A requiem to cry

Oh god, I wish I could cry. Many years ago, I learned the joy of the cry. I found an enlightened world of enlightened people. So much to learn, and so much to try. By accident in my wanderings I learned how to cry. Not in anger and frustration or wishing to die. The ability to forgive, to let go, and let it be by the by. I found many ways to approach this, but timid was I. Powerful women were the key but how do you approach those who seem to live in the sky? Then I found the One. She liked me, she knew me, she played with me, she loved me. With her in small ways I found my way to the cry. Oh cursed me, impetuous and rash, I wanted too much, too fast, and stepped upon the leather blossom as blooming it was about to try.

Oh god, I wish I could cry.

I walked the wastes. Brown sky, blank faces, electronic pulses, digital emotions. I enjoy bondage, but this is too much. Little did I know what begins as a babe grows to choke life out of you. Duty, responsibility, strength, endurance. I shuffle corsetted, body bound and mummified. I am a perverse phallic symbol of masculinity that allows nothing in and nothing out. I look around and see a continent filled with others like me. Then I see the Others leaping, dancing and living. The women, the demi-women, he lovers, and she lovers who've cast of societies coils and dance with feeling, so free.

Gosh, I wish I could cry.

I try to escape, however I can. I sort of feel part woman, but basically a man. Did God ask "Y" and it was molded into the Man he made? Are cursed my genes, and guilty my pecker of sins that deny me the cry? Cut it off, and stamp it out. Can the "man" be made to die? No. Self hate is misdirected. Women haven't cornered the market on how to cry. We both are human, and in that lies the ability to feel and with emotions ply. Its been two millenia since long hair, sandals, caring and crying were cool. Only men can go in the wrong direction for decades unable to ask for directions, and be a fool.

Boy, that makes me want to cry.

I struggle to free myself. The pressures of life boil me over. I try to contain this toxic soup. Alas my cupboards are full. Beneath the piles still beats my heart. I begin to forgive myself and let go. The bindngs loosen. I pull myself from beneath the baggage and find that She is still here. All She ever did was ask for a chance and ask me to try. Ashamed of the lost time, I borrow hope and faith and renewed into my submission I fly. In subservience I greet the warmth as it lights my eyes and rekindles my mind. Suddenly I am aware of all that was wrong, what is right, and is about time. My heart shakes off the winter frosts and I feel.

Oh, to feel. But yet its not enough to cry.

To have a Mistress, to be a slave. There is a peace and security you wish to have till the grave. A peace and tranquility, a port in lifes storm. What is truly the perverse, and what is so-called the norm? In my heart I know what I seek. It's a time past of the innocent and meek. A sense of security, held tight to mothers bosom, in innocence and love. Not of expectaction of what I should achieve. Stripped of my bonds, exposed to the light, trusting in Her protection and security to do my fight. The fury of lifes storm circles, roaring to conform or destroy. Winds howl the duties of man, screaming for the return of the sissy boy. I am humbled by her acts, completely unworthy of the things She does as my defences crack.

Oh to show my apprecation and joy, if I could only cry.

Cuffs are applied, I am one with the chains. I look into her eyes, and none of my doubts remain. I see in them her uncertainty, a mended confidence I once smashed. Woe once I wanted it all, wanted it now, and in my actions left her trashed. I smile assuringly then lower my eyes. I am not worthy of what she will do. I don't deserve this, even as I have worked hard to try. The lights dim. I cast off my last fears, and will every fibre of my being to be owned by her. A whip crack, a tender caress. Sweat on my brow, and moistness sting my eyes. The demons are packing onto the last bus leaving town. "I love you Mistress" is whispered clearly, her leather on my flesh the only sound .

The waves consume the seawalls, and I cry.

Shayla April 2003