If you’ve ever been introduced to Me, you know that I am an unashamed, unabashed Capitalist with a capital “C.”  (See the first book.)

As an astute Businesswoman, one of my favorite (business) books is “Sun Tzu Was a Sissy:  Conquer Your Enemies, Promote Your Friends, and Wage the Real Art of War,” by Stanley Bing. 

(There’s also my quirky fascination at the front with otherwise vicious successes bearing otherwise unfuckable-sounding names.  Hello.  “Elliott Smellalot.”  C’mon already, folks, see the first book.  Ahem – Rule #8:  In the balance between sociopath and smart boy, don’t take chances with nerds.)

“Finally,” says Stan (the Man – in My (No, not humble) esteemed opinion), “Sun Tzu talks a lot about Tao and other spiritual kinds of material like that, which frankly, I find kind of offensive in a discussion about war, and killing, and fighting.  As far as I’m concerned, let’s have the good taste to leave Tao out of it, huh?  Blood?  Guts?  Raw, animal hatred?  Sure.  But Tao?  Come on.”

I said, “The extent that I care anything at all about who you are or where you’re coming from or whatever your psychological motivation, spiritual orientation, physical compulsion might be in coming to call on Me is bound up in My own professional standard of excellence.”  (It’s right there in print in your very first introduction to Me.  Duh.  I will not repeat myself a third time.  you know where to go to look it up.)

Excellence, girls and boys.  Have it.

Don’t sit back and pray about it.  Be it.

At the end of every Warrior’s day – you are it.

Be ruthless.  Being a sissy in whatever battles you choose to engage in (and choose well, My darlings) will get you nowhere except to the bottom of my dungeon. 

Where, I will unashamedly make you pay for your squeamishness.  Literally and figuratively.  (Pay Pal preferred.)

When that earthquake rode through Richmond, Virginia recently, I didn’t feel a thing.  People were amazed.  I think it’s because I’m used to having the earth tremble beneath my feet.

Choose your best Warrior’s pose and stand your fucking ground, kiddos.

Kristina Adams models this Warrior Pose image courtesy of yoga.com.

Those who know Me (and even some who don’t, still) know that:

(Here’s a little secret:  I’m a history buff with my own particular, sometimes slightly compulsive, obsessions.  sissy boy j. had no idea what he was really doing when he took Me for a drive down Monument Avenue one Sunday evening in the fall.)  See GOOD PART #1 in the first book.

I love that Richmond, Virginia is surrounded by historical artifacts (otherwise freakish, otherwise perverted).  This past Monday, as a matter of fact, marked the 149^th anniversary of the Battle of Gaines’s Mill.

Even though they eventually lost in the American version of civil war, Confederates won this battle, said to be the most intense fighting of the whole entire war.  It’s what lead one Union soldier to say that “Hell itself seemed to break loose.”

All sorts of clever freakishness and natural perversions broke out of this battle.  Go here for full battle details.

When Union General George B. McClellan sailed his Army of the Potomac down the Chesapeake Bay and started slowly marching it across the Peninsula, he had one main objective:  take Richmond (the Capital of the Confederacy) down.  Just the previous day, on June 26, 1862, his Union soldiers had successfully beaten back General Robert E. Lee’s Confederate soldiers at the Battle of Mechanicsville, on the outskirts of Richmond, in the county of Hanover.

Even though Lee was still holding, the last thing he expected was a retreat by the Union.  McClellan, however, knew that “Stonewall” Jackson’s troops had just arrived as victorious Confederate reinforcements.  Further feeding into McClellan’s fear was an elaborate ruse directed by theater enthusiast and Confederate General John B. Magruder involving a hot air balloon flying overhead along with much noise and movement along Confederate lines.  (Clever boys.)

Note here:  aerial reconnaissance as we know it in the United States today began with hot air balloons during the civil war.

Richmond’s elite, including the Confederate president himself, Jefferson Davis, (again, see GOOD PART #1 for a “first date” outing with “My little southern capital boy.”) gathered as witnesses safely behind Confederate lines.  Freakishly – they could hear no sounds of the fighting that they could see even though the battle was taking place only a few miles away, due to a phenomenon called “acoustic shadow” created by pockets of dense moist air.

Interesting momentary statement by nature:  being able to see, but not to hear.  Occasionally I’ve been known to (otherwise obsessively) explore (otherwise classic) American films.  It makes me think of the film, “Blindness,” the adaptation of the novel with the same name by Nobel Prize-winning Portuguese author José Saramago.

A mass epidemic of blindness where victims succumb to an expanse of dazzling white as if they were “swimming in milk” strikes an unnamed society.  Everything degenerates fairly quickly into dehumanization; violence, killing, and brutality.  Then one day the blindness lifts.

When Hell itself seems to break loose, boys and girls, here’s to maintaining clear sight.

MID-WEEK TORTURE this week offers you a moment for personal reflection.  We just had Father’s Day this past Sunday here in America.  Fathers are very important to daughters, to little girls … even moreso to grown women. 

Certainly, all the experiences my sister and I had with our loony tunes father shaped our general impressions of men and all of our future relationships with them.  (See the first book where I relate a time when we were young where he forced us to watch Midnight Express, a movie about sodomy and violence in a Turkish prison.  He also used to tell us that when he was going hunting, that he was “going into the woods to shoot Bambi…”)

This re-blog is a courageous statement from one young woman to her father.  Read it all by going to the link in the title.  She’s certainly not a “sorry” woman.

headfeet:

Hey dad, am I good enough for you now?
I’m sorry that I did well in school and stayed away from drugs and sex.
I’m sorry that I wound up in a job that asks me to use my brain instead of my back.
I’m sorry that I have a few medical problems and an incurable skin disease.
I’m sorry that you have…

It’s Friday night.  Get paid, bitches.  Get your freak on.

Literally.  Is it PVC you like?  Put it on you.

Visit PVC-U-LIKE here for this Badass Biker jacket.

Ummm… (it’s good to know I can still be surprised) – this company offers custom “PVC welded” garments, “from a pair of plastic pants to an inflatable replica nuclear protection suit.”  (Yep – check it.  And there’s a playground of plastic freak in their gallery.) 

Rubber-dub-dub…you plastic lovers.

Does it please you to put your pet on display?  Take him for a walk around the block and hand him off easily to whomever you please.

This delicious lycra jockstrap harness from Sonie’s Creations comes (pun fully intended) with a complementary leash.

And what night on the town would be complete without an accessory and an after party all rolled into one purple roll of duct tape? 

(…aka the All-American fixer upper…see “Quote/Unquote GOOD PART # 1 — (first dates can be hell):” in the first book – this priceless gem is brought to you by the folks at The Purple Store.  Because at the end of it all – a really good bout of black and blue turns into purple.

Get your freak on.

Such a simple five-letter word.  So much potential (meaning(s) attached to it.

Yes?  No?

I don’t tell you what to think, dumbass.  Where would be the fun in that?

My business involves telling you what to do.  See the “If you’ve made it this far:” section of the first book, where I clarify:  “No matter how helpless you let yourself feel on any given day, know this:  no one can ever take your power away from you.  you can only submit and give your power away.”

Trust and submission, no matter what your silly little mixed-up head might make you think, are not the same thing.  Although, both acts of trusting and submission can involve giving your power away.  And this is why you pay Me:  to straighten your little-ass-draped-over-the-back-of-My-spanking-bench out. 

Think.

Get it? 

Probably not right away.  Although, if you were here, I sense a (literal) cattle prod of motivation to stimulate your in-need-of-sharper-comprehension mental capacity.

Trust involves an extra layer beyond mere submission.  Anyone can submit without trust.  And, even though I also go on to say in the same section of the first book:  “Even with a gun held to your head your will is your own” – I will even freely hereby advise you to submit to whatever literal gun that may ever be held to your head. 

You can trust that there’s a good chance that a (literal) bullet to the brain will kill you.

The word trust is said to have originated in the 13^th century coming from the Old Norse word, “traust,” meaning help, confidence, firmness.  Adding into the word’s evolution were the German and Dutch words, trost and troost respectively, which denoted consolation.  It’s one of those words in the English language that has many uses, (there’s an accidentally intended pun in there if you’re not too dense to see it).

In O/our world, you can find trust holding hands with obey.  For a catchy little hymnal, “Trust and Obey,” complete with piano playing, go here.  (Oh yes, you most definitely are to let your imaginations run in distorted directions with these lyrics.)

Now lemme get a big AMEN or FUCK YEAH or whatever…

WORD UP!

“We know the movie’s not for everybody,” Jodie Foster said over breakfast not long ago, referring to her third directorial feature, “The Beaver.”  (See a May 5^th article in The Chicago Tribune.)

Since, I’m normally, shamelessly all about the (beautiful) beaver all around me at any given point – when I saw Mel Gibson publicly displaying his whole hand shoved up a particularly furry beaver, all I could say was, “WTF.”

Hello.  There are laws, also, Mel, about keeping fisting out of public sight.

And, you, Jodie? 

The premise of this new movie is that a severely depressed male suburbanite splits his personality with a cockney-accented beaver hand puppet.  (Furry, too.)

What’s next, “The Teddy Bear?”  (Leave it up to xhamster.com to show you what could happen.)  There are after all, rules to follow in life. 

See “Quote/Unquote GOOD PART # 1 — (first dates can be hell)” from the first book for Rule # 3:  No screaming in public. 

Although, I do have to say that I admire your shameless public screaming of the twisted gospel of American capitalism here.  At the very least, you made me stop to ask, WTF? 

“The Beaver” may just be something to see (to believe).  I do also suggest in “The setup:” from the first book that I had developed a recent hobby of exposing myself to classic American film. 

(Especially, in the privacy of my own home, thank you very much.)

Oh, it’s a classic American exposure, this one.  That’s for sure. 

Catch you on the film side, kiddos.

“Who wakes up one morning and thinks, “gee – I wonder if there’s gonna be a dead body waiting for me when I come home later on?”  I mean – really.  Aren’t there any safe assumptions surrounding suitable depositories for corpses, like, “the body gets dumped anywhere except the sidewalk in front of your house?”

So begins the first book.

            “(Faulty) Assumption # 1: Assume the corpse is just a homeless man passed out drunk and not a dead body.  

             I mean – really.  You would think you would know better.  You would especially think that a local professional Dominatrix, like me for instance, would know better about assumptions surrounding death and/or dead bodies.  In the regular course of dealing out terrifying diminutive deathblows, it is literally quite possible to have someone die.  It happens rarely, (that anyone’s found guilty of it), but it does happen.”

Terror Management Theory presupposes that the real reason why W/we do all that W/we do is that it’s Monday (or any other day, every single moment) and W/we’re all gonna die.  And, W/we know that. 

So, all that W/we do is motivated by O/our terror of (Monday) death.

W/we manage O/our mortal fear first on a societal level through the worldview created by O/our particular society (chosen or otherwise).  It’s the laws, symbols, or cultural belief systems, for example, that “society” decides give meaning to O/our lives.  It’s what determines O/our reward or punishment.

Filtering down to an individual level is the concept of self esteem.  Humans tend to measure personal worth based on how well they live up to whatever the accepted worldview is for their particular culture. 

Let’s say, for example, that you associate a Dominatrix with immorality or as a symbol of death.  Since you consider yourself to be a “moral person” and/or life affirming, whatever seems to be immoral or against “the very fabric of life” would go against your cultural worldview.  Thus, you’re likely to judge Her harshly.

It’s not so much the physical death that we fear so inconsolably as the death of meaning in our lives said anthropologist, Ernest Becker.  Published in 1973, his Pulitzer Prize winning work of non-fiction, “The Denial of Death” laid the groundwork for current terror management theory studies.

Ultimately, argued Becker, human behavior is immeasurable.  The way humans behave is unpredictable and often, just plain messy.  Oh, and rooted in evil too –

If we allow ourselves to get swept away in the selfish disregard of protecting our own existence in the face of death.  “There are, after all, also rules to follow in life.”

Now go get the most out of your life this week, kiddoes. 

Don’t be afraid to break a few laws as it suits you. 

(I break the law plenty of times around here in defiance of Richmond society’s rule against making left turns anywhere.  Really?  Yes, really. 

But – that’s part of another story.)

Mid Week Torture:  Again - Move your ass.

For those of you who’ve read some snippets of the first book, you know that I’m on the path to quitting smoking.  I took up running.  This is what it’s like.

fromthintofit:

Love It! I typed in the word “Healthy” into Google images and the first photo that popped up was a WOMAN running! Suck on that boys!

If you died suddenly, would anyone be surprised by what they might find?

This (or some form of it) question seems to pop up all over the internet, frequently in social networking sites like facebook or online dating sites like okcupid.

Asking the question why we keep secrets is almost moot.  Who wants to know about your parent’s (otherwise kinky) sex lives?  Or, if your parents were cleaning out your own closets in the event of your own untimely demise, would you really want your mother to stumble upon your well-worn copy of “Juggs” magazine underneath your pillow?

(you know what I’m talking about.)

The more salient question is what effect does keeping O/our secrets have on U/us?

Dr. Gail Saltz, popular (oh yes, she’s not only chatted with Oprah – also Glen Beck, Larry King, and Anderson Cooper, among others), psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, as well as bestselling author wrote a book within the last few years called, “Anatomy of a Secret Life: The Psychology of Living a Lie.”

In a 2009 interview, Saltz affirms that having some secrets actually helps humans create their individual boundaries with the world – your private thoughts and actions – (your secret fantasies about big bazoombahs or your desire for a little “backdoor action.”). 

A power shift starts to occur when whatever secrets you may have begin to control you.  Thus begins your “secret life.”  “A secret life develops,” she explains, “when the shame and guilt and the fear of consequences (real or imagined) create in you a desperate need to keep such things from becoming known.”

“Your life then begins to revolve around various maneuvers to maintain the façade — or, at best, the secret may remain in the back of your mind, requiring constant vigilance,” she explains further.

It can literally make you sick.

Secrets can create inner conflict leading to anxiety leading to stress leading to more obviously real physical ailments like headaches and high blood pressure.  Then there are secret activities we indulge in like smoking that can cause cancer.

I admit that keeping my own ongoing smoking a secret in the first book just served to fan my desire, especially in my secret thoughts, for nicotine and sexy behinds:

“Yeah,” said Nice Ass (sporting his new name) pulling one out of the breast pocket of his, oh! So tight black t-shirt, “I’m trying to quit.  I only have two.  Reds, okay?”

Hot damn!  Give it… give it… give it to me NOW!  Did I just say that out loud?

“Uh yeah,” I said, be still my beating heart.  “You just might be my voice of God (for lack of a better word) today.”

“Hunh?  Well, not sure about that,” he said, “but you do know those things will kill you?”

Yeah, but not until I’ve had my way with them.

Maintaining a full-blown secret life also cuts us off from fully authentic relationships with those around us, and most importantly, ourselves.  It might horrify your mother if she knew you were regularly whacking off to big boobie pics. 

But it’s even more potentially harmful if we let ourselves lay down (subtle pun intended here) with our secrets.  If you don’t explore the reason why you’re obsessively turning to porn, (and maybe can’t seem to be able to stop), you’re also hiding from yourself. 

I’m all for whacking off and the private pleasures of porn.  However, I also know that being intimate with other people is important.  (Even if I might be on the verge of having my own secret sexorexia discovered.  See the first book.)

Unexplainable emotional distress, unpredictable temper tantrums, or unidentified physical suffering could all indicate that your secret life is taking its toll. 

And, there ain’t no PayPal payback available for secretly stressing yourself out.

Or, in the case of O/our own deaths, what effect will the secrets we’ve kept have on those we leave behind picking up our pieces?

Come clean, bitches.