SECRET IDENTITIES
We all remember him, Superman, faster than a speeding bullet; more powerful than a locomotive; able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. And we remember his disguise as the reporter, Clark Kent, who was supposed to be something of a woose. Well, the truth is Superman was the one who was the woose. If we think about it, what the hell did he need a secret identity for? If people knew he was Superman, what the hell were they going to do about it? Superman was afraid, afraid of being who he was and he had to hide, not from the rest of humanity, but from himself.
What does this have to do with BDSM?
Scene names! Oh, we have all heard the usual crap people give about not wanting folks to know who they are. And it is virtually all crap! Unless one is a church pastor or a corporate vice president, two occupations that have the job security of a snowman in summer, it does not matter.
So, why do folks, who should know better, persist in such nonsense as calling themselves Master Dingleberry? Well, some are simply chickenshits. They are also usually Old Guarde, named for the Napoleonic troops who, when faced with the British at Waterloo, ran for their lives in the finest tradition of French arms, so it works out pretty well for them. The damned fools really believe the scare stories and think their lives will be ruined if people find out who they really are. Of course they forget that every time they go to an event and give their credit card, their real name is on record, but we are not dealing with people of great intelligence here.
The others are in even worse shape. They choose to have a separate scene identity because they cannot face the reality of who they are and what they are. Like Superman, they are divided souls, terrified not of an external force, which cannot hurt them, but of their own selves.
So, like Superman, they live lives of fear, always worrying if someone will find out their terrible secret, that they are really beings far superior to their niller counterparts. And when they go out they take on their scene name and go into the nearest equivalent of an ancient telephone booth and put on their funny clothes and stupid hats and become that which they will not admit to themselves what they really are, Superpervs!
We all remember him, Superman, faster than a speeding bullet; more powerful than a locomotive; able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. And we remember his disguise as the reporter, Clark Kent, who was supposed to be something of a woose. Well, the truth is Superman was the one who was the woose. If we think about it, what the hell did he need a secret identity for? If people knew he was Superman, what the hell were they going to do about it? Superman was afraid, afraid of being who he was and he had to hide, not from the rest of humanity, but from himself.
What does this have to do with BDSM?
Scene names! Oh, we have all heard the usual crap people give about not wanting folks to know who they are. And it is virtually all crap! Unless one is a church pastor or a corporate vice president, two occupations that have the job security of a snowman in summer, it does not matter.
So, why do folks, who should know better, persist in such nonsense as calling themselves Master Dingleberry? Well, some are simply chickenshits. They are also usually Old Guarde, named for the Napoleonic troops who, when faced with the British at Waterloo, ran for their lives in the finest tradition of French arms, so it works out pretty well for them. The damned fools really believe the scare stories and think their lives will be ruined if people find out who they really are. Of course they forget that every time they go to an event and give their credit card, their real name is on record, but we are not dealing with people of great intelligence here.
The others are in even worse shape. They choose to have a separate scene identity because they cannot face the reality of who they are and what they are. Like Superman, they are divided souls, terrified not of an external force, which cannot hurt them, but of their own selves.
So, like Superman, they live lives of fear, always worrying if someone will find out their terrible secret, that they are really beings far superior to their niller counterparts. And when they go out they take on their scene name and go into the nearest equivalent of an ancient telephone booth and put on their funny clothes and stupid hats and become that which they will not admit to themselves what they really are, Superpervs!