The Messiness

“Don’t let my tits stop you from calling me “Sir””

My dudes, life is messy.  This has been a public service announcement.

The only thing we can do to stay circling around our borderlines buoyantly is embrace the messiness. Finding balance is an active state, not an accomplishment. Sometimes life asks you to be there for others until you’re so stressed out you need others in the ways you’ve been holding space. Sometimes it feels as though you don’t exist. Sometimes everything you do is wrong and the paranoia that you’re unloveable comes crashing down all around. Sometimes you need to create the space for yourself that you so desperately want someone else to create on your behalf. Sometimes you need to be left. the. fuck. alone.

It seems like most of the time people are miscommunicating or ignorant of one another’s complicated and distinctly meaningful lives. Stepping on toes. Lashing back. We put our feet directly in our mouths — astounding considering society’s loss of flexibility these days. We look back in shock at what we’ve said/done/thought in the past and flush, hoping those memories are carried only inside our own brains, forgotten by others.

We live in this fucked up computerized place where everything is recorded and there’s no escape from bumbles or mistakes, learning situations, or outright shitty behavior. Growth isn’t pretty. We “other” others immediately upon unearthing disapproved content, rather than ask questions and try to understand the behaviors or actions we don’t enjoy. Do we think distancing ourselves from someone else’s bad behavior indicates we won’t ever have to undertake their same fate? This impulse is not only incorrect in my esteem, it’s not gracious (not that anyone owes anyone grace).

While distancing ourselves from the undesirable “other” we undercut communal progress ever further. This is especially true when there’s no end to excommunication, or understood process for rehabilitation. When no friends are willing to help growth occur.

Subsets of people who have been banished from society have banded together and voted for Trump or started hate groups which plague our society further because doubling down and retribution are meals, and being left to fend for oneself alone in the cold with no timeline nor clear path forward toward rejoining the fold kills compassion for the place one used to call home…

In this day of mono-generational clusters, where we’re frequently unaware of the historical struggles we build upon, and the reasons for some limitations in the individuals we rail against,

In this day of silent segregation affording comfort for the privileged,

In this day of fear and fake news,

In this day of highrises and disappearing trees and fields,

In this day of unrest within our ever growing poverty stricken ranks,

In this day of side-eye and disgruntled daily discipline,

In this day of money over everything,

In this day of the disintegrated American Dream,

In this day of epic arguments with friends over words instead of destruction of the ideals which reinforced these boxes we feel trapped by in the first place, new code writing, or building different perspectives in exciting new ways,

In this day of unchecked sadism paired with a masochistic addiction to drama,

In this day of fuck-all refusal to see humanity over stats, and the issuance of name calling over compassion,

On this day of Empathy’s death,

I slide my stiletto heel, lubed by your own saliva and snot mixed with overwhelmed tears into the orifice you hate to embrace the most and call you “piggy”, because you are. And you aren’t. You’re afraid that if this confession, this atonement, this build of pressure doesn’t burst in the most memorable way possible, that we’ll all go down sober and wishing we’d tried to connect. I’m a clown and you’re my muse. This touch isn’t violent, though it’s wrapped in the banners of war — an illustrated history of fucking the soldiers who lost, the families who cannot afford a room at the castle, the bought and sold bodies-as-chattel of our slaves, the mothers and daughters of our friends against their will, the hated queers and perverts, all messing up The Man’s straight line to success.

We fuck when we conquer to cement the meaning of this newfound position. To mix our kinds in hopes the future will not rebel. To escape our past wrongs. To celebrate the dissipation of stress, or in hope of something happy to come. We fuck for creation. We fuck because making love is a privilege that not everyone can accomplish. We fuck to get off.

We submit when conquered to save our bodies and our families, loved ones, our lives and our homes. In submission we become a responsibility to be taken on. We submit for pleasure in downfall. We submit to acknowledge we were wrong. We submit to feel our bodies in ways our bodies have been taken from us. We submit for connection. We submit to know our strength — a promise to ourselves of survival. We submit because we want to be taken. We submit to get off.

Am I submitting or fucking in this “mr. piggy and the Dom clown” scene? Paid to alleviate something eating away at your mind. Paid to perform, as anyone who’s spent time rolling in the messiness might be able to. Or am I just “Femmeboy Sir: Friend, Councellor & Consultant” to the asses of personkind who worry and desire, afraid and entitled, searching for new perspective? Being fucked is something every one of us, outside of our million recored mistakes, greatly needs.

I believe the true place of this piggy of mine, grunting away, heeding my command and perilously close to being punctured, is where every human’s place is: on earth in the messiness — finding out through trial and error what is fucked up and what is right so that we can trust at the end of the day that we’re still allowed, with all of our faults acknowledged (though not necessarily excused), to come home.

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

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