Tales of the Darklady : Exotic Magazine Online : January 2001

He was, as he had always been, tall and slim with a certain awkwardly languid sensuality about him. An aura of innocence and experience that each seek to exaggerate their actual existence. We have known each other long enough to remember when we were shadows of our current selves--when gin and LSD made the walls bleed, when hospital claustrophobia was too intense, when lovers fled and lovers-yet-to-flee were introduced. We have been warm, if wary, satellites in erratic orbit around one another, affecting each other's lives, yet never intersecting for long--just long enough to observe or influence.

I do admit to being responsible for a certain amount of member inflation during the festive weekend in question, however.

I'll always think of Minister Crow as lounging against a surface--a wall, a banister, his own folded arms, an invisible form of support when the real thing is missing. Something about his sleepy listening face demands a posture equally relaxed for his lanky form.

Recently our orbits passed near one another again, briefly opening our doors of perception a bit wider. I was delighted to receive e-mail from him afterwards with his observations. "It was nice to see you again, albeit however briefly," he began. "And almost always in the company of leather or PVC clad men, I might add. So I must assume that either you're enjoying yourself immensely or that you're turning a fair profit on the white slavery market," he concluded.

Being a cagey little vixen I asked him why I couldn't be doing both. I am, after all, a multi-tasking maniac. Why not make a profit at what gives one plea

Sure? We agreed that such a thing was possible and left it at that.

For the record, I am not a participant in the white slavery market. There are literalists in the world that would like to believe otherwise but such is not the case. I was, in fact, enjoying myself immensely with my leather or PVC clad men, although I am certain that legend has vastly inflated their numbers. I do admit to being responsible for a certain amount of member inflation during the festive weekend in question, however.

Minister Crow's comment was amusing not only because of its proposed professional expansion but also because it dovetailed with something I'd been processing during that weekend: obedience and submission.

Raised in the hope that I would become a Good Catholic Girl and a little patriot, I learned how to Yes, Sir and Yes, Ma'am at an early age. I picked up after myself, took care of my toys and clothes, got good grades in spite of Everything Else, and took care of others like a good girl should. Inside, of course, I seethed with frustration, anger and resentment. I became the "strong one," the one people could depend on during tough times, the one who never needed any help. I was responsible and, although rarely in the way that my mainstream instructors had hoped--obedient, although to ideals, as opposed to individuals. I was not, however, at all submissive to any authority.

As other hyper-responsible, driven people before me have noted, always being the strong one can get tiresome after a while--especially if you enjoy an assortment of experiences. Little did Minister Crow know that one of those leather or PVC clad men (it was rubber, actually) was acting as a guiding Dark Angel to this darkest of ladies; a beautifully real vision of flesh and anima, mesmerizing me into a quiet and contemplative state of mind and spirit, thus allowing me to reach into unexplored but tempting nooks and crannies of my psyche. Indeed, making me feel at moments akin to that genuinely romantic Roman maiden, compelled to touch and gaze upon a face forbidden her view.

Not to carry the metaphor too far, but for me, the conflict between a desire to be obedient to an honorable agreement and submit to a will equal to, or even greater than my own, and my wild nature's resistance to being censored or controlled is a fearful and intoxicating attempt to balance the lamp of illumination without spilling a drop of oil on the sleeping dreamer. Psyche got what she wanted--and more, ultimately--even though her hands were unsteady. I have no hopes for immortality. I merely wish to avoid spilling too much oil while trying to gaze upon the face of the forbidden.