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Last time I told you about my feline identity crisis. I was afraid I wasn’t a kitten.
Actually, it was worse than that. I was afraid I’d never been a kitten at all.
Yes, I had done a lot of meowing and fun dashing around and studious ignoring of so-called rules. But observing myself post-breakup, and remembering myself at the very beginning … I had to face it. I wasn’t a feline brat.
The real me faced power on her hands and knees and face, trembling with awe, aching with gratitude. Apprehensive and apologetic if she brought a mug when asked for a glass. Shocked that the further she went down the rabbit hole, the more she wanted, the safer she felt. The happier I was.
I wasn’t a brat. I didn’t want to be a brat. And yet I had been.
One day a kitten said to a kitten owner, “I wish I had a tail. But unfortunately I think I’m a Manx kitten.”
Said he, “You can have a tail!”
“But I want the kind of tail that the incredibly vain dog has in one of J.K. Rowling’s favourite books. It’s like an ostrich plume and it waves like a pennant and the fine hairs scintillate in the sunlight. And [sniffle] I don’t think cats can have tails like that.”
“You can have an ostrich-plume tail! And we can say that it’s an ostrich plume that has been passed down through a long line of famous cabaret-dancing kittens.”
“Yes! But be careful. Or people might figure out that,” and his voice dropped to a dreadful whisper, “it’s not a real tail!”
Once upon a time there was a play-fight, and I was pinned. In my total inexperience, I shoved my elbow backwards, and hey presto, there was a long man on the floor.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or to panic. It didn’t help when he began to wheeze. “What — you just hit — is called — the — solar plexus.” Then he patted me comfortingly. I think it was about half an hour later that he finally managed to stand up.
Poor man. I had no idea I could floor him. But in that moment of ignorance, I could have bruised his heart. (Literally.)
That’s what submissive ethics means to me. That however powerless I think I am, my actions actually can hurt others, including the dom at whose feet I’m kneeling. And I have to try extra hard to remember that, because submissive power can be so hard to see.
This announcement is old (20 April), but I thought you might appreciate a linked version. The 👍 emoji indicates finalists, the 🏆 emoji winners. Enjoy!
SEMI-FINALISTS ANNOUNCED FOR 2015 NLA-I WRITING AWARDS
(Columbus, OH) — National Leather Association – International (NLA-I), a leading organization for activists in the pansexual SM/leather/fetish community, announced today the semi-finalists for its annual writing awards. Named after activists and writers Geoff Mains, John Preston, Pauline Reage, Cynthia Slater, and the groundbreaking organization Samois, they are awarded annually to recognize excellence in writing and publishing about Leather, SM, bondage and fetishes.