I love my Dom.

I know some may have a problem with my writing this. My Dom doesn't know I have written this on here. I haven't done it to get a reaction out of him but I wonder what his reaction may be. He knows I love him.

I think I wanted to write this on here because he has changed my life. I would say that definitely qualifies as a blog entry.

I don't want to go too much into detail on here, I don't want an entry spilling the details, I just wanted to write that I love him,

HIS.

Most normal people would be getting drunk right about now.

There's not even a movie I can summon the patience to watch. Texas Chainsaw Massacre doesn't scare me. There was a novelty to it, I got it the first time, I have no wish to see it again. It's pretty boring. "Halloween" is boring, the music and her screeching just takes away any scare factor. These are all good movies, I just don't have it in me to be scared by them. Creeped out, not scared. I tried Martin, because of the association between vampirism and rape, in particular in Martin's case but I don't like the quality of that film. Even if I watched these movies with a friend or relative, we'd just have a laugh, neither of us would be scared.

Don't get me started on The Excorsist. It's too hilarious. I think it was either the book to this or The Devil's Advocate..actually probably both that got me startled at night, good I wanted that, but have you ever seen the movie Devil's Advocate? Keanu Reeves? Are you having a laugh? And I keep waiting for Al Pacino to burst out with hoo ah!

But I did get creeped out tonight and I'll not complain there isn't enough provocation in that sense. I got sent an email which made me nauseous. It was teen girls complete with crooked teeth and braces topless. It was so so disgusting. The photos also looked fake, and they just looked so creepy and odd, creeply smiles, creepy eyes and creepy stuck from someone else's bodies. Ew. It's the first time I've ever seen something like this and it's going to haunt me, but not in a good horror movie way, in a bloody gee thanks a lot for sending me some shit which you should have just kept to yourself you DISGUSTING PAEDOPHILE way.


My ideal Halloween would be to have someone around to visit a graveyard with me. Yes. True. It'd be pitch dark and we'd have a bottle of alcohol and just be freezing and talking.

The place where I live, there's no houses. So there's no trick or treating. It's just pub brawls and I don't feel like even going anywhere near that area when I'm on my own. I want silence. Silence is the best. I have it now. And that's probably why I'm kind of smiling writing this. It adds to my never mind graveyard, even the corner of a field fantasy under a tree. Drunk. Fucked. Without consent. Slapped. Spanked. Twisted. All orchestrated by Master.

"When the rape fantasy becomes a reality." This woman angered me.

http://www.thefrisky.com/post/246-girl-talk-when-rape-fantasy-becomes-reality/

"Two weeks ago, my gentle and loving boyfriend of three months held me down and forced me to have sex with him against my will, and then told me I had asked for it. And technically, he was right.

Jacob and I had only been dating about a month and a half when I intimated that I had a rape fantasy. Over the years, I’d had my share of experience with role-playing and rough sex. I vividly recall a male friend of mine in college telling me that I had a distinct air of “sexual prey” about me, and me thinking that this was a huge compliment. Being dominated and playing the innocent who secretly wasn’t had been my currency and had guided the sexual dynamic I forged with partners for the last 10 years. But only for the last few months had I allowed myself to entertain what I considered to be the final frontier— a simulated rape.

The problem, of course, was that since we’d never discussed it, his decision to enact it without any prior dialogue, without my consent, robbed me of the control that would’ve made it a rape fantasy rather than an out-and-out rape.

Growing up as I did in an era where the phrase “no means no” was seared into my brain from grade school on, I was nervous about revealing my dirty secret to Jacob, worried I’d scare off my relatively naïve partner or make him think I was sick. I was relieved and excited when he told me he would be into trying it out. From there, the content of our emails, texts and video chats became decidedly faux-rapey, as I told him how I wanted him to hold me down, force my legs apart and screw me even as I begged him to stop. It was foreplay, and it got me incredibly hot. In my mind, it was still very much in the realm of fantasy, and I was secure in knowing that if and when I decided to take things to the next level—i.e., act out the fantasy—the inevitable and, for me, dreaded conversation involving safe words and boundaries (things I’d always associated with schoolmarms and humorless girls who’d read too much Third Wave feminism) would have to happen.

I never got the chance to have that conversation before things went horribly wrong. To celebrate Jacob’s birthday, I’d booked us a room in a fancy hotel, where we’d proceeded to make very quick work of every surface in the first few hours of our stay. Late that night, we returned home from a tame evening out, both totally sober. We’d been arguing intermittently and there was a strange vibe between us when I flounced onto the overstuffed bed in my underwear, pouting petulantly. As he crawled on top of me, I rather sternly informed him that I didn’t want to have sex with him. To my horror, he got a menacing look on his face and ignored my protests. I knew after a few misguided attempts to block him from entering me that he thought what was happening was drastically different from what I knew to be taking place. To him, this was the fantasy I’d been talking about. To me, it was not. The problem, of course, was that since we’d never discussed it, his decision to enact it without any prior dialogue, without my consent, robbed me of the control that would’ve made it a rape fantasy rather than an out-and-out rape.

As the knowledge of what was happening dawned on me and the seconds crawled by, I made the decision to lay as mute and motionless as possible, to drive home the point that it wasn’t, in fact, what I wanted and I wasn’t enjoying what he was doing. I was worried that fighting back would only make him think I was play-acting all the more, and I didn’t feel imperiled enough to try to hurt him in the service of getting him to stop. When it was over, I lay there, shaken. When I finally sat up, I whispered to Jacob that what happened wasn’t what he thought happened. And it was then that what might feasibly have been dealt with as simply an unfortunate miscommunication (a very unfortunate one) took on the weight of an irrevocable transgression. Horrified at the suggestion that he’d misread my signals and overtaken me, Jacob began to lash out. He insisted that I was to blame, that I’d made him into a monster and led him down the road to ruin by suggesting the fantasy in the first place. He furiously maintained that despite what I said, I could’ve stopped him. I could’ve uttered the magic words that would’ve made him know I was serious, that I wanted him to stop, that this was not, in fact, my fantasy. But because I didn’t, I was, as he eloquently put it, asking for it.

If this had happened to any one of my friends, indeed any woman I know, I’d have been the first to rail against any sort of “blame the victim” stance. But knowing what I know about my own reticence to set concrete limits, not out of laziness but out of sheer spite for what I’d always thought was a lame, overwrought, touchy-feely set of principles, I can’t assuage myself fully from blame.

In the days and hours and weeks since that night in the hotel room, I fought hard to make Jacob understand that I didn’t blame him entirely for what happened. I knew I’d failed to explain my boundaries to him, but the incident itself wasn’t what had upset me as much as his single-minded belief that I and I alone was responsible for the f**k-up. His lack of compassion and empathy proved to me that he wasn’t the sort of person I could rely on when things got, as it were, rough. Maybe with the right person, the relationship could’ve recovered from such a catastrophic misunderstanding. But I’ll never know. I’ll never let such a catastrophic misunderstanding happen again."


I think why it infuriates me, why this woman Anouk infuriates me, is what she has written. It's part fairytale and then part recounting of a disaster. I feel like I've been given half the story when all the story is needed. I also find it difficult to not judge someone who looks down on safewords to the extent she does. Granted not every sexual relationship has a safe word but she looks down on them so flippantly with a sentence like, "involving safe words and boundaries (things I’d always associated with schoolmarms and humorless girls who’d read too much Third Wave feminism)."

She comes across as the kind of woman I actually hate; using your sexuality as a currency. She comes across as fake, "I vividly recall a male friend of mine in college telling me that I had a distinct air of “sexual prey” about me, and me thinking that this was a huge compliment. Being dominated and playing the innocent who secretly wasn’t had been my currency and had guided the sexual dynamic I forged with partners for the last 10 years."

What happened to her was rape no doubt from what she describes later on.

It's also the worst case scenerio of a woman who's too into role play, not naive or innocent, but actually someone who had her own play turned visciously on her.

I think Jacob reacted from guilt and I think he was very, very nervous about this whole thing. I'm not justifying his actions. I could well be wrong about him also. The fact is he raped her and he shows no remorse. I also think he's going to be messed up forever.

Some comments are about our culture. Blame the victim. And related to that, some are about this "We’d been arguing intermittently and there was a strange vibe between us when I flounced onto the overstuffed bed in my underwear, pouting petulantly." I understand people's judgement about this but to me it's not about what she is or isn't wearing or actually even her behaviour, she was edgy and we can all act dumb when we're edgy but it's about the fact that like I say we're looking at her as a human being and so far we're seeing someone who's been through a hell but also someone that some commentators and myself have problems with as a person. She's putting herself out there and we're judging. In my opinion this was rape, this was wrong, it hurt her a lot and despite my judgement, these three things remain facts. I have sympathy for her.

"Sit on your hands, Rosie"

I am glad to post about Lissa Matthews newest book, Cracklin Rosie. Her blog is http://lissamatthews.com/blog/ and she posts snippets of her books on there beforehand as well. She's one of my favourite authors, everytime I read her book I send her a message.

Her books are so intense, they have a lot of emotional depth as well as erotica. They also have a lyricism and the people are very real and not at all quaint. My favourite part of Lissa's newest, is Decker our hero not giving up. He absolutely claims our heroine, Rosie, she's pretty much his from the start and she's a real woman who needs a real man. I know people have a problem with that word, real. By real, I mean someone without frills and has dimensions that we're allowed to see. I've read books where the heroine has resistance to the hero but this one is better because it's real and it doesn't go into cariacture.

Lissa writing speaks for itself so I wil leave you with a blurb, two excerpts and a link. Happy Halloween for tomorrow!

"Blurb:

A tool for every job. A belt for every occasion…

Blue Jeans and Hard Hats, Book 2

Food is Rosie’s life, and life is good. She loves it, makes it, serves it in her diner, writes about it in her blog, and she’s happy. At least until a storm puts a rather large tree limb through her roof, and a sex-in-a-tool-belt roofer on top of her cabin.

But that’s not where she wants him. No, she wants him behind her with a strip of leather in his hand. That’s what makes her edgy—vulnerability is not her style. Except the more prickly she gets with him, the more he turns on the charm.

Decker arrives in Blue Ridge, Georgia, with nothing on his mind but a job and some new scenery. His legendary patience is tested from the first moment he meets sharp-tongued Rosie. She’s got hips that sway, non-stop curves and a mouth that needs to be filled with things that are much sweeter than vinegar.

A few singe-worthy kisses, and Decker uncovers passions that will likely earn her every red stripe she’s begging for. And Rosie discovers Decker’s got a hunger burning deep inside to give her anything and everything she needs. Maybe even…forever.

Warning: Between the sheets of this book you’ll find a twist on a decadent southern dessert, sweet rose wine, picnic table sexiness, truck sex, a man who knows how to give a spanking and a woman who knows how to bend over a hot yummy lap.

Mmm. Mmm. Mmm!

I hope y’all enjoy this book. It’s a little longer than Sweet Caroline. It’s a little darker, as some have put it. There’s a little bit of power play going on, but as in all my books, it’s subtle. I like subtle.

Rosie is feisty. Decker is hot. They are firecrackers together."




"“You want me to get his order?”

Rosie glanced at Decker who was staring at her. Evidently, Caroline had picked up on Rosie wanting more than to live vicariously through her and Buck, too. She shifted her gaze back to Betsy, her partner at the counter this morning. “No, I’ll get to him. Eventually.”

Problem wasn’t her getting to him. Problem was him getting to her. And the longer he remained in Blue Ridge, the more he got to her. She’d just admitted to wanting him, just told him she couldn’t sleep because of him. She shouldn’t be admitting things like that. She knew deep down it wasn’t going to deter him, either. Hell no, it was only to make him more determined.

“You sure? I don’t mind. Thinkin’ I might like to get more than his order.”

Rosie would be irritated if it was anyone else, but Betsy was pushing sixty-five. She winked at the other waitress. “Go for it then, Bets. He might be into cougars.”

Betsy laughed. “You bad girl. That man is young enough to be my son. Sadly, I don’t think he comes in here to see me. I believe he’s only got eyes for you.”

Yes, Rosie knew that to be true. He did. And it sucked. He was still staring at her, too, smiling. She didn’t know his friend Buck all that well, but at the moment, she wanted to kill him for asking Decker to come and work on her house. Which in turn would lead to her wanting to kill Caroline because Rosie had no doubt the other woman had mentioned it to Buck. Yeah, mass murder all around.

“He’s a good one.”

Rosie snorted. “How do you know that?”

“I can just tell. You know, my Bert proposed to me three days after we met. The heart knows.”

“So your heart knows that the roofer is what? A good man?”

“Yes. But more importantly, your heart knows it, too.”

“Things don’t happen like that anymore, Bets.”

“Oh, girl, please. The heart is the same. The feelings are the same. The details may be different, but in the end the heart knows. He’s one of the good ones. He’s one of the few worthy ones. Now, are you gonna go get his order or…?

“I’m going. I’m going. You drive a hard bargain. You know that?”

“That’s my job. You’re the granddaughter I never had. Now scoot and stop giving that young man such a hard time.”

Rosie stuck her tongue out at the grandmother she never had and made her way to the other end of the counter. It just wasn’t as easy as Betsy made it sound. Rosie wished it were, but… She shook her head and glared at Decker. “You want the usual? To go?”

“Nope. I’m not in a hurry this morning.”

Of course not. “Well, we’re pretty busy, so how about I get it all bagged up for you anyway and you can give up your seat for another customer. That would be the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“You’re not being very hospitable, Rosie. Might have to talk to your manager.”

It’s not that she didn’t want him around. It’s that she wanted him around too much. It threw her off her game. She didn’t know how to handle a man’s interest like his. Hell, she didn’t know how to handle her own interest in him. She was thirty-seven years old and had never come across a man as potent as him—straight sun-streaked brown hair to his collar, black-rimmed glasses with skulls on the frames, dark chocolate eyes, and tattoos. He had tattoos up and down his back. She’d seen him once without his shirt and stared and drooled like a damn fool. He was gorgeous. At least to her. Most people in town gave him a wide berth until he smiled at them. Then they warmed up, shaking his hand, talking to him, making him feel welcome and at home in their little community. She didn’t want him feeling at home here. She wanted him to go home, back to wherever he came from.

And speaking of that damned smile of his. It was very disarming and melted every woman, even ones older than Betsy, into a puddle. He had eyes for only one woman though.

Why couldn’t he have been one of those overweight, beer-bellied, crack-showing blue-collar guys? It would have made life lately so much easier.

“I am the manager.”

Then there was the megawatt grin. His teeth were pearly white in his tan face, straight and beautiful. Could teeth be beautiful?

“Well, isn’t that fortunate for you? Not to mention, I never said I was anything close to a gentleman.”

He hadn’t, but she knew he was. He opened doors for little old ladies. He shook hands with little old men. He smiled, made small talk with people, and she knew he’d give his last dollar to anyone that might need it. He had that bad-boy look yes, but he was a gentleman through and through. It sucked. Why couldn’t he be a jerk? “Seriously, Decker, what can I get you? We are busy, and I just…I don’t like you.”

“So you were lying out at the truck?”

“No I wasn’t lying. I don’t lie.” At least not to anyone but herself. “I said I wanted you. I said nothing at all about liking you.”

“Ouch.” He placed a hand over his heart as though he really was wounded. “If I believed you that would sting. But, lucky for you, I don’t and my feelings are tougher than that. I can withstand the abuse. Especially now that I know the truth.”

Of course he could take it. She’d been dishing it out to him since he arrived at her cabin and he’d been smiling all the while. There was no way she’d be able to win with him. She was going to lose her heart and in the end, she was the one that would bear the wound. “What do you want from me?”

“For starters, how about dinner? A little kindness maybe? And some conversation.”

“That’s it?” She knew that wasn’t it. She didn’t want that to be it. She wanted there to be so much more.

“Well, I said for starters.”"

Available to buy at http://samhainpublishing.com/romance/cracklin-rosie

K's excerpt,

"She sat across from him, tense, nervous, fiddling with the menu, the napkin, the edge of the table. She checked the salt and pepper shakers, the half-full ketchup bottle and frowned. She looked around then immediately looked back down when she noticed people looking in their direction.

“Sit on your hands, Rosie.”

“What?” Her wide blue gaze snapped up to his face.

“Sit on your hands. Now.”

“Why?”

“Because you won’t calm down and relax. So, I’ll say it one more time before I come and do it for you. Sit on your hands. One under each cheek.”
Decker didn’t think she would do it but after a few minutes of her looking all around and her teeth worrying her bottom lip, she rocked on the seat as she slid one hand then the other under her bottom.

Her face was bright red, and she was staring a hole right through the middle of his chest. “Rosie, look at me.”

“I am.”

She was. Literal little brat. “Look at my face.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, she did as he asked. There was heat mixed with uncertainty mixed with that ever-present sliver of defiance. He was growing to love that part of her. It made her need for spankings and sexual teasing all the more fun, and watching her walls crumble and fall when she began pleading for the orgasms… Yeah, he was growing to love all those things about her.

“Tell me something you enjoy about owning the diner and don’t look away from my face.”

“The freedom of not working for anyone else.”

That was easy enough. “How so?”

“Well… When I was in culinary school, I had to work to pay rent and such and since I’d worked in the diner all my life, I worked in a restaurant. They were open twenty-four hours so my schedule was pretty flexible around school. I hated being at the whim of someone else though. Working here was different because I was practically running the place during high school, but working down in Atlanta, having someone to report to, having to follow their rules, and their schedules and not having any say about anything... I just hated it. I knew then I would want my own business. I didn’t know it was going to be the diner, but I knew I’d want to work for myself.”

“Why don’t you spank yourself?”

The question caught her completely off guard exactly as he’d intended. Those blue orbs widened again and she was speechless, her mouth opening and closing with nothing coming from between her lips. Betsy, their waitress, chose just that moment to bring their plates. The older woman was boisterous and kind and at the diner as much as Rosie was. She was always giving him an appraising eye, too, flirting with him. He liked it and flirted right back with her, even though she was old enough to be his grandmother. He wanted Rosie to see him as a guy, as a fun guy. He didn’t want her to see him as a threat to her world and if he could win Betsy over, well, maybe she’d put in a good, encouraging word for him.

The woman’s gaze shifted back and forth between Decker and Rosie, twinkling the whole time. She was full of mischief and if he didn’t know better, he’d say she knew his feelings and intentions with Rosie and was firmly in his corner. “Is there anything else I can get you two?”

“I’m set,” Decker beamed, looked down at his plate of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and fried okra. “Though more tea might be good. Oh and I’m gonna want dessert.”

“Sugar, you can have anything your little heart desires.”

“Don’t encourage him, Bets.”

“Oh hush, now. I don’t know why I shouldn’t. He’s perfectly harmless.”

“Harmless, my ass.”

Decker smirked at the glowering look Rosie gave both he and Betsy. “I think we’re good here for a bit, Betsy.”

“You just holler if that changes.”

She moved on to the other customers at other tables in their section, and Decker turned his attention back to his date. “Chicken and dumplings? I don’t think I’ve ever had that.”

“Seriously? Never?”

“Nope. Mind if I snag a bite?”

“Can I move my hands from under my ass?”

“Yep. I’m proud of you by the way for keeping them there and for asking to remove them.”

“Yeah well…I’m going to wash them now.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“I just bet you will.”

She slid out of the booth and as she started to walk by, he reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Kiss me.”

“What? Here?”

“Yes, here. Kiss me.”

“Decker…”

“I’m not letting you go until you do.” She looked around. The nervousness was back, and she was thrown off kilter. He both loved it and felt bad about it, but she needed to get over this hesitation about them being in public together. “Kiss me, Rosie.”

“Oh all right,” she sighed. She leaned down and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

“No. Not good enough.”

She sighed again and when he tugged on her arm, she leaned in again and kissed him for real this time. It was eerily similar to the kiss he’d given her here in the diner a few days before. There was no tongue, but there was heat and intent and he could live with that. “Good girl,” he whispered against her lips. “Go wash your hands. Dinner’s getting cold.”"

Controversy.

That's a pretty controversial book cover. It's definitely a child. Not a child dressing up but a child as a child and then to read a book where the man is obsessed with this child, Lolita, we're on dangerous territory. I've seen a movie adaptation of Lolita, I've read a little from the book. The books I admire are Anneke Jacob's As She's Told, not just when I'm feeling naughty, books that push because they're written by people who are talented, not just vomiting out sentences for shock value like that Marie Claire bitch (google it).

Only last week there was a photoshoot of two young women from Glee which caused controversy. And it only took a shot of one placing her hand on the other's clothed arse to have some people shouting. I'm completely against homophobia. To me, you can call it outrage at two "young girls" (the actresses are both in their twenties) but I say if you have a problem with one woman's hand on the other's arse, you're a homophobe, the kind who thinks it's not appropriate to have any kind of homosexuality on tv before watershed. Well excuse them for not being straight fine upstanding citizens in your eyes. What will upset your high standards next? Perhaps the fact it's okay to have Natalie Portman in a movie where she's how old, five,?, holding a gun but it's sensationalist to see her kiss another woman when she's nearly 30 now probably.

The rest of the Glee photoshoot had jock with a heart Finn in the middle of the colourful, candy, yes Lolita esque type of photoshoot. But someone said there is a difference between the Lolita thing and paedophilia and a difference between a woman dressing up in knee high socks and a young girl..and a man who isn't a closet paedophile should be able to differentiate. I have newfound respect when I read the late Kurt Cobain replied to the record company when they asked him to erase the privates of the baby in the water on Nevermind, to put a sticker over the privates saying that if this offends you must be a closet paedophile.

And, the jock from Glee was fully clothed whereas the women weren't and apparently it's equality between the sexes when the men are undressed too. Uh huh.

There's not one erotica book I have read which doesn't have an element of taboo. Sex, desire, and why limit it to fantasy if it's between two consenting adults, I'll come on to the adult word in a minute, is not politically correct. I would much rather read a book that pushes me than one which is merely just arousing.

Have you heard about a movie called Great Balls of Fire? Dennis Quaid plays Jerry Lee Lewis who did that famous song, you'll know when you hear those words, and Winona Ryder plays the young girl he marries. She was his "first cousin once removed" but the point I am making is she was 15 and it caused a scandal. He was 23. That're pretty huge right there, enough to make people shriek but had he been 33, it would have added shriek. I don't know their relationship, perhaps she was like the character Lolita, perhaps she was even the opposite. Whether I think this is right or wrong depends on things which I don't know about those two.

But I know Lolita from the book and movie. I know the first time the man Humbert sees her and what he describes. I know he uses the words nymphets and childlike. And I know some people will cry over what they haven't yet read. Right. Wrong. This is freedom of expression. Vladimir Nobokov had written a book about obsession and his beautiful articulation drew me in. So I don't particularly care about right and wrong in a book. And, if Nobokov was more like Humbert than we'll ever know, then I won't defend him but I won't demand society shouldn't know about Lolita. It's one of those books that sort of makes me even more alive.

Don't worry, I don't get women either.

On the one hand some women say they want variation in models but those same women will turn their noses up and block their minds and say why are they sticking HER in our face and she's not got the face to model. It's not even rude, it's intolerant and forget about fair/unfair, they just will never be happy.

Look if some one bothers you that much, just don't look. Yet, you insist on looking again and just continuing to show yourself up.

For the record, I'm 5ft 2, clearly not a model and I don't have aspirations to be but I don't get intimidated by 6ft women in magazines who have different bone structures, hair and what have you to me because I believe I'm as beautiful as they are, I'm just not a model, that's all it is. I don't need a magazine to tell me I'm doing okay looks wise, I believe in myself enough, If I pick up a magazine once in a while, it's for the pretty pictures and I can see they are just that and pretty to me is broad. Disabled. Plus size. Black. Petite. Sharp chin. Round chin. It's all out there and it should be out there and why should it not be out there in magazines too?

And I know some women and men can only look up to or admire certain characteristics, it doesn't bother me, it's their thing.

Pretty by Kate Mikkai

Pretty

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother “What will I be? Will I be pretty? ” Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers’ hearts in a shrill of fluorescent floodlight of worry.

“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty? But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dry add: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long, and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting my poor mother.

“How could this happen? You’ll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist.” “You sucked your thumb. That’s why your teeth look like that! ” “You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were six, otherwise your nose would have been fine! ”

Don’t worry; we will get it all fixed she would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that as if it were a cabbage she might buy. But, this is not about her. Not her fault she, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable appearance.

By sixteen I was pickled by ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs, laying in a hospital bed. Face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.

Belly gorged on two pints of my own blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist, like my body screaming at me from the inside out “What did you let them do to you? ” All the while, this never ending chorus groaning on and on like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood.

“Will I be pretty? ” Will I be pretty like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.

And now I have not seen my own face in ten years. I have not seen my own face in ten years, but this is not about me! This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl thirty stores in six malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven’t a clue where to find fulfillment or how to wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those two pretty syllables.

This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? , ” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer no.

The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters. You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing, but you will never be merely “pretty.”

Katie Makkai


You really have to look up her video where shes performing this on youtube. It's BRILLIANT. I got this from Kitty Thomas' wordpress blog. Kitty also write an honest post about "pretty." I like that word. Pretty is a pretty word. It sounds pretty. When someone calls you pretty, it's nice and when someone special calls you pretty, it's beautiful. It's just the value placed on it by yes, you will always hear this word from me, society. Like Kitty writes and like Kate is making a point, you can trawl stores looking for the perfect cocktail dress and you can to the grocery store and you're supposed to be on show. You are on show, people can see you but sexuality comes from inside. If you're going out to fetch a pint of milk without make up or you got caught in the rain, you should NEVER feel inferior about yourself.