breasts and how they make me feel, so deliciously, female.

I didn’t always have such a fond relationship with my chest.  I seemed to have jumped from a mere flat chested little girl to a full C overnight at the turning of my 10th birthday. The boys would stare whenever we played sports, and since I was a tomboy running with a large group of athletic boys in the neighborhood, that just wouldn’t do.  I began to wear multiple sports bras and, literally, tape my breasts with duct tape over an undershirt.  I didn’t start appreciating the luscious allure of plump cleavage until much later in my teens.  From that point on, I had a healthy obsession with breasts and found myself drawn to women with ample, natural bosoms.  Now, breasts are often the focus of my porn endeavors.  I usually separate my porn watching habits into two distinct categories.  I am usually in the mood for either traditional/vanilla porn, or more often, some incredibly kinky (no one else, besides my King, knows I watch this kind of shit) porn.  In any case, the female lead must have large breasts.  Some of the sexiest GIFs locked up in the recesses of my dirty mind are the most basic black and white images of a stubbly, hyper-masculine looking man diving head first between two perky tits, only to emerge and sink an erect nipple into his mouth and suck until his cheeks concave. Such an image makes me think of my nipples in my man’s mouth, to which I’m hard pressed to find a better feeling outside of one generated by his cock.  But, this feeling of appreciation for my breasts extended far beyond the sexual benefits they afford me.  I began to understand how much my breasts are a part of my identity of a woman.  I often speak of enjoying being an active part of a patriarchal society, to include being sexualized as a woman.  Breasts are not only a thing of sustenance, they are an icon of beauty, a force of power, symbols of utter femininity.  However, a recent event taught me just how much I identify with my bountiful breasts and the experience will accompany me for a lifetime…

I sat nervously in the chair in the doctor’s office watching the ultrasound machine images flashing before my eyes, and I began to appreciate the breast on a whole new level.  On an ultrasound machine, the breast tissue appears like clouds composed of various shades of gray.  In a way,  as I watched the probe traverse the terrain of her breast, the image resembled a moving overcast sky.  I continued to watch the rolling clouds until they appeared to part, revealing a patch of black sky, like a specter of doom forecasting events to come.  The probe rolled back and forth over the shadow, which appeared more as a void than the ominous “thing” that is truly is.  “If this is what I think it is, then take them BOTH,” she exclaimed.  I reassured her, although an honest reaction, it is too soon for such demands.  “I don’t care.  I want to make sure there is nothing left to attack,” she remarks abruptly.  You could hear the contempt for her breasts in her tone.  Her breasts had become two twin adversaries standing in the way of her survival.  What I see as two beautiful symbols of femininity are turned, in her opinion, to a despised enemy within mere minutes.  To be so willing to part with such a beautiful part of the female form, although totally understandable, shocked me to my core.  Her reaction caused my mind to wonder…

Will I ever see my breasts as the source of utter anguish?

Will I ever hear myself command a doctor to remove my breasts from my very chest?

Will that shadow ever cross the screen of one of my ultrasounds?

I’m not as strong as her…

I instantly became more aware of the heaviness of my full chest, appreciating the way my breasts sat supported in the cup of my bra.  I drew my attention to the tingly pressure of my erected nipples from the cold office.  I folded my arms under them, feeling the weight of my breasts resting on my crossed forearms.  I could smell the rose scented oil radiating off the tops of my full breasts.  I thought to myself how much I adore my breasts.  I have kept that perspective in mind with each passing day since.  I’m going to appreciate my breasts every day that I have them, use them for all their glorious abilities, because I’ll never know if a shadow may someday take them away.


Spanking Shame

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I’m going to tell you all a little story about murder– It’s a true story…

Since this is a true story, I am going to protect the deceased man’s privacy by naming him Joe.

Joe was in his late 50’s and enjoyed himself a spanking.  This man was an incredibly successful military Veteran, lent himself to several tours, and lived a life of high professional achievement.  This hard working man’s reward and release was found in the spankings of his Mistress.  He hid these desires from his wife, a psychiatrist, whom he correctly assumed would berate him for his delights.  He did not cheat on his wife; Joe only desired his ass cheeks radiate heat from the repetitive spanking of his Mistress.  Now, mind you, I understand everyone’s definition of cheating is different; but, I reason to argue that a spanking isn’t something the vast majority of people would consider cheating.  Alas, back to my tale…

Joe maintained going to his Mistress for years, and paid her for her services.  Unfortunately, Joe failed to adequately cover up his tracks (as men often are at a disadvantage doing).  Joe’s wife catches on that he is paying a woman to spank him in weekly intervals.  Enraged, Joe’s wife proceeds to do what any loving spouse would do:  Call the adult daughter they have in common and tell her of her father’s perversion (or what she deemed a perversion).  Joe’s wife reveals to their daughter that her father is a “sick and twisted” individual that should be committed for mental health problems (her “professional” opinion, of course, as she is a psychiatrist).  Joe is shamed; his privacy and emotional wellbeing raped from him at the hands of his most trusted companion – his wife.  Joe composes himself despite his emotional angst.  Joe feels the pride of his achievements as he dresses himself in one of his freshly pressed military uniforms.  He drives to the tallest 4-stack butterfly overpass in this big city and pulls his car to the side.  He steps out of his vehicle, walks to the edge of the guard rail, and throws himself over.  Joe took his life and his love for spankings to an abrupt death following a 90 foot freefall of misplaced shame.

I know what you are thinking:  “But, M…This is supposed to be a story of murder, not suicide?”  Indeed, you read me correctly in the first place.  I conclude that Joe’s wife’s witch hunt on sexual expression murdered him.  Joe’s wife’s reproachful mouth murdered a good man over a little spanking; or perhaps, lest we forget, her best attempt to maintain a white-knuckled grip upon sexual repression.

Should we not listen with open minds, open hearts, and open arms to the desires of those we deem lovers?  I’m not suggesting that you violate your own personal boundaries to please another person, unless you enjoy that sort of thing.  Merely, I am expressing that you should listen sans judgment.  If it’s not your thing, fine; but, move along or permit that individual the freedom of sexual expression for their own behalf.

How many people have you heard complain about their sex lives?  I have seen so many people carelessly look the other way as their significant other pleas for help.  Idiots.  When that person walks out of their life, or finds acceptance with another person, they cry victim!  You are not a victim.  You are not deserving of any pity.  You are a person who felt wrongly entitled to rummage through the essence of a person, acknowledge the things you find attractive, and cast the rest to the side as if discarded trash.  I admire people with enough gusto to embrace their desires and find someone to share them with.  If you leave an opportunistic, judgmental, condemning person bobbing about in the wakes of your dismissal – so be it.  Good riddance.  Allow me to ease your guilt:

There are plenty of people equipped to stare into the reflection of falsehood.  They find solace in the shallow and superficial.  It’s safe.  Let them fuck atop their traditional floral comforters.  Let her dish all her displeasure in his performance to her girlfriends over martinis.  Let him jerk his dick to some porn downstairs while she’s sound asleep in their bed by 8pm…with a headache, of course.  Allow them to sit next to one another in Sunday mass; she, eager to get started on that next chapter in her erotic novel, and he’s anxious to revisit that anal video on fuq.com from the other night.  Meanwhile…

You’re far too busy getting spankings.

Rest in Peace, “Joe”.

-Fervid M


My Message to You, Beautiful People

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like the fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…” – Jack Kerouac

I don’t just write for the simple joy of it, though, I do simply enjoy it.  My hope is to encourage people to embrace themselves and their sexuality.  My hope is that through some of my writing, some of you can find the freedom of acceptance, both of self and from those who you consider yourself intimate with.  I will not say the things that sound pretty; rather, I give the advice that most people shy away from giving.  I won’t say you are a “bad” person for doing a particular thing, unless that thing harms the unwilling.  Specifically, I will never condone the direct victimization (physically or emotionally) of an unwilling individual or an individual whom cannot make an informed choice.  That being said, people who subscribe to the misconceptions of society and perceived guarantees of religion and subsequently feel victimized by those who fail to subscribe to the same standards – take that somewhere else.  Admittedly, the best decision I ever made to was to have an affair, plain and simple.  I loathe judgment; more so, I particularly loath judgment from the pious populace, as they are often the worst of all.

I just want to be clear about something:  You will not enjoy my blog if you enjoy the sweet, delicate and soft.  You will find me abrasive, offensive, and downright salty.  I will not provide you with a soft place to fall, a mothering touch to your bruises.  I do not find a benefit in dismissing pain, especially emotional pain.  I enjoy prodding at my own bruises, discovering why they hurt, what hurts them worse, and how I got the “bruise” in the first place.

We are taught from a young age to quickly disperse of pain, both emotionally and physically.  We are taught to ignore it, accept it, and hope that someone can kiss it all away.  I we stood next to the pain for a minute, glanced over and observed it, we would see more about ourselves than we see in bliss.  While lost and looking through the fog, we would learn more of our capabilities than with a clear road ahead.  We can survive gloom of a temporary depression by living within it, thriving within the sadness, enjoying the darkness for the clarity it brings.

I love the dark.  A mental vampire, I desire the inner workings of the mind.  I look past the clock face; I am obsessed with the gears that turn and the rust that erodes.

I encourage you to please comment on my posts if you feel so inclined.  I understand it takes time, and I certainly understand that high demand for time in this life.  I am simply saying to allow yourselves a freedom of expression here, if you so desire it.  Thank you so much for reading.  I hope that you find a sort of transparency about me.  I am quite a dichotomy; I am a self proclaimed narcissistic artist with a great deal of compassion for human kind.  What you see here is all me, aside from a few pictures in my articles here and there.  I try to keep things as genuine and relevant to “me” as possible.

On caveat:  Don’t bring your religion here.  I respect religion and what it provides for people.  I don’t respect what it has done to humanity.  Quite simply, I refuse to worship; make a fundamental part of my life, a collage of myths responsible for the massacre of so many individuals.  I cannot press my hands together knowing the blood spilled between them.  I cannot bathe in the grace that is judgment, hypocrisy, control and hallucinogenic lunacy.  I’d feel as if I’d bathed in the dirty fields of countless holy wars and toweled off with the condemning cardboard signs of Pro-life protestors.  I’d feel as if I’d dressed in the robes of predatory priests, and donned footwear appropriate for booting dirt in the faces of homosexuals.  I’d wear enough make-up to conceal my vanity, have lunch with the woman whose husband I maintain an affair and curse the waitress for her idiocy at forgetting to split the tab.  This is religion to me.  Religion is ugly.  Religion is deadly.

Burn…

Fervid M


Primal

Photo by: FervidM

Photo by: FervidM

I thrive off of a dark soul.  It’s not that I don’t enjoy happiness, or those who express an elevated state of joy on a regular basis.  As I often say…I don’t think defining a complex mind is that easy.  I am not referencing a depressed person, or someone who has deep seeded pain and suffering which manifests itself in inflicting pain upon others; unfortunately, I see too many of those kinds of people in the world, the kinds of people who bring pain upon others to alleviate what resonates within them.  I’m talking about the obscure soul that clings to the darkness for its beauty, holding tightly though a metamorphosis into something beautiful. The caterpillar to a butterfly.  I understand how deliriously cliché the metaphor, but allow me to explain:  I don’t think butterflies are more beautiful after they have gone through a metamorphosis, rather they are simply more colorful with broader wings.  They still cling to their previous physique, looking rather wormy and unappealing.  They clung to their ugly and became something more beautiful, towing their darkness along with them.  That’s the kind of soul I find nourishing in this vast land of superficial happiness.

I believe the most elevated, mind-blowing, and euphoric sexual experiences exist within the darkness of our psyche.  We hold these beautiful images in our elevated storage, locked away behind the bars of societal acceptance.  These images hide behind the cloak of assimilation.  They are fearful sorts, bashfully crouching in the corner whilst our more “pleasant” visions step forward in the light of acceptance.  If you ask me, it’s those visions I find wormy, unappealing, and void of beauty.  They are shallow, stem from minimal creativity; these visions transform themselves and show their faces proudly in open, observable world.  I fail to find sexual nirvana in a field of yellow daisies, slightly bowing their heads to a gentle breeze.  I find sexual euphoria in a perfect storm; powerful, dark, omniscient and destructive.  I want not a wall to remain, a brick to lie there, or a cobblestone of stoic composure to exist after a sexual experience.  Gives a whole new meaning to making it rain…

I thrive on his animalism.  I drink up his power as if thirsting and stumbling upon a stream.  His desires should radiate from his fingertips upon the collection of my skin, with a purpose so strong it leaves bruises upon my delicate flesh.  He shall paint the canvas of my body with his fingers, bent strongly at the knuckles, leaving red paint strokes of fervor upon my skin.  Ripples of plush breast escape through the separation of those fingers, groping with unrepressed craving.  Five finger pads dive deliriously into the lining of my sensual hips, so deep as if intended to touch finger to bone.  Capillaries merrily collapse under the force. The caterpillar to a butterfly, a mere blood vessel giving itself to the light, revealing the beauty of sensual release.  Wings to new heights.

I ask you to lose yourself in the depths so repressed, not a shred of light exists that we don’t create with the radiance of our own shared desires.  I ask that you go to the place where your “demons” lie, and allow them to find solace in my open arms.  I can taste your desire to overpower me, and I can smell your seething for release.  I know your darkness grasps upon the bars of restraint begging to reveal themselves.  I, lying there, spread myself wide in acceptance.  I will hold them close, bringing warmth upon their chilled negligence.  I will ignite them, invite them, and allow them to permeate my soul to a place of approval.  We only truly exist here; bare, stripped of the collage of expectation that becomes our face, the mask that conceals the true animal.

I will have you so removed from your evolved brain, you render yourself inhuman.  I will have you so primal that you only seek to remove your teeth from my flesh as you notice my body buckle under the pain.  I will have you utter sounds undistinguishable to those civilized.  I permit you to release the power you’ve been told to curb.  I will have your testosterone coursing so gloriously through your veins, you find yourself void of all rationale.  There is no room for thought between our compressed bodies, animal.  No accommodations for manners amongst our seeping bodily fluids, animal.  No space for judgment between the depth of your cock and my stressed vessel, animal.  No acceptance for masked sexuality in this sphere, animal.  I will have you rare, exposed.  I will have you reacquainted with the spirit you shelved.  The spirit that was pointed at, ridiculed, and accused of being dirty, ugly, sinister, strange.  I will erase the memories of desertion upon your animal within the baptismal fluids of my sex.  You will be reborn primal; your darkness turning to light, “demons” dance amongst us, acceptance encapsulates us, “strange” is welcomed here, bizarre is amongst company.

We, the dark ones, have no interest in you beautiful people.  You delicately dance atop the sheets covered with boundaries delightfully freshened with Downy.  We writhe, hand in hand with our demons and celebrating the dark recesses with sexual decadence.   You do what you believe is beautiful, afraid to release yourself into the depths of your sexuality, a foot firmly anchored to expectation.  We approach the cliff, fling ourselves off and fall freely into the fire.  You enjoy the safety of delicate hands controlled by a manipulated being, a diluted prowess, a whipped rebel.  We enjoy restraining the body, while freeing the mind, emancipating the soul.  You enjoy your human.  We plea for the animal.  You need the light to see color, and we cannot see color until we’re plunged deeply into the darkness.

Free yourselves,

Fervid M