On the subject of faith, love, lust and violence...

Confessions of a Virgin Mistress

This blog is...

mARTurbation: art meant to please myself, as well as essays, articles, rants, raves and opinions on pop culture, sexuality, women, power, education, religion, music, films and products. No subject is taboo, no discussion forbidden.

Reading Guide:

Thoughts, Essays, Opinions and Articles have unique names and are stand-alone, even when related to previous entries. The dream chapters however, where I talk about my dreams, are titled “At The Dreams: “Insert Dream Title Here”, this is to differentiate conscious opinions and thoughts, from the subconscious movements that go on when I’m asleep (or somewhere in between). The reason I post my dreams is probably the same reason I post all other entries, to examine myself. I’m my own lab experiment. 

Fears and Human Touch

Wednesday, December 26, 2007 by Mistress Cavallaro

I... I still can't hug people. The idea of being touched, or held... it... it terrifies me. I feel prickles of disgust in my skin... I jump.

It's terrible.

I've never been raped... my parents love me... I've never been abused physically.

I don't know why I'm like that.

I'm so afraid of people touching me. I reject it instantly.

I guess I can't blame people for not getting close to me. I have a barrier up that says clearly "don't touch me".

But what I mean is "please don't touch me... not yet. I'm still afraid."

But, afraid of what?

Lonely New Year's Eve

by Mistress Cavallaro

Last year, I remember jumping into the pool at 4 AM. I don't know exactly why I did it. I'm not sure it was to experience the jump itself; it was shock therapy. At that moment in time, I needed a burst of cold water to keep me from going insane.

I don't even think the events in my life at the time were that complicated or dramatic to merit such a reaction. My best friend had gotten a boyfriend, ... he'd cheated on her... twice... with me. I didn't feel bad about it, because my best friend had never told me they were dating. I found out, afterwards, when somebody else let it "slip" that they were officially dating. My best friend chose not to tell me. She hid it from me. In a way, I thought it was karma, that he'd cheated on her with me, because I didn't know anything at the time.

I still felt though, like I'd been the one used by both at the same time in a way. You see my best friend, she loves me... I don't mean she loves me in the platonic sense; she loves me like Michael loves Brian in Queer As Folk. She loves me like the lover of a past life would, she's obsessed with me. She's made out with me, and technically during her relationship with her boyfriend, she spent a good amount of time "cheating" on him with me. Then he cheated on her with me too. In the end though, he still groveled for her. She still chose to act as if she'd never once made out with me while she was with him. No, she was for the most part a saint in his face.

So I jumped into the pool, while all my friends were partying, the happy couple included... because I felt like it. Because I was alone. Because I felt used and humilliated. Because I was the object of everyone and no one's desire.

This year, I'm just alone. Nobody, not the friends, not the couple (who eventually broke up, though now he's realized he's in love with her so he calls her every day)... just me, here crying, bitter, because I'm lonely. Because I'm still wondering how I got to be such an isolated little girl; how I became the "thing" you want, but won't dare pursue, or just a pretty thing to be admired... I'm not the girl... I'm just the dream. I'm good at a distance. I've always been the in between.

It's hard to explain.

Guess today I'm just not happy. It happens.

At The Dreams: Visions, Contact, Cat-people and the Black Bird

Tuesday, December 25, 2007 by Mistress Cavallaro

Something pulled me out of my body. Drew me all the way up several times, and at one point I started calling out a man’s name. I never quite got to see him or feel him near, instead, whatever was pulling me just pulled me up even more violently towards the sky and again, the sound of a strange buzzing but this one not as strong as the one before. I've only heard a buzz when I'm out of my body twice so far.

However, when I came back into my bed, there was another smaller bed next to mine with a little blonde girl that I recognized from former dreams. (The former dream was about a house where this girl lived with her brothers and would terrorize all their caretakers into dying. They’d start by placing a hanging dead man on the road to their home, because the road had no lights, you’d spot the man only when you were near enough to light him with the frontal lights of the car; this would usually make their victim swerve and hit something. If that didn’t work, the little girl herself would stand on the road. She had long blonde hair and an extremely pale complexion. In that dream, I’d come to work as their nanny, and after many frights, finally got them to calm down and behave like normal human beings. That didn’t stop their house from being frightening, since it was still far into the woods and there was never any light at night) The reason this is relevant to this particular experience, is that I had barely a few seconds to recognize this little girl from said former dream (even though technically I don’t even remember having that dream) and then she woke up as I was struggling to get back into my body and gave me some interesting insight. “You know the lady?”

I think she was referring to whatever was pulling me, because I tried seeing it or talking to it several times but failed. “Can you see her?” I was alarmed, because this girl could see who was pulling me and now I knew it was supposed to be a woman.

“Do you know how she feels about you?”

And I wasn’t sure what that meant. For some reason I wasn’t ready to understand so she said, “It’s ok, we’ll talk about this some other time” and that’s when I finally took hold of my body and woke up in my room, without any apparitions. I blinked my eyes open, and my heart was racing beyond belief.

 

It was almost five in the morning and I was freaked. I also thought immediately about the cards a friend of mine had brought up that night while she was drunk. About a feminine entity and again the color “green”.  Who’s this entity, apparently female? I don’t even know if it’s the same entity that tried to contact me before. (When I first heard the buzzing noise)  And what did the girl mean with “do you know how she feels about you?”

 

Very confusing.

 

Finally I went to sleep and had an entirely different dream. Or rather, the first  dream, since the prior one felt more like a vision than a dream. In this new dream I lived in a manor where I think I was just a temporary guest. At the manor there was this man whom I was seeing, and when he left every day to work I’d go with the mistress of the house into the bushes nearby to find a small litter of puppies that we were secretly caring for. I bonded with one of them right away and offered to take care of it, but it was complicated. The man I was seeing had followed us into the brush, half-expecting I think, to find me in some lurid affair and instead was relieved when he saw that the big “secret” were the puppies. That didn’t change the fact that we couldn’t keep the puppies.

 

The dream ended when we were trying to place them somewhere, or find them a home or still discussing what we’d do with them.

 

It switched to another universe, a universe I thought I was also familiar with, in fact, practically every element in this dream was familiar save for the new addition of Gale Harold to the cast. (Which I do blame on the fact that I've been watching Queer As Folk non-stop this past month) It was like a movie, and an adaptation from a cartoon all at once.

 

The main character was a blonde socialite woman, who’d been living in this neighborhood for a while, always pairing people up. She’d had a few romances but nothing lasting and all the men were gracious to her. The place was a sort of magical world, because men and women could transform into things or call upon beasts or elements and such. A new man arrived in town, (Gale) and he would transform into a cat woman every time he had was hit. Meaning, when the woman slapped him for being a rude bastard, he’d turn into a cat woman, and not just that, but as a cat woman, he’d stick around to defend or accompany the blonde lady. Clearly it was some sort of tension thing, romance novel style, where they would attend events (like an old friend of them singing Frank Sinatra karaoke <- a scene I’ve seen before, and while the man sang very well, Gale’s character walked right in front of him to leave) this pissed of the blonde lady who clearly followed Gale’s every single move even though all they seemed to do was argue. Then I found them making out near the stairway. Then making out both of them turned into cat people.

 

When she spoke to a friend of hers who wanted to know what was up and why she kept chasing him she said “something is happening between us almost, last night we kissed”.

 

Then came a strange incident. They were in the forest, because she wanted to get pregnant and so she drew up a tent, and the first man that lit a candle for her would be the father of her children. However, a group of mountain men came and surrounded the area right after Gale’s character had left in anger. They were clearly about to “eat” her when another man showed up, this one, showcasing the same abilities as a jedi, using mind control to make them fall on the ground or turn and dance. He was after “the black bird” who was none other than a scientist in the top building near the woman’s estate, brewing some deadly concoction to kill them all. The man had escaped from jail, I also think the man was her brother or some family. 

"Hunger"

by Mistress Cavallaro

I address so many things all at once in my head at times, that I often wonder how I keep it all straight. For instance, there’s the subject of solitude. I don’t mean being alone, I mean being the only person in control, present and accountable for absolutely everything that happens in your life. It’s the kind of affirmation that often leads me to question God. Why, if I am taught that there is a divine plan, a guardian angel, a lord watching over me, am I forced to face the following scenario:

(It might even seem ridiculous at first glance but I assure you it led me here)

My mother once told me she’d gone to see a medium. The medium told her, I’d struggle all my life with food. It was odd, because I’d been born a very thin girl, and I showed no interest in food whatsoever, to the point that my parents were worrying. Because I’ve always had allergy problems my parents would see me sneezing all the time, bending myself forward with those fragile bones and practically break into a weeping frenzy of fear. 

They opted to feed me instead a sort of “hunger” medicine. Two bottles of the solution later, I was fat as a cow. Ever since, I’ve had trouble losing that weight. Even now, that I’m not “fat”, that I’ve attained an ideal weight for my size; society’s view of my body has forced me to keep questing for that perfect “thin” waist. I’ve had so many yo-yo diets and varying results they could make a documentary. Even at barely 124 pounds, I’ve had liposuction, later, breast reduction (because they made my torso look thicker) and tried every possible cream, pill, product, liquid-diet, fast and body transformation program on the market. 

They’ve all failed. I’ve failed. The help I’ve requested from faith, people and religion has failed. The sabotage has been constant: the moment I say I’m on a diet my mother offers me food, my father brings home cake, my friends bring take-out, somebody’s birthday party comes along... every single day. Even when I tell them to please help me help myself, they’ve made it more and more difficult. It’s almost as if they are trying to keep me in my current weight instead of helping me lose it. Which is ironic, since they’re also the people that point out my weight all the time. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not weight obsessed, I think I have a beautiful weight, unfortunately, my agents don’t think so. The industry I work for requires impossibly thin, beautiful women. No matter how hard I try, today, exactly twelve years after my last “Hunger” bottle, I still haven’t managed to go past 117 pounds any given time. 

I’ve even done karmic cleansing, I’ve tried everything, I’ve exercised, I’ve paid thousands of dollars for trainers, food programs, medication and cigarettes (because they said models smoked so much because it took away the “hunger”). I’ve quit smoking since then by the way. I’ve also stopped drinking for months (though I’ve gone back to drinking… fuck it); I’ve had long diets, short diets, and even tried my hand at eating disorders (So far: Bulimia, mild anorexia…) … Nothing.

Because I was originally such a small girl, my body was never built to be thick, it doesn’t look balanced that way, but I can’t ever lower my weight. I’ve cried in frustration, worked so hard at the gym I’d almost bleed from my fingers and feet; still, no amount of pain and suffering brought me the weight loss I wanted.

No solution has come up thus far.

I’ve asked God, I’ve asked the angels, and I’ve wondered if I should switch to Buddhism. I’ve done myself tarot readings; I’ve pondered selling my soul… at this point, why should I care? And because… no matter what… I see… no change… but I’m not referring to the programs now… I’m referring to my faith. Any hope I’ve ever had about having someone guiding or protecting me has come into question with this subject. Either somebody likes to torture me… or we are in fact, completely alone and at the exclusive mercy of our own actions. 

I know, at a mere glance, this doesn’t seem like a profound enough experience to merit such a conclusion… but that’s the kind of thinking I’ll only accept from those who’ve never had problems losing weight, despite miraculous claims to the contrary from other people. There are those of us, who have stuck to diets, have worked, have busted ourselves and still gotten nowhere. 

I am not in a bad weight. But I have to get thin, to work, to get attention, to be respected, to get lovers, to impress, to be instantly accepted…

What the flying fuck are we doing? Am I "meant" to stay this way, so as to bring attention to the subject. Is that my "destiny", is this my "divine plan". Or am I in control? In any way?  

If someone's watching over us… why are you letting women kill themselves? If we’re responsible for ourselves… then why am I unable to lose weight? ... and if I do manage to lose way someday... any day... where will this argument go... and what will it mean. 

Who answers these questions? Nobody? or myself?

Fear, Rights and Murder

Thursday, December 20, 2007 by Mistress Cavallaro

But I am afraid of my own sexuality...

I'm not an extremist. I'm not a feminist. I'm not supporting of anything but my own neutral self. And I believe in learning, education, argument, debate... I believe nobody has the absolute truth of anything, which is why I challenge ideas. I'd just as easily advocate for female rights as I would for male rights, gay rights, transsexual rights and asexual rights.

Even killers have rights. In our world, murder is a point of view.

Pussy-Envy

by Mistress Cavallaro

Freud once said that most female's frustration stemmed from "Penis Envy". Well that's a sexual contradiction. Freud wishes he had a pussy. Being a scorpio (and those zodiac signs are fucked up all on their own in terms of sexuality), his quest in psychology delved into the sexual psyche of people; but came up short in terms of women. How else can an "expert" in the field come up with such a clipped argument? How can somebody pin the blame on the sole fact that we just don't have a penis. Well, Freud was a man. Of course he'd think that, because he thinks the penis is synonymous with "strenght" for women; he actually believes we look at a penis and immediately think "Therein lies the staff that conquers the world, sets the rules, gives life, creates the future..."

Freud wanted a pussy, he wanted to experience sexuality in all its forms... but he couldn't. Nobody can, not even transsexuals. You'd have to be a bisexual transsexual. One that enjoys a portion of their life as a male, and has sex with both men and women... then becomes female... and again has sex with both men and women. But the reason people become transsexuals has to do with identity, not with pleasure. You don't change your sex, because you want to experience sex in all its forms. You change your sex because you are unhappy with the sexual identity you were born with. And if you were to be a bisexual transsexual, then you'd be deemed "sick" or a "psychopath", either way you'd be a psychological problem... not a human being. You'd be a monster. Sexuality at its best... is a monster. Celibacy is the noble warrior, battling against your urges and helping you overcome the beastly urges that would have you turn into the spawn of debauchery.

Sexuality, or the lack thereof, is what gives us the capacity to be monsters or angels, demons or saints. Let it go and you're above the rest... succumb to it and you'll spiral down the road to perdition. Like with everything in life, balance is key. But females aren't balanced right now. Because our bodies are taboo. Because vagina is still the forbidden word; penis, dick, cock... not so shocking.

Now I don't know about you but when I look at a penis I see a rather easily swayed organ; certainly not a symbol of power. Even when everything around us points to "penis = power". Monuments are penis shaped, badges of honor, everything just "points" masculinity wherever you go. Arrows, staffs, sticks, phallus shaped towers... And have you ever heard a worse insult between men than being called a "pussy"? Whereas when they call each other "dicks" it carries a sense of playfulness to it. As if being a dick means that you're just being a natural man, fickle, irresponsible, selfish and rude. But manly. Being a pussy? Oh lord forbid you'd call a man a pussy. Then you're truly attacking his pride.

Even when you compliment them, it has to be a "masculine" complement. You're a "real man". You can't compare a man's virtues to female virtues... calling a man "sensitive" is equal to calling him "less of a man", "near woman", "gay"...

Now I love men, despite their little flaws (same as they can stand our emotional roller coasters) I tolerate their short-comings... But I don't feel "penis-envy". Not when it involves sticking to the "Y" chromosome and utterly ignoring the "X". We all have an "X" in our genes... we're all part female... so what gives?

The female is far more powerful, dominating and, dare I say it, cunning, when comfortable with her sexuality. Whatever that sexuality may be. Dominating and submissive alike, because the point is not to make men submit, it's to indulge in the roles we find most fulfilling, no matter what they are or how they're viewed. The roles that give us satisfaction, not the ones that manipulate us.

The female is as much a natural "top" as the male. She wants to call the shots, she wants to be in control. She's taught not to be. And though I enjoy male domination, or the idea of it in bed... at life, in practice, the scope is too broad, the area too wide... we are under their control and it's not healthy. They can't be feminine... and our showing aspects of masculinity (or what is deemed masculinity: "power", "control", "money", "status", etc.) is considered "feminism" or "penis-envy".

It goes so far... that even when a man admits he'd like to experience being a girl for one day, the first thing most women cry out is how horrible that notion is... for the man. Men's curiosity is immediatly striked down by women themselves. They believe they are worthless, painful creatures. A man can only be so lucky as to be a man and not suffer the perils of a vagina. Having your menstruation, giving birth, penetrating first through a hymen... only the pain, guilt and suffering is brought up. But when females wish they'd have a penis... "it's the best". There are no flaws in the penis.

Clearly that is not so. And having a vagina, is much more exciting. A little on the adventurous side here, women can wear strap-ons and penetrate other men or women... but men can't be penetrated unless it's from behind (and women can do this as well). We have... double the sexual power, double the sexual hunger... double the need to express it. Because we're not balanced, because it's wrong and forbidden. Because we live the era of "male sex power". Respect is something a woman has to earn, but a man is born with it. Even if they lost it in life, they can get it back... a woman loses respect, and she's scarred forever. It's double the responsibility, double the prejudice. Maybe that's why we have two breasts... double the reminder of being a target, of needing strength... breasts are beacons facing forward... demanding to be acknowledged, and fully functional. They are necessary for feeding life. They are the reason men grow in the early stages of their childhood.

They're also great fun.

"Top: lead: be ahead of others; be the first;
The top is the person who enjoys being dominant and/or sadistic. People use the word top to indicate the person who enjoys giving the 'sensations' involved in D/s or SM play. Simplistically stated, the person who does the spanking is the top."

Women are far more sexual than men, for several reasons: we prolong the act; we are capable of having multiple orgasms; our system is more sophisticated; our arousal is longer, steadier, easier to control and manage; we have more than double the amount of sensitive little nerves; we have more erogenous zones... the list goes on.

It's one of the reasons I believe female sexuality is so taboo. Men are scared of it. Men are scared of how powerful women can be when sexual. That's why when men are promiscuous, we see it as virility, whereas when the woman uses her sexuality, it's seen as "evil", "wrong", "sinful"; the equivalent of "slut" or "whore". With their penis, men are establishing power, sexual power, that they can control. While female sexuality comes with an undertone of guilt and shame. If we weren't ashamed of our sexuality, we'd rule the world. Since men aren't afraid of their sexuality, they are ruling the world.

Because being comfortable and open about your sexuality, does give you the ultimate power. In this I politely differ from "The Scum Manifesto"; a very famous piece on pussy-envy (to me the ravings of a traumatized woman, a very extreme piece and highly inaccurate). Being secure, being firm, being honest and strong... are all a product of our own comfort levels. And women will never be comfortable with themselves, we (the world) are seeing to that. Men have their flaws, their sexuality and their habits out there in the open. Women instead, carry an image and a social responsibility that's meant to establish them as role-models. I'm not saying men don't have these responsibilities... just never in the same amount. You can definately imagine your father cheating on your mother and running away with a new woman. But if your mother does it, there's something completely unforgivable about her needs and the situation: she's a woman.

And as a society, we don't spare women. We're too afraid of them. We're too afraid of how a woman would be; if she were completely sure of herself, perfectly happy with her body, perfectly in tune with her sexuality and guilt-free.

Women are also highly intuitive, but they're not allowed to express or explore their intuition. Women must also submit to rules that forever place them second to the "penis". Women must also look for the one "penis" that they should be loyal to all their lives. Men are taught to get as much pussy as they possibly can. Or it's ingrained into their system by the media.

What... the... fuck?

Women would like to stop seeing themselves objectified by the media. But that's our fault too. Female sexuality is such a mystery, so taboo, that we all crave to see it and understand it. It's so far out of our reach. There's nothing more sensual than the idea of a woman touching herself, dipping her fingers inside her cleft and stroking the trembling wet little cove, her face a mixture of pleasure and distress. We love our women guilty. We love them sneaking out to please themselves and not telling a soul, or having them tell us of lewd sexual fantasies (that even though they're fantasies, must still stick to a certain code of conduct).

Heck there's my point. Female sexual repression, is so overblown, that even fantasies have a glass roof. A woman can fantasize what she wants, but she won't talk about it, not about her darkest deepest fantasies... they might be even more dark than men's fantasies (definitely)... and that's not supposed to be.

Well... says who?

Freud? Jesus?

Poor Mary. She had to be virgin for her birth to be considered pure... the idea that a woman who's done a sexual act could be the mother of God is so preposterous...

Bite me.

Where are the women who rule? Where are the strong female deities that shape our philosophies... I'll tell you where... in the book of hell. They are regarded as the whores of past millenniums, wives of the devil, twisted queens and witches that lured men into traps and whole civilizations into ruin.

They had sex. They enjoyed sex. They used sex.

Oh my gosh... SEX.

Big fucking deal.

You know... you're mother's not immaculate. And quite frankly... neither are you. They say sexual acts begin in the mind... I'm a virgin... I should know...

There is no such thing as an immaculate female. Though that theory can't be proven right or wrong, because we'll never know... they'll never tell.

I'm just saying.

I don't want to be afraid of my sexuality. So I won't be. I just won't.

Let's see what happens.

Letter of Introduction

Tuesday, December 18, 2007 by Mistress Cavallaro

Dear “You’re barely 21”:

I used to write all the time. I wrote letters to my best friends, letters to my parents, my teachers and my imaginary lovers; but mostly, I wrote letters to myself. Somewhere along the way, between being emotional, lost and confused… a teenager… and my current 21 years, I stopped writing. I thought, I’d lost the reasons to write, or the very drive that pushed me forward. I gradually lost the passion for all the things I expressed to myself in those letters. I burned them. I forgot them. I thought I’d never feel that way again. Of course, nobody ever feels the same way after anything at all.

I’m not going to talk about the things I wrote back then. As much as I’d love to trace my steps, and talk about my adolescence, the truth is, I don’t need to. I’m still very much an adolescent; I don’t think I’ll stop being one for now. And I still have questions, anger, sadness, disappointment and illusions of grandeur. I haven’t grown up, the way people say you’re supposed to grow up, and I doubt I will. I can’t conform. I used to write to myself about that. My life, was never typical, I wasn’t attracted to normal things in the first place. I hate that word. Normal. To me that word has never truly existed. Who the fuck is normal? So why do we use it to describe things as they “should be”? I’m tired of all the little lies that have gotten embedded into our language. I need to strip them apart and look at them bare. That’s why I need to write again.

I’ve been getting fooled again… following along with things… being forced to accept them and acknowledge other people’s conformity as an accomplishment. That is not to say they aren’t brave… you need a lot of balls to face a life of lies, know it and accept it. I also think you need double the balls to kill that life and start again… dare I say, the ovaries?

Only when I write, do I truly look at things. When I’m not writing, I feel fooled and gullible, even keen to believe the things I’m taught. And I can’t afford to do that. Not if I’m going to change something, anything at all… even if it’s just a few people’s minds. I don’t care how fucking taboo it is; I’m going to address it. I’m going to discover and see for myself, judge for myself, everything. The best any given teacher’s ever taught me, is to search for the answers myself. I don’t care if others agree with me or not, because this isn’t about anyone else but me. This isn’t even about those who might agree with me. And those who read, read at their own risk. Believe what you want. Have your opinion; talk about it yourself, on your own terms, in your own letters to yourself. Do it.

You’re just like me. Questioning everything… aren’t you?

Maybe, just maybe, you also have my “youthful arrogance” as it’s so aptly described by the “adults”. So we can cut the apologetic bullshit and make room for the irreverence. Better to be violent than apathetic. Better to feel something than nothing. Better to think that I’m the best at what I do… rather than constantly remind you of what I lack. Right? You won’t hear “I may be wrong” or “I’m sorry”… unless I mean it. These letters might be about being educated… but they’re not about being polite.

Flow... To Number One