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Opinion: No Gods, No Masters Except for My Full-time Mommy Domme

Okay, look, listen up. I know I’m an anarchist, and that means that I reject any and all forms of hierarchy, but that doesn’t extend to my full-time live-in dominatrix. Not only is she a justified hierarchy, but she is the only real authority in my life that I respect. You might say that’s not in line with my theoretical principles, but to that, I say, go read up on Hegelian dialects and Bataille and limit experiences.

When I don’t want to clean the kitchen, it is her hands that whip me into shape and make sure I follow through on my responsibilities. When she makes me kiss her feet it is a symbol of the deepest love and devotion, and exchange of domination and submission that may not make sense to the world outside but which we understand implicitly and completely.

Deleuze and Guattari diagnosed us as living in the age of capitalist schizophrenia, in which our exposure to a multitude of extreme images keeps us locked into a state of permanently split consciousness. Through the gentle but firm direction of my Goddess, I am able to retain my spirit, able to know who I am. I am her plaything, her toy, her good little boy, and she reminds me who I am with every blow from her paddle or kiss from her lips.

Some might argue that to allow one’s domme to brand them permanently on the ass with their initials is antithetical to my position as an anarchist, but that could not be further from the truth. I believe that choosing the firm yet gentle hands which direct you is the ultimate expression of autonomy. I have chosen to be hers, and so I know exactly who I am within the context of the whole. Is that not freedom? Is that not the ultimate expression of self-determination?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go have hot candle wax poured all over my cock and balls.