Archive-name: MrWade/mrwade88.txt

Archive-author: Master Wade

Archive-title: MRWADE= A Letter To The Modern Woman





slave....



     you stand naked, gazing into mirrors, wondering about the

shape you see.  you choose what you will eat, anticipating its

translation into curves on your body.

     Do you not spend hours with your hair, your nails, your skin,

your choice of clothing, bathing, perfuming, your beauty and your

appeal to MEN, consuming you?

     Their stares excite your sex, inflame your mind, ignite your

imagination.  In your bed when no one is watching you think of

them and the hunger they will have for your body, how much they

will want to take you and use you for their pleasure.  And you

moan as you are filled by them.

     you wear beautiful underthings, lacey, silky, exciting to

touch underthings, and yet you cover them, and blush if they are

revealed, struggle to keep men from seeing them.  Even in their

construction they are designed to tease those who see you in them,

to enhance your beauty even more, to lift your breasts, to allow

your nipples to be seen through them, to ride high on your hips,

to allow your pubic hair to poke through the tiny holes in the

lacey fronts.

     you wear pants to cover your legs, to hide your sex and make

it inaccessible, and yet they are so tight they reveal all your

curves, hugging your shapely bottom, and tugging at your sex,

making it even more obvious than would dresses.  you wear

pantyhose, making you less accessible, but at the same time

allowing your dresses to be shorter, the slits higher.

     Is it so hard to admit who you are and what you hunger for

most?  Are men so weak, so slow to act, so slow to give you that

which you hunger for that you must go to such depths to make them

want you?  Say that you were never first to do the touching.  Say

that you have never hungered before he did, that you never

plotted, schemed how to make him take that which you protect so

diligently.

     If you had to choose between eternally keeping your knees

together and keeping them apart, which would you choose, woman?

And yet you close them, cross them, ever careful to keep that

opening that is so painfully empty away from him who would fill it

for you.  Who are you, modern woman?

     Say you do not grow weary with the battle to prove yourself

manly that the world drafts you to fight.  Woman soldier?  Ha! It

is in the battlefield of the workplace that your battles are

fought, in the barbershop of the home that your locks are shorn,

in the war between the sexes that your ribbons are won.  And what,

oh modern woman, have you gained?  What price have you paid?

     Do you not long for the man who has power and who will use it

with you?  Do you not hunger for men to be men, for them to give

you what it is you want most from them?  What is it you want?  Do

you search for gentle men, submissive men, men who will give you

the power and who will give you your way?  What then, when you

have found such men, will be your way?  What will you ask of them,

and what will they have to give?  Where is your power, oh woman,

and what monsters would you with it slay?

     Look upon the length of you.  Why is it that your breasts jut

out away from you?  So that they may be hidden?  Why is it that

when you walk your hips move differently from those of men?  So

that no one will see that you are woman?  Why is it that your legs

must be opened for sex, that even to relieve yourself you must

squat and spread them?  Do you never wonder why it is that man

grows soft after sex, prohibiting him, and yet woman stays wet and

open and available?  Do you never look over your shoulder at the

curve of your deriere, and judge its attractiveness, its

desirablitity?

     Oh, modern woman!  Why the struggle you give yourself to?

Surely man has hurt your cause, has pushed you into the roles you

accept by his very failure to be that which he was created to be.

Will you take up his scepter and allow him his ease?  Will you

save the world, only to wonder at what it has become in its

salvation?

     Look deeply into the eyes of HIM who knows you and who would

free you from this terrible curse.  Give yourself to HIM who would

be  man and who would let you be woman.  Can you stand haugtily

before such a man, or do you feel your knees drawing you toward

the floor in front of him?  Do you wish that he not look at you

there?  That he not see you naked?  That he not know the hungers

and desires that burn so deeply within you?  Shrug from his touch

if you dare, but do it at great expense to yourself.  Run from his

knowing gaze if you must, but admit your weakness as you flee.

Turn to those who deny you, who fail you, who bore you to tears.

Such men will turn over their reins to you, and will learn the bit

obediently, plodding before you as you ride high on your thrones,

observing with distaste the sugar-pill spoils of your battles.

     HE questions not your intelligence, your ability, your

stamina, nor your strength.  HE questions not your contributions,

your selflessness, your wisdom, your charity.  But HE weeps at the

rape of your womanhood, the abortion of the sexual submissiveness

struggling to live within you, the theft of your feminity, the

walls seperating you from being all that you can be.

     I draw my sword, quivering slave, as I pull your face to my

crotch.  Let us slay the dragons together.

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