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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