You know, after you’ve been writing for a while about sex, people start actually believing what you tell them.

Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with that, at least in theory. Of course I want you to believe what I write. I’m telling the truth, as I see it, after all. The problem is that truth, my truth at least, is fluid, ever-changing. My general life philosophy, in a very broad sense, may be fairly consistent. But what I like, what I think, how I act… those change on a daily basis, and depending on whom I’m with. There are times when I read back over something I wrote a few months ago, and I wonder who wrote it. It seems familiar, but did I really feel that way about that person, want to participate in that situation, commit that act?

Every time I write, including this time, it’s a snapshot, it’s not a lifetime commitment.

Let’s look at an example. Recently I transcribed a brief conversation with a very dom-ish friend. There is no question that, during that conversation, I was being a classically bratty sub. That’s how it happened. That’s how I felt. Is that how I feel today? No, not particularly. Today, I’m mostly feeling like an assertive (bordering on bitchy) but horny woman craving a meaningless encounter with no repercussions…. a very different creature from the needy thing who poured her heart out online last night. A few weeks ago, I wrote about wanting to dominate my DSF. If I actually get my hands on him, I might very well want to punish him physically for, once again, cancelling our planned meeting. On the other hand, I might just want to push him on a bed and fuck his brains out. Or perhaps, I’ll want to sit in a café and hold hands.

The (rambling) point I’m trying to make here is that I don’t want to be confined by what I write. Perhaps in a big picture way, all the pieces I’ve written may fit together to create the jigsaw of my life. Or not. Perhaps there’s just so much missing here that you’ll never really know much about me. And somehow, this is a much bigger issue than what I write on this little blog, and who my few dozen regular readers think I am. Somehow, it’s all about being a woman, and being judged and limited. Somehow, after the decades of efforts that have gone into giving us choice, we still ended up with boxes. You drive your children to karate and soccer and piano lessons every night of the week … ah, you’re a mom. You… you slept with a man on your first date with him… you’re a slut. You climbed the corporate ladder by the time you’re 30… you’re aggressive and career-obsessed. You write about being spanked… you’re the quintessential anti-feminist.

It’s as if each choice and each action is a device used to label me, keep me in my place, whatever that is. And that influences the choices I make, or at least the reasoning that goes into those choices. Before I take a step, I think about the implications for how I’m viewed (and whether or not I’m desirable, or respected, or even loved) as a woman, and I may hesitate. And I resent that. I’m an adult, I have earned my way in this world, and I want to change things up as often as I need to.

So… who am I today? Maybe today I’m “ranting bitch”. And maybe tomorrow I’ll be “tamed cuddler”. Whatever. Deal with it.