tw: DV, rape, nc
frustrating to switch between two languages, two mindsets, two world views on a daily basis.
while comparing my two worlds, I can begin to pinpoint the reasons why I enjoy hurting the male sex.
My favorite Mexican idiom is “amárrate los huevos”
Literal translation = tie your balls.
What does this mean? Why would someone say that to another?
Latin American culture is defined by its patriarchal values, first-born son shit, “women are meant for fucking, babies, and other mundane tasks” BS, and its fascination with cock (literally).
Amarrate los huevos.
It means to pull yourself by your bootstraps, to discipline yourself so you can get shit done.
Its an inference to castration, an allusion to being docile and obedient.
I like doing race play scenes with people who are also of my same “race”- just because I know where to jab.
Latino men grow up thinking women owe them. Their mothers cater them well into adulthood, until they pass their useless sons into the oblivious and caring hands of another – their son’s wife/S.O.
love is blind they say.
I never thought I would see myself serving a man or being someone’s bitch and near slave. But I lived that experience early at 18 and I would rather not experience anything similar to that ever again.
Speaking of huevos, it brings to memory a moment from the worst chapter in my life.
It was evening, I had just gotten off my stop at the corner up my street. People were coming home from work, friends and families were walking down the street, strolling and enjoying the night’s fresh air. All I could really think about was how I was off later than what I had told Him. I am exhausted, from running up and down the plaza and restaurant. But I savored the rest of the walk home. That 5 minute walk was my relief and escape.
He would often say to me I had the “easiest” job. Neglecting and ignoring the blisters and calluses on my feet from the 12 hour shifts I would do, day in and day out.
I arrive home, tired yet again, wanting to shower and sleep. It seems my ex has company over and I have to compose myself and smile, because no one wants to see how miserable I am. I make them uncomfortable, He says.
With a fake smile plastered on my face, pushing my discomfort aside, I go ahead and greet everyone at the dinner table, my heart sinking immediately after realizing that they were waiting for me.
The table was set up, but there were no signs of cooking or baking, and no Tupperware’s indicating that this was a potluck. My heart sinking deep into my stomach after understanding that tonight’s performance and service was my cooking.
He’s sitting down, presenting me to unfamiliar faces, holding me by the waist. He was proud to show me off, proud to show others what his bitch could do.
With swollen feet, I excused myself. There was no need for him to explain to his company where I was going because He knew I was coming down stairs in minutes again. And I did, the first trick I did for his friends’ entertainment. 4 men and 1 woman in my house. Not including myself, because I felt more like an object than a human
Most of his friends took pity on me and said they weren’t hungry and were ready to head out, but asshole #5 stated he was famished.
Being a slave is worse than being a whore.
As his friends excused themselves for them evening (minus asshole #5), He essentially began begging them to stay but they politely declined.
The woman in the group had been over a few times, but has never looked me in the eye. She knew, but I don’t blame her for not wanting to involve herself.
Being ignorant helps you sleep easy at night.
I stood by His right side, him sitting on the head of the table, holding me by the waist as him and his friend laughed at misogynistic jokes quite literally in front of my face. He then looked at me, which was my cue to ask,
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
There always was a positive response.
I catered to 2 grown men from 8pm to Midnight. I had pushed my threshold, I was nearing collapse. My feet tired and swollen from standing since 6am, but I became numb to the pain by 10pm. Every day, I was amazed by what my body could withstand.
There are times I wish I was weaker, so people could expect less of me.
Once company is gone for the night, the routine was as follows:
“Open your legs, open your mouth”, thrust, thrust, thrust.
It was easier to give in than to say no, struggle, and get taken anyways.
There were nights were it was over quick and he was soon asleep.
Other nights, I wasn’t passionate enough. A strike to my face or bloody bites to remind me who I belonged to.
I would cry myself to sleep often.
each time, he rips my wings off. how could I fly away?