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kink philosophy

From your neighborhood greedy, selfish bitch

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Greedy. Selfish. Bitch.

Three words used so often to shame women for having needs, having boundaries, wanting more.

Three words that mean: shut up. That mean: take it. That mean: be grateful for the crumbs that society thinks you deserve.

A sub asked me this week why I used the word greedy to describe myself in a session. Why choose an ugly word? Why choose a word that seems so at odds with the type of person I am? Why would I—feminist, anarchist, generous, fiercely caring—use that word?

I answered his question and it inspired me to answer your unasked one:

There are words that I am here to unapologetically reclaim. Language our society uses to chastize women, to force us back into “our place.”

I own that word precisely because it makes you stop and think and question. I own that word because owning it forces us to lay bare what people are really saying when they use it.

Greedy, in simplest terms, means wanting more than your share. But what is my share? Too often, the word is used to try and force me to ask for less when what most women (myself included) need to do is ask for more.

So I refuse. I refuse to ask for less. I embrace the accusation. I take your barb and put it in my bio.

Because yes, I want more. More than the world has tried to offer me in so many ways. More money, more respect, more voice, more power.

When I say greedy, I don’t mean that I’m hoarding wealth. I mean that I will take and I will take unapologetically. Not because I need more than my share, but because I refuse to believe that my share is less than men’s.

I refuse to accept that my share is less money per hour than male counterparts. I refuse to accept that my share is spending more money on the same products (look up: pink tax). I refuse to accept that my share is footing the bill on beauty products, birth control, and safe sex—or being the one to be crushed under the weight of the consequences of not footing those bills.

I refuse to accept that my share is carrying more mental load, more emotional labor, more housework, more, more, more.

You see, I’m greedy like that.

In our society, money is power. Having money means maintaining power. I don’t even mean over others: I mean over my self.

I mean that because I did well in my vanilla career, I was able to quit when my industry’s ethics stopped matching my own. My fuck-you money was actually save-my-soul money.

I mean that my money has let me create art that changed people’s lives. My fuck-you money was I-see-you money.

I mean that because I expect more from the men around me, I have better men around me. The shit ones leave. My fuck-that attitude is actually save-me attitude.

Power can be used to fuck someone over and that’s the vision society has handed us because we’ve watched the men in charge suck everyone else dry—but it’s not the whole story of power or money.

Power can also be used to save yourself. Power can save others.

And that’s part of the point in flipping these scripts, in femdom and findom—when the traditionally disempowered in society are given power, the first power we gain is this:

The power to say no. To being exploited. And to participating in exploitation.

No, I will not do something that feels demeaning to me. No, I will not keep working with companies that are actively exploiting others.

That power means I get to be the person I want to be.

That money means I get to be the person I want to be.

There’s a certain type of man—a certain type of person—who uses the word greedy to demand that women (and other marginalized groups) ask for less.

Fuck. That.

I embrace the word because I will always ask for more.

Not just more money and more empowerment for me and those I love. But also more from men. Higher standards. Better behavior. Real, challenging personal growth. I refuse to baby men the way society loves to. That’s not respect; it’s infantilization.

I expect more.

Like a greedy, selfish bitch, it seems.

Greedy.

Selfish.

Bitch.

Why yes, thank you, I am.

Now go do those pushups and send for that bitch’s lunch.

cucking

Stop talking about alphas. You’re making me barf.

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Let’s start here: I love a cuck. I love to tease. I love to push your buttons. I love to know that you know it’s date night and I’m having a series of orgasms at someone else’s hands.

Here’s what I don’t love: when you say a man is my alpha.

Even just typing that, I barfed in my mouth a little.

First off, go fucking unsubscribe from the brain-rot influencers who taught you that word. Repeating it makes you look stupid.

Because all it takes is a few minutes of research to find out where the term came from—and that it’s been debunked.

The idea of alphas began with a scientist studying wolves. The pack had an alpha, he said. The strongest wolf. The main wolf. The boss. The “dominant” wolf.

He published a book on it. And then realized he was wrong and spent his entire life trying to undo the damage.

Because, news flash #1: wolves don’t have alphas. He was observing a family. The parents trying to keep their kids safe, teach them, guide them.

News flash #2: he was observing captive wolves—and very quickly observed that wolves don’t behave the same way in the wild. It’s like saying we can study a prison population and use that study to talk about how people behave outside prison. These two things are not the same.

And news flash #3: even if neither of those things were true, you are not a wolf. You are not a bear. You are not a lion. And you are not a lobster. If every animal behavior were part of humanity, hoo boy would life be different. Hamsters eat their babies. Squid *punch sperm into their bros* (go look it up). Show a dog a piece of roadkill and he’ll probably roll around on it. Wolf behavior isn’t any more predictive of human behavior than any of those examples.

The reason you think it is is incel culture. That’s where the talk of alphas and betas in the world of men took off. So feel free to be embarassed that you adopted the idea uncritically.

Just using the word alpha drops my estimate on your intelligence. And thinking I would let a man dominate me drops it further.

When I say I love submissive men, I fucking mean that shit. I mean that in my heart and my soul and my bedroom. I mean that the love of my life is the same man who comes over almost daily to pick dog poop out of my yard, who curls up after a long day with his head in my lap, who was the first person to collar himself with me. He is the one granted entry to the most sacred spaces of heart, mind, and body. Not because he is in charge, but precisely because he’s strong enough, centered enough in his masculinity and authenticity to let go of that.

He is not having his way with me; I am having my way with him.

Nobody is the alpha (because that shit is stupid). But I am the boss. The holder of space. The lap he rests his head on. The safe space where he can take off his mask. The Goddess at the center of the universe.

Not every woman is submissive for “the right man.” The alpha bros are not our fantasy. They are yours. And fantasy is the operative word.

You want to admit my partner is a better man than you? You want to serve him? You want to serve us together? Go for it. But do not co-opt me into the patriarchal fantasy that women are all secretly submissive for some sort of extra-masculine bro. I do not consent to be dominated—even in your fantasy and even not by you.

I am his boss and yours. That is kinky for both of you.

I am not conquerable—period. And frankly, that reality is healing if you’ll let it be. You are not submissive because you are less. You are not submissive because someone else is a better man. You are submissive because you are submissive—no value judgement attached.

And if you want to play humiliated cuck? Well, when I say you can’t please me like he does, it’s not because he’s alpha or dom. It’s because of choices he makes every single day. Which means when you don’t measure up? That’s all choices too. And I can push your buttons even harder when we take “I’m just this way and nothing I can do about it” well and truly off the table.

findom

Being a submissive man is brave AF

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Hi there, kitten–

I see you over there, poking your whiskers out of hiding, simultaneously longing to be seen and terrified of it.

Because you’re a submissive man. And your whole life, society has told you that one of those things negates the other. That submission isn’t masculine. That masculinity isn’t submissive.

Come out of hiding, crawl up here in my lap while I tell you the truth:

Vanilla world has been lying to you.

Nobody can steal your masculinity if you want it. It’s yours. Inherently. Un-stealably. Being submissive has never put it at risk.

Even more important: playing at dominance doesn’t make you brave. It actually does the opposite. It’s caving to peer pressure. It’s hiding. It’s sacrificing your authentic self on the altar of societal expectations.

I’m not here to tell you those expectations don’t exist. They do. It’s part of what people mean when they use the word patriarchy—a world where you’ve been told that by virtue of being a man you are also required to be 35 other things you never agreed to.

Dominant. Violent. Anything but feminine.

But following the crowd has never been the brave move. Living your truth is. Loving yourself when the world tries to tell you you’re not lovable is. Letting go of their opinions to trust what you already know deep in your gut is.

Buried as it might be, I know what’s deep in that gut if you’re brave enough to find it:

Authenticity.

Courage.

Self-love.

Submission.

I don’t mean that you have to be out and proud with every person you meet. I don’t mean that you put a SUBMISSIVE stamp on your business cards. I understand that society doesn’t understand.

What I want for you is this: to understand, deep in your soul, that you being yourself is courage.

I never hear a man describe himself as dominant and think he’s brave. Embracing societal expectations may or may not be a positive in some cases—but it’s never an act of courage.

But you? YOU, kitten? Living your truth? That’s fucking brave. That’s fucking strong. That’s something to pay attention to.

In case you needed the reminder today: every time you decide you like the submissive part of yourself, you’re doing something brave. Something unusual. Something interesting.

And even if I don’t know you yet, I’m pretty fucking proud.

kink philosophy

Can dommes and subs be friends?

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“I don’t think it’s possible,” a young sub offered the subject up for debate in a group chat.

His reasoning: because of money. Money somehow made friendship, care, or true connection impossible in his mind.

I find this both baffling and irritating, so let’s talk about it.

First, have you never had a friend or deep connection with someone you also exchange money or services with? Never had a work colleague who became a dear friend? Never had a deep conversation with a therapist or life coach? Never gotten a crush on or dated someone you met in a context of financial exchange (server, bartender, carpenter, contractor)?

I have two dear friends who I met at a work conference over a decade ago. We’ve since taken friend trips to France, cried on each other’s shoulders, sent multi-hour voice note updates. And one of them has single-handedly been the greatest source of new clients for me in my vanilla work for the last decade. When we chat, we often finish up work stuff and one of us says “ok, friend mode time!” and we transition seamlessly into a space of friendship.

Why in the world wouldn’t that be possible in D/s? What about this space makes you think it’s not possible for people to have multiple types of connections—including a financial one?

Second, are y’all not generous in your personal lives?

Because I am.

A friend asked me for $100 to get out of a bad situation a couple weeks ago and I sent it within minutes. I bought a plane ticket this summer so someone I love could see his family after a long time apart. I sneak to the counter and pay for friends’ coffees all the time. I literally have a competition with my bestie to see who can secretly fund the meals we eat together before the other gets to it.

None of these financial moves by me or my bestie negate the love and friendship and connection I have with any of these people. Why the fucking fuck would you giving me money mean I couldn’t possibly care about you?

Do you think my bestie cares less about me because I paid for the apartment we rented for an art retreat a few years ago or do you think it was a lovely gift and deep moment in our friendship?

Do y’all really have that toxic a view of money? As if it poisons what it touches instead of being a tool like any other—a tool that can be used for exchange (theoretically morally neutral), to give care with no expectation (morally rad as fuck), or to control another person (only morally ok if consensual).

So if you think that D/s, findom, or femdom connections cannot possibly be genuinely caring or turn into friendship or romance outside the financial aspect, kittens, I invite you to examine that belief in yourself. Why do you believe that?

Are you coming into this space with a transactional mindset you haven’t communicated? Do you have the expectation of friendship and when you find it unmet you feel resentful? Could it come from a misogynistic belief society has handed you saying that women are just trying to take advantage of you (non-consentually)?

I can’t answer those questions for you. I’m just inviting you to sit with them.

Not every findom connection will turn into friendship—but that doesn’t mean 0% will. And just because someone isn’t your friend doesn’t mean they don’t care about you. My physiotherapist isn’t my friend but she quite literally changed my life. Same thing with my first therapist.

So dear lord, let’s stop the binary thinking that money stabs any chance of real care in the heart. And stop assuming just because money is involved, care cannot be. Don’t come into dynamics expecting the person to become your bestie or your girlfriend, but don’t be surprised if your connections are deep and caring and have more than one dimension.

kink philosophy

When the most submissive thing you do is play at dominance

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First, the truth: I see you, kitten.

I see you out there, submissive to your marrow, longing for control, for purpose, for guidance, for care. And spending all your time cosplaying dominance because you feel you have to.

You cosplay at work. You cosplay in dating. You cosplay in the bedroom.

And all of it: submission. Not the kind you crave – but submission all the same.

You perform dominance because you are submissive to our cultures’ dictates. You perform it because you feel that the women you date expect it of you. Sometimes because they tell you they expect it of you.

But you’re not dominant. You’re an actor in a play you never auditioned for. You submit to the script because you it’s all you’ve ever done. Because it’s safe. Because it keeps your life intact in a world that sees male submission as weak.

Kitten, I’m here to tell you that it isn’t weak.

That going off the script is unusual precisely because it’s fucking brave.

That showing that side of yourself is courageous precisely because much of the world doesn’t understand it.

Which is why you come to me. To rest. To be yourself. To stand in your authenticity instead of the script. And because you know that everything else is just pretend.

This is your real world. And now is your moment to approach.

findom

So you want to be my sub? Here’s how to show up.

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Don’t bankrupt yourself.

You being a dummy doesn’t serve me. That just serves your own fantasies. If you do yourself financial harm, you will never truly be mine.

Do what you say you’ll do when you say you’ll do it.

We can discuss funishments if you like to be punished, but if you say you’ll do something and don’t do it, don’t expect to be punished. Expect to be blocked. Expect me to lose interest. Expect to spend six months like my former task sub, begging endlessly to be allowed another shot and never given one.

Assume good faith.

If there is more than one way to take something, assume I meant it in good faith. If I don’t answer your text for awhile, start from the assumption that I’m busy or sick, not that I’m punishing you (unless otherwise discussed). Not everything is about you.

Communicate.

I want to know if I’m pushing too hard. I also want to know when you are weak af. Every piece of info you hand me goes into making this more fun for us both. You cannot drive me away by expressing your boundaries or your adoration. Put those fears where they belong: in the trash.

Be generous.

Show up. Give freely. We are not a fit if you need me to chase you or force you to send. We are not a fit if you think sends entitle you to anything we haven’t explicitly agreed to.

Show up for yourself.

I’m a MILF, not your mom. If we are playing together, I will hold space for you. I will hold structure. I will make decisions within the parameters of our dynamic. But you still have to decide your own boundaries, budgets, etc. You still have to regulate your own emotions. You still have to take steps in your own journey and follow-through with what you are asked to do.

Oh, but you want more? You want to be my favorite? Then:

Have a sense of humor.

Play along. Be a good sport. Live to make me laugh. When I ask for a video of you twerking or tell you to beg another sub for a photo of his feet, put your heart into it.

Bring your creativity.

Tell me your ideas. Tell me how to torment you. Share those little (or big, scary) fantasies. Some of my favorite play has come from my own spin on an idea a sub brought to me.

Be on a quest.

Have things you are working toward. Work on yourself regularly.

findom

The real luxury is time—and that’s what you’re funding

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When you picture me, picture me in my garden—muscat grapevines twining up trellises, flowers spilling over the tiny fences that keep them in their beds, and me, bare feet propped on the table, coffee infused with spices in hand, breathing it all in. Sunshine-soaked, eyes closed, time-rich.

Picture me…

…at my favorite sushi place, savoring every bite of the leisurely lunch you funded.

…at the vintage store, silk and leather and lace against skin as I search for the things that make me feel best.

…in my cozy reading nook, feet tucked up beside me in my sunset-orange-red chair, low light through the lampshade I drew trees on last summer. I burn scented wax, sip rich red wine, and read. History. Philosophy. Novels.

Picture me, in other words, luxuriating. Time-rich. Living the life I want to live.

This is the real luxury. The real truth of the kingdom your money builds for me. Pedicures and comfy sandals, sexy robes and cardamom-infused coffee on my tongue. It is hours of reading time. Lunches with nowhere else to be. Dance events I didn’t pay for. Vintage lingerie you reimbursed.

There is a tendency in this space for dommes to brag about working hard in their jobs, feeling they have to prove that in order to be worthy of your money, they must be doing this as a second job. Well, fuck that. My success in my vanilla career, of entrepreneurship, of so many years working for myself, taking only clients I wanted to take, charging premium prices because I’m damn good at what do—all that allowed me the luxury of time before I appeared in your feed.

And now I want more.

More naps in the shade in the swinging garden chair you’ll buy me. More homemade matcha granola for breakfast. More hours sifting through the treasures at flea markets and sending you the bill, leisurely manicures, weekend trips.

More time on passion projects, activism that lights me up, art for art’s sake. More time not slaving away for money—because you do that for me, don’t you?

Me? I’m here sitting in a sun spot with my dog at 3pm on a Friday. Taking photos of myself because I love to tease you. Inviting my partner to meet me at the cafe for an hour just because.

This is the life I build with your money. This is what you bring to the table. Your offerings at my altar to build the dream.

findom

A sexy tale of financial control

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Findom can be a lot of things.

Weak wallets. Fly-by drainings. Long term devotion with the money flowing toward the D. And also—strangely lesser talked about in these online spaces—true financial control.

The type that hands over budgets and bank statements, collaborates to pay down debt, improve job prospects, and build skills. The type that sometimes (not always) ends in total power exchange. Living off allowances. Handing over paychecks. Letting go of both the power and the anxiety of your own financials. The deep eroticism of putting yourself that fully in someone else’s power.

And in some cases, finding that being under that power changes everything.

When a new sub came to me about two months ago, I asked him—as I do with any that I’m considering playing with longer-term—to tell me his goals.

One of them: to pay off a series of debts.

I asked for a list. Not just the debts, but the interest rates. The real numbers. The current pay-down rates. We talked budgets. We played a little along the way. And then I suggested possibly the hottest thing I’ve done in findom so far:

For every dollar he sent me, he was to send an equal amount to pay down debt. He was going to do his debt paydown in the same form as his findom sends. Not saving up and sending one big debt payment each month, but sending small amounts and then sending me the screenshots.

Which means that every time he sends for coffee, for lunch, for a book, for a manicure, a few hours later or at the end of the day, a second heady rush hits my DMs: a screenshot of debt paydown. Another token of my power in this dynamic. A reminder of our connection. A spike of adrenaline.

And every time we hit a milestone in how much he’s sent to me, we also hit a milestone with his interest debt. In two months: paid down in four figures.

Another sub who came to me recently said he’d never thought about findommes making sure their subs thrive.

And I’m not going to kink-shame anyone who wants to stay in that space—the ruin one, the weak wallet one. I have played those games (consensually, of course) and I am sure I will play them again. But to that sub, looking for long-time connection, I replied, honest and matter-o-fact: when you thrive, I thrive.

When you listen to me and ask for that raise, I win. When you get out of debt and stop paying my money as interest to the bankers, I win. When you stop paying parking tickets: I win. When you become a better, more centered human being: I win.

Even just from a place of self interest, when you hitch our futures together, why would I drive yours off the road?

I tell this story because it’s hot as fuck. I tell it because I don’t hear enough of this kind of story. And I tell it because this is one possible path for what financial power exchange can be. A sexy, mutual thriving.

When I say give your money, silly little guy, I mean more than one thing by that. In his case, I also mean: next month, you are going to pay my rent—and pay down four figures on that stupid debt.

teases

Everything is lingerie (if you’re paying attention)

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Take a stroll through my photos, try to ignore the twitch in your pants, and think about what you see.

Teases: yes. Denial: everywhere. Hints and peeks and almost glimpses.

And yet I don’t own that much lingerie. The sexiest shoots are a vest without a bra underneath. A button-up with just one button keeping you from the full monty. Hard nipples under a tank top. Converse shoes blocking your view.

There is lingerie in the mix, of course. But there is so much more here.

And that is part of what I love and part of why teasing gives me a euphoric high.

It’s the creativity.

It’s looking at a scarf and seeing lingerie. Looking at boots and seeing sex. Centering a shoot around a favorite top, a slightly sheer sweater, a cute skirt. Not just a teddy or a bra or a pair of panties.

My entire wardrobe sex. The high-waisted pants. The red boustier. And the giant raincoat. Even in that, I could have you drooling with the single flash of an ankle, or a single sentence that lets you imagination loose:

I’m not wearing anything underneath.

Everything around me is part of the tease, because I will it so.

Pressing myself to the floor makes even the floor my accomplice. My lingerie. My partner in teasing crime. I press my lips to a coffee cup and make it my ally in reminding you to think about those lips, think about what it feels like when I press them against something.

The rim of the margarita glass where I licked off the salt.

The soft blanket I press my body against for the boudoir shoot.

Leg warmers over perfect calves.

This is the rule I live by, the thrill that drives. And then that second thrill: denial. Knowing that you’re going crazy with longing.

Before I turned pro, I used to delete every message I got with relish. You would not even get a single word from me. Just the occasional photo to unmoor yourself over.

Now, the lucky ones get a word. A few words.

The luckiest: the chance to worship. The chance to give something back.

Because all of this isn’t for you. And yet it gives something to you.

We both know it. And you are fucking welcome.

findom, kink philosophy

Do you crave my cruelty—or simply my authenticity?

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First, a truth:

Sometimes it surprises me what you consider mean.

When I tell you a hard truth, even gently: mean. When I say you should embarassed (because you should be): mean. When I laugh at a shenanigan: mean. Teasing is mean. Directness is mean. Taking men off the pedastle that society pretends we’re all supposed to keep you on: mean, mean, mean.

In my day-to-day life, this is the truth I live. In a world that doesn’t expect or reward directness, confidence, or truth-telling in women. And now even in this world, in D/s, where my meanness is craved, requested, begged for, even—the definition of meanness didn’t shift as much as I expected it to.

That’s not to say I’ve never had requests for real cruelty. I have.

But that’s not most of them. Most of the requests are for something else.

Not meanness.

Simply…authenticity.

Simply: mask off. Tell us what you really think.

Maybe the allure is the gift of knowing that if I praise you, I mean it. That I am not interested in babying you or kissing your ass. That I am not here to infantalize you the way our society loves to. That you don’t get the free pass the world too often gives you. The one that feels wrong. Feels inauthentic.

Because it is.

Women smile at you sometimes because they’re afraid of you. They pacify you because they don’t want to deal with your bullshit. They excuse your bad behavior or stupidity because they don’t expect any more from a man.

Babying you has never been a sign of respect. It’s a sign of not wanting to handle another toddler-level temper tantrum—of seeing you as less capable of self-control, care, intelligence, and so on.

In some ways, you live in a world that treats you like a child. And I suspect that for many of you, you feel the wrongness of that.

You feel the inathenticity of how women must interact with you in day-to-day life.

And you feel how it keeps you separate from us. From our power. Our care. Our truth.

Whether you were able to articulate it to yourself or not before this moment, that wrongness lodges in your throat and chokes out the feeling of real connection.

Which is why you tell me you love a mean girl.

It’s why when I don’t pretend to be impressed, it feels so right.

It’s why “that’s stupid” or “do better” or audio of me laughing at you don’t hit as barbs. They hit as euphoria.

Kittens, I suspect that some of you are tired of the lies. Tired of how those lies keep you from real, authentic connection with women.

And you don’t know how to ask to tear those walls down, so you ask me to be mean.

That’s also why some meanness doesn’t hit. Doesn’t scratch the itch. Because if this is you—if you are the one I am talking to—you didn’t want to cosplay mean. You wanted truth. You wanted truth so badly that you hoped it would sting.

There’s more than one type of request for meanness. There’s more than one type of sub who loves a mean girl. There is more than one layer to this onion to peel back.

But this is one of them.

One layer. One type of sub. One request for “meanness.”

A request not even for meanness, but simply for straightforwardness, a type of truth serum, a holding of boundaries that feels real.

And if this is you, I want to hear from you. I want to give you the gift of that authenticity. I want to show you what it feels like to be truly respected—expected to live up to a higher standard.

And don’t worry. I will laugh at you plenty along the way.