Pink

Pink when you’re blushing inside, baby
Pink is the truth you can’t hide, maybe
Pink like the folds of your brain, crazy
Pink as we all go insane

I’ve never been a huge fan of the colour pink. Call it internalised misogyny, a fear of being lost in oppressive gender norms or reading as too girly- and therefore not intelligent, I guess? (I didn’t watch Legally Blonde until late August this year and in retrospect I can definitely see shameful, gaping hole this negligence has left in my feminist praxis). For so long it felt of primary importance that people know that I was clever. Clever was my currency: I had big tits and a bigger vocabulary and God help you if you got on the wrong side of me in an argument on the internet.

To be honest, clever also felt like my only option- femininity was a skill I hadn’t been taught and didn’t believe it was possible for me to teach myself. Funny, bolshy and argumentative came naturally, but Pretty was a skill. Girly was a skill. Pink was a tool reserved for women and girls who knew how to do Pretty and Girly, ie, not me. Apart from the things it represented, which I probably could have got past, I just didn’t really like the colour much, so I didn’t wear pink. I wore brick red, burgundy, scarlet… fuschia at an absolute pinch, but no pink. Never pink.

But ever since the very beginning of my adventures in Oppositeland I have nursed a quiet fascination with bimbofication, with the idea of being transformed into a walking (tottering), breathing (gasping, sighing), talking (simpering) personification of high, high, femininity. This fascination began a few years ago, when- particularly when I was hormonal or stressed- I would find myself drawn to Tumblrs full of pictures of gorgeous, pouting, extravagantly busty women; lipglossed, flat- tummied, vacant- looking Goddesses, towering on six inch heels, sucking on their fingers, eyes wide and Bambi- lashed. I craved the blissful emptiness they represented; the freedom from thinking.

I wanted to be able to CTRL- ALT- DLTE my brain, leaving behind only thoughts of sucking dick and looking pretty. No long words, no troublesome emotions- just kneeling, smiling, spreading my legs and being decorative. I would find myself in a sort of trance, scrolling and scrolling, a never ending stream of lips, tits, hips, midriffs, eyelashes, heels, nails, implants, botox, gym routines, microminis, red lips wrapped round a hard cock, pink nails, white blonde hair, pink cutoff tshirts, pink gstrings…

And then I’d get my period and suddenly I would find all of that stuff- the stuff that reduced women to their utility as sexual playthings for men, the bit that played with the idea that Bimbos were the platonic ideal of womanhood- weird and slightly repellent. I acknowledged to myself that when I was on the verge of bleeding, at the point where my body was imploring me to GET FUCKING KNOCKED UP RIGHT FUCKING NOW at it’s highest, most imperative pitch, that I found myself bewilderingly attracted to misogyny kink and the Bimbo aesthetic. I didn’t like it, partly for reasons I have outlined already, partly because the Bimbo thing was just so incredibly counter to my beliefs about body diversity and the many, many ways to be a woman, but you know… hormones, innit. Being a menstruating person of child- bearing age is a wild fuckin’ ride.

My Dom at the time enjoyed pushing me out of my cardigan and DM boot- clad comfort zone, and before our first trip to a play munch ordered me to buy a pair of the sluttiest shoes I could find, resulting in my purchase of my beloved leopard skin heels. I hated them to begin with but, I can’t lie, they got me a lot of attention, and I really, really like attention. For him, controlling what I wore was less about the clothes themselves and more about working my edges, comfort- zone wise. He wasn’t especially interested or turned on by the shoes themselves; a city- born farmer with land and livestock, he wanted a Slut in the bedroom and a farmhand in the stables, and while I was far more suited to getting fucked in the ass over a haybale than hefting one, he appreciated that I did at least own suitable footwear, just as sturdy as his own.

Four years later, and things have changed a little. A little? A lot. I know a few more things about myself; I know what there’s no point my pretending to be (a submissive farmhand, to start with). I still wear cardigans and big boots but of late I have swapped baggy Monki shirtdresses for thighhigh socks over fishnets and a pleather miniskirt, returning to a look that I enjoyed wearing back then because it’s provocative, publicly suggestive of my inner wanton slut in a way that my everyday clothes haven’t been for a while.

The person with whom I’ve most recently been doing kink stuff is extremely into sluts looking like sluts; not just because he enjoys pushing limits and transformation for the sake of exerting control, but because he really likes the look and the effect it has on the slut in question. Nails so long that they inhibit everyday activity, thigh- high boots with heels so high that the wearer can’t even really walk in them, little PVC dresses, stockings, lashes, the whole shebang. He really enjoys the idea of walking a slut through the lobby of a 5 star hotel in an outfit designed to elicit looks of disdain. We exchange pictures of the things he might have me wear one day, and when eventually those pictures feature a set of baby pink stiletto nails I have to admit that although I have not historically liked the colour pink, I genuinely love them.

And it is done. Daddy’s bitches wear thigh boots and PVC and stiletto nails. Daddy’s bitches wear pink. And I’m one of Daddy’s bitches, so I wear pink now.

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