BDSM and The Main Stream

While skimming channels last night I cam across a movie on lifetime. To my surprise there was this bdsm movie on. I couldn’t believe my eyes. More so stunning… the TV-MA rating. On lifetime? NO WAY!!

Really. No way. There was nothing TV-MA in the entire two hours. Do I need to say how disappointing that was.

It got me thinking. Why in the world did they rate this show the way they did, and add a “viewer discretion advised” after EVERY commercial break. Then it dawned on me. It was the subject matter. Why is that simply mentioning ‘dominant, submissive, switch’, or showing a woman walking into a sex club, or someone holding up a shiny red collar so horrid that people should be warned of the vulgarity of it all. I was offended.

Then someone talked some sense into me. Now, instead of being offended I choose to appreciate the fact that my chosen lifestyle is no longer being portrayed in a way that demeans it. I can appreciate the fact that they chose a decent Dominant for the story line in that he was Dominant and not domineering. That his Dominance came from a desire to aid his submissive in being the best version of herself possible.

There is something to celebrate now with BDSM hitting main stream television.


Love Goes on Living….

They say we learn about love from being surrounded by it. Rochester, New York journalism student Laura Allen’s grandparents taught her a lesson in love that outlasted their lifetime and lives on in hers, as she shares the story. She writes:

My grandparents were married for over half a century, and played their own special game from the time they had met each other. The goal of their game was to write the word “shmily” in a surprise place for the other to find. They took turns leaving “shmily” around the house, and as soon as one of them discovered it, it was their turn to hide it once more.

They dragged “shmily” with their fingers through the sugar container to await whoever was preparing the next meal. They smeared it in the dew on the windows overlooking the patio where my grandma always fed us homemade pudding. “Shmily” was written in the steam on the mirror after a hot shower, where it would reappear bath after bath. At one point my grandmother unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper to leave “shmily” on the very last sheet.

There was no end to where “shmily” would pop up. Little notes with “shmily” scribbled on them were found on car seats or taped to the steering wheel. The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows. “Shmily” was written in the dust on the mantle and traced in the ashes of the fireplace. The mysterious word was a much a part of my grandparents’ house as the furniture.

Grandma and Grandpa held hands every chance they could. They finished each other’s sentences and shared the daily crossword puzzle. My grandmother whispered to me about how cute my grandpa was–the man she met on a blind date–and how handsome an old man he had grown to be. Before every meal they bowed heads and gave thanks, marveling at their blessings: a wonderful family, good fortune and each other.

But there was a dark cloud on my grandparent’s life, my grandmother had cancer. The disease had first appeared ten years earlier, and at that time I remember that she’d painted her room yellow. With a yellow room, she explained, she would always be surrounded by sunshine even if she was too sick to go outside to enjoy it.

With the help of a cane and my grandfather’s steady hand, they still went to church every morning. But my grandmother grew weaker until she could not leave the house anymore. For a while, grandpa would go to church alone, praying to God to watch over his wife. Then one day, what we all dreaded finally happened. Grandma was gone.

“Shmily”. It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my grandmother’s funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members gathered around Grandma one last time. Grandpa stepped up to my grandmother’s casket and, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing to her. Through his tears and grief, the song came, a deep and throaty lullaby.

Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew then that, although I couldn’t begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty.

“S-h-m-i-l-y. See How Much I Love You.