MRWADE88.STY                                      BY MASTER WADE

   

   

                       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.