What I am about to describe here is a perception of my development as a mature woman. The subject covered has been taken from women of many decades and turned into political arguments because they needed to be. It is interesting: the argument I want to make has been both complicated and made irrelevant by the Woman's Movement (in this country).
I am not a scholar on feminism in anyway. I took no womens' studies classes in college, I have read cursorily the big hitters of some of the waves and delighted in their language. I am a humanist, a lyricist, and an absurdest at times.
I am not usually one to debate in the academic arena. I am fully aware there are other people much more well practiced at debate, much more well read, and with more experience, or a better memory than I.
Wisdom has a quiet mind.I have mentioned before that I have a "Daddy" "thing". It's not that uncommon, but I don't know (though I'd like to) the ways in which Daddy fetishes manifest for other women (and, potentially, all sexes). This "Daddy" "thing" extends beyond kinky sex for me. It must for others as well, right? And if so, how? Are you a "daddy"? What bearings does that give you? A "little" girl or boy - how do you experience your desire to have a daddy?
She likes to think about the edges where things spill
into each other and become their opposites.
J. Ruth Gendler, The Book of Qualities
In order to describe the 24/7, mental desires I have relating to daddies, I do have to start at my own real father, which makes me a bit squeamish because of the level at which I also relate the coming information to my sexual being. It is more important that the role, and the feelings attached to the role my Dad played, be emphasized and less important that my actual, blood relation father, is the person who bears the load of this beginning. The person who fostered the feeling could have been any person: an uncle, a teacher, man, woman or two-spirited person.
So, to again diffuse slippery feelings out of the discourse let me give good ol' Daddy-o a neutral title for this purpose:
"umbrella" is the word I will now use for the person who protected, held, played with, taught, disciplined, told story to, made laugh, and cry when I was developing a history called memory and learning.
I was blessed with a sturdy umbrella. I did not have to switch umbrellas by act of force ever. I chose to walk out from under the umbrella at a certain age so I could understand the world without that all-protective lens. After I learned a bit about the world I desired to return to my umbrella because it was so nice and safe there, but I was awkward and didn't know how to do that while retaining my autonomous needs. After I learned a bit about myself, I understood my umbrella as a being separate from myself, and not existing entirely to protect and give to me, but to exist as a beautiful entity until itself. After these two separate learnings informed one another in synthesis and aged within me, my ability and desire to have an umbrella again became imperative.
The concept of "you are my woman" was not something I could grasp in a complex way until recently.
It is not enough to have someone assert authority over me in the bedroom by calling me unsophisticated names and ordering me around. I had not known how deep the need (another way of talking about a fetish) ran until I spent time with Hadj. I felt the wish for an umbrella surge up in me quickly and the only way to address it quickly was to begin at the more commonly understood sex-oriented Daddy fetish. I had felt this "umbrella wish" in me before, and had hoped to have the wish fulfilled, but the umbrellas had not yet covered me in the way I needed. Despite their usefulness and beauty they just didn't sit right in my palm, or they were too tall awkward, or too or short and small (still speaking metaphorically). One way or another, by nobody's fault, but as a result of intuitive need, the umbrellas either left or were sent away. I was, and told myself I was, fine. It was sunny and when not sunny I had other ways of staying safe, sane, and dry. I missed being held really badly but it was such a subterranean need that I went on and on without addressing it successfully.
I have my umbrella now. He provides the same feelings of being cared for and watched after that my first umbrella did. I do not have to ask him to tutor me; my thirst suits his over-flow. I do not ask him to make me laugh, I am simply tickled. This is one of the ways in which bdsm seems to seep into my everyday life and becomes 24/7.
A few examples: my umbrella is my umbrella not only because he plays with me how I want him to (bdsm), but because he calls me his (bdsm and not). I know it means: to hold me, to love me, to protect and defend me, to care for me, cherish me, and teach me, to always act with my best interest in his heart no matter how difficult that might be in a given situation (bdsm and not).
My umbrella gives me tasks, instructions, restrictions, requirements. Always brush your teeth before bed. Put the clamps on your nipples. Research Scott Mutter for me. Make sure you see your family regularly. Go get your biggest toy and use it the way I tell you to. Practice makes perfect.
When I was young I absorbed a lot of the feminist language being thrown around my college campus. I was too young, too lacking in the self possession I now have, to understand the subtleties, but more importantly - to understand that that was politics and that politics do not inform my everyday life. I am deviant as all get out and cannot be confined to theory (being slutty, bisexual, and poly has taught me). If, while dating a man, I was given anything that appeared to me to be an order I immediately became resistant simply because I had absorbed the rhetoric of militant feminists without ever having absorbed the lives that led them to their militancy.
I know am complete without an umbrella's provisions. Maybe some day I would have been fulfilled without all those things. We grow and change and live and die and wake and sleep differently every day, but I don't really believe I would have given those needs up. They are part of my make up. Something about being blessed with such a great umbrella from the beginning has wired me to always want one, I think. I will stay young because I am held. I will stay bright, innocent, naive, sweet, playful, curious, hungry and feral because I am protected, cared for, and seen. I want his direction, his ideas, his orders even, because I trust, I know, that they are for me and my further growth into the best version of myself I can be. Neither of us act in a vacuum, neither of us has a shred of disrespect for ourselves or each other. He could not order me if he thought I was mush-minded, it wouldn't be in my best interest, nor would I understand his intentions. Keep in mind, being ordered about is one sliver of a very thinly cut but delectable pie.
I don't know if I never let anyone see this in me before, or if it's just that no-one could, or if it's timing. He sees me the way I want to be seen: full of this desire for the words "you are my woman" and not caring how that sounds against the reading I did when I was younger. At a young age, to allow myself to think "I am his woman" would have meant that I was somehow less my own woman or that I was somehow weaker, because I was somehow kept.
The difference must lay entirely in how the keeping is being done and if the kept want to be so. Does that make sense?