Now that I am finished with my complaining and hatred of bows and AFF I should write of something that makes me happy. I like to keep it balanced. I recently read an article explaining a new wedding fad that is titled: wreck the dress. Women after the wedding is said and done then go out with their partners and take pictures, the bride still in her wedding dress, in situations where the white wedding gown cannot survive: under water, on the beach in the sand, in a muddy field and so forth. This is not new, I had friends in University that went out to their stables to have pictures taken with their horses two days after the wedding; she in her dress and rubbers and he in his tux.
Certainly the images are beautiful and new media the reason for the fad. However I think there is something reasonable about paying just a couple hundred dollars for a dress that you are only going to wear once. Though these brides destroy the dress for the sake of hot romantic pictures to share on facebook, they must have their own beliefs in in the symbolism of the white dress but I live for the symbolic power of its destruction.
I did not wear white at my wedding – I wore red.
I do not know how to describe myself or how I was as a child. Perhaps too serious for my own good, I was certainly aware of my place in the universe and within my family and peers. Adventures that were reserved for a more mature woman were not out of bounds for me, so it seemed fitting that I became involved in kink at an early age – even before I was sexually active. I am certainly and always have been artistic, my medium being ink, coal and then photography so I believe that I must have been aware of my own sensitivities but often expressed it through art including my fetishes and BDSM.
Without an appreciation for destruction there is no way I could fully value beauty. Certainly I find splendor in the smallest things and what others might overlook I can ponder for hours. I know not everyone understands the delicate balance of pain and pleasure but it is very much a beautiful and ugly thing at the same time. Unlike most people I am not in constant struggle with myself but rather seek personal balance and through this I am truly happy. I do not need to wear dark eye liner or leather to be aware of my darker, or rather more unconventional personality traits.
I think of a white dress as very powerful and emotionally invoking. For me it represents innocence, virginal, clean, vulnerability, bold, good, caution, risk, class distinction and youthfulness and those are also all the things that I seek to destroy. It is not because I am bad or dirty but what good is there in being all those things without a conscious fear that they can be taken away from us by force – ruined and never again perfect. No matter how hard we scrub to remove a stain on our purity it will never fully go away and some part of it will remain.
We would like to believe that we use great caution with ourselves, ask any woman that has worn something white and she will tell you that she is careful of where she sits, what she eats, when her cycle is, what is underneath and how the heightened sense of fear the article will be ruined almost makes it not worth it – disappointment and self-scolding for ‘knowing better’ if we do mark it – till we get home and remove the garment, not a single stain to be seen is nothing short of victory and only then can we relax. As if we, women, have returned home to safe shelter unscathed from the dark dirty world.
Like many other people I have the perfect fantasy that will never be obtained in reality. I have had it for so long that it has been perfected in my mind and believe there is no man that could do it, or me, justice. In fact I fear that acting it out would ruin the whole affair but it is by far my strongest desire. However I struggle with the reality that it could also turn out to be better than I imagined if I did do it.
It is not about rape and not about violence as it is about exposure – the things we want but would never say out loud. The things we try to hide but others manage to find. Instead we hope they happen to us so that we are excused as the victim and we manage to remain innocent in other people’s eyes. The struggle of fending it off is false, we wear white as a cover of something much darker underneath but it is also a beacon out there to someone that can see right through it and uncover us for what we really are; vulnerable.
Knowing that it could happen against my will is what keeps me on my guard but that is also just another form of invitation. Having that part of myself attacked, that image I worked so hard to create for others to see, its destruction would be nothing less than terrifying. To watch it being ripped apart; pushed into the mud by someone else’s hand and there being no way to remove remove the damage it is terribly exciting.
One day to return home attempting to hide the evidence so the neighbours do not know of my pleasurable defilement – dress torn, dirty, sweaty, blood stained, cum, tears, and his scent. The dress now beyond salvageable but I managed just fine because I gave in and enjoyed in its beautiful destruction – in fact I wanted it.