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Divine Feminine and The Temple of Asherah

There are places where the veil between worlds is thin—a hush before the storm, the scent of rain on ancient stones, a pulse beneath the sand that remembers every footstep.
Such is the Temple of Asherah, eternal and yet always being reborn.

The Forgotten Queen

Asherah. Some call her the “Queen of Heaven,” others the lost Mother whose name was almost erased from every holy book. She was there before the ink dried, before gods went to war and stories were rewritten. In her temple, there was no shame in the feminine, no apology for power, hunger, or the full bloom of desire.

Men and women alike came to her sanctuaries—not with bowed heads and guilt, but with hearts hungry for healing, for truth, for the blessing of being seen. The pillars of her temple were carved not just with symbols, but with secrets—each one a promise, a memory, a whispered spell to call the lost and the longing back home.
5 months ago. Saturday, August 23, 2025 at 2:03 PM

 


🎭 The Submissive Monologue (Satire)

 

 

 

“Oh, I adore submission. It’s all I think about. I’m the most submissive submissive who ever submitted in the grand history of submission.

 


But let’s get a few things clear:

 


I’ll only submit to this… but not that.
And I’ll submit to you… but only if you ask nicely.
I’ll kneel—oh yes, I’ll kneel—but only on Tuesdays. Every second Tuesday, specifically.

 

 


And of course, I crave your control… but don’t you dare actually control me. I mean, you’re the Dom, right? So why are you asking me what I want all the time?

 


Oh, and before we get too far—here’s a handy list of what I won’t do: this, this, this, and especially this. And if you even bring those up, I’ll pout and remind you I’m in charge of what I’m not supposed to be in charge of.

 


So, just to check… what exactly am I submitting to again?

Because if all the terms, rules, and control come from me… at some point, aren’t I just the Dom?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

⚖️ Let’s Get Something Straight

 

 

 

Before anyone reads another word and tries to twist it: don’t mistake me for a man who doesn’t believe in equality. I do.

 


I worship the Divine Feminine not to replace men, not to bow down in weakness, but to restore balance. Balance that has been stripped, fought for, clawed back, and too often still denied.

 


I am the product of a kick-ass single mom who took herself from food stamps to boardrooms. I was there for every interview she didn’t get, every door slammed, every night she cried because groceries weren’t covered. Don’t tell me I don’t understand. I lived it—through her.

 


Let’s also be clear: I am not some Andrew Tate stan. I don’t worship at the altar of cheap bravado and fake “alpha” rhetoric. That’s not strength—that’s theater.

 


But let’s cut the crap: supporting women in 2025 is not the same as it was in 1967. I’m not Martin Luther King Jr., and you aren’t Gloria Steinem. My grandmother marched on Washington, and her stories of racism don’t sound like mine—because my experience, though real, is different. The same is true of sexism.

 


And let’s not sugarcoat history. All the way through the 1970s, a woman often had to bring her husband with her to the doctor’s office if she wanted birth control. That wasn’t a lifetime ago—that was yesterday in the scope of history. So no, not all problems are solved.

 


I still drive a car wrapped in cameras because I’m Black in America—DWB, “driving while Black,” is still a risk every time I’m on the road.

 


But here’s the difference: I own up to my end of life. I don’t get to sit back and whine about history without carrying my load today. And women—just like men—have to do the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

⚖️ The Modern Contradiction

 

 

 

That satire at the top is funny because it’s true. Too often “submission” today is performance, not devotion. It’s a fantasy worn like a costume: I’ll submit when I feel like it, on my terms, under my conditions.

 


And this contradiction doesn’t just live in kink—it stretches across the last 100 years of dating, love, and human connection. Women say they want submission, devotion, and strong men… and yet they consistently chase the exact opposite.

 

 

 

 

 

 

📜 A Century of Confusion

 

 

 

1920s–1950s: Women fought for survival and security. What they wanted most was stability, but many couldn’t admit it in a culture that still demanded obedience.
1960s–1980s: The liberation era. Freedom was the anthem. Women declared independence but still craved the spark of dominance.
1990s–2000s: The “have it all” years—career, romance, family, independence. The impossible contradiction.
2010s–Now: Hyperchoice. A hundred men in every inbox. With endless choice comes paralysis: she wants safety and danger, devotion and distance, control and freedom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

🔥 The Types of Men

 

 

 

The Good Man (Soft): Loyal, giving, protective. She says she wants him. She leaves him.
The Rough Man (Hard): Dangerous, selfish, dominant. She says she fears him. She runs to him.
The Balanced Man (Rare Real One): Steady, consistent, genuine. She overlooks him until later, when she’s tired of chaos.
The Crafted Man (Trained): Stern, disciplined, distant, but caring when he chooses. He’s the one who finally holds her attention.
The Mythical Man (Desired): The fantasy—dangerous yet safe, hard yet soft, devoted yet distant. He doesn’t exist naturally. He has to be performed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

⚔️ The Performance Trap

 

 

 

And here lies the disappointment: the man who simply is himself—good, loyal, steady—gets overlooked. The man who acts selfish and cruel gets obsession. The only one who wins is the man who performs balance: distant enough to spark desire, caring enough to keep it.

 


But at what cost?

Any man who spends his days playing a role instead of being himself isn’t living—he’s acting. And at some point, performance becomes a prison.

 

 

 

 

 

 

💡 The Bitter Truth

 

 

 

Real men are messy. Too soft, too hard, too overlooked.
Crafted men are disciplined. Not fake, but trained. Not masks, but boundaries.
Desired men are myths. Women ask for them, but they don’t exist without constant effort.

 

 


So when someone swears, “I adore submission, I crave it, I live for it…” but then drowns it in conditions, rules, and mood swings—you have to ask:

 


What exactly are you submitting to?

And if submission is only when you feel like it—are you really submitting at all?

 


Because if all the control belongs to you… then maybe you’re not the submissive in this story.

Maybe you’ve been the Dom all along.

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