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.
Brattiness in a submissive who’s not normally bratty is a way of saying something is wrong with the relationship dynamic. It may be time to stop and communicate on a deeper level.
Those questions have answers. No. No. And no. God, I wish we had seen this advice before we convinced each other we were terrible people.
So I said goodbye to my lovely imaginary tufty ears and plumed tail and started a blog called The University of Abject Submission.
Then one day, on my knees, in the middle of a protocol lesson, shaking from praise, mindless with happiness – I froze. My face. What on earth did it think it was doing, rubbing up against Mr Gasp Shake Thank You‘s knees without thought or permission?
Time passed. I admired myself in the bathroom mirror, because wise and kind people had complimented me. I strutted down the stairs. And heard, out of nowhere, a cocky little meow.
That was me.
I got a bag of chocolates. The kitten sat up and enjoyed the treats. And I enjoyed giving them to her.
On Thanksgiving evening I took the kitten for a walk. She revelled in the empty streets and told me she owned the whole city.
I ran late. The kitten announced importantly to my empty apartment, “I do not kneow what to do!”
I had to admit it. This was real. This was me.
I can’t believe how long it took me to realise that the fluffy little kitten didn’t have to be a brat. Cherished and adored, yes. Thrilled to have nice things. Revelling in her absurd excesses of vanity. I can be powerless and let my gigantic ego prance. It’s the best deal ever.
And I love servicing a willful little cat. Why shouldn’t someone else love spoiling me? (Up to a point. But when I’m a kitten in a happy and healthy home, I don’t want to go beyond that point. Pro tip: Unhappy humans provide substandard feline worship.)
Yes, it is embarrassing. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to look cute, fighting the bimbo stereotype. And now I can embrace it. And invite my trusted familiars to share the fun of self-parody.
I’ve got to face it. The kitten is not just the real me. The kitten is about giving myself permission to be the real me.
Just like the abject sub.
One more identity crisis down. You’ve seen quite a lot on this blog.
- A Coming-Out Letter
- Abject Submission 1: Is it bad for me?
- Am I Just Selfish? Service Versus Control
- When a Dom Drops Hard: Guest Post by Cowhideman
I’m starting to notice a pattern.
I’m never wrong about what I want. I had loved the kitten. The kitten was me.
I’d been a brat. That was me trying to get what I wanted in the wrong way.
But what I wanted was not wrong.
And I think the kitten’s fluffy confidence will help me remember that.
P.S. On reflection, I think the happy kitten does include bits that look bratty. I mean, she’s a cat. But they’re only fun for me when everyone is enjoying the snooty nose and rapier tongue. Some people would call it bratty, but I like to reserve that term for the domestic discipline (DD) dynamic.
P.P.S. And three meows for real DD brats! Your kink is not my kink, but your kink is okay. If you’re wondering about this dynamic, I strongly recommend the Falls Chance Ranch online novels. Cowboys, CEOs and tops who won’t let their brats fall. The best.