Definitional Disco

Another rant.

I wonder why I even bother to post to the gorums some times. The level of discourse is...beyond retarded.

I like to joke with my friends that the gorums is internet talk radio. And it totally is. People like to dispense their opinions, but try to push them as "topics," or "conversations" or, my favorite, "education."

Education is learning how to do something: learning different styles of writing, how to filter information you can react and what you can't, so on and so forth. Education generally tries to push people towards a productive end. Education on the forums starts with a post of "I hate this. What do you think?" Well, the only place that "conversation" can go is yes/no. Half the people will say yes, half the people will say no. Everything else is just posturing and spinning in circles. Opinions simply don't spur education; it just creates a heated bar fight (albeit, sometimes fun, but fun is not educational).

Occasionally though, I think there is a topic which either poses something interesting or there's a person who I think has sufficient intellect and can have a rational conversation. I don't have to play the game where we have to pretend that our opinions are educational. I guess I was wrong.

I think what frustrates me the most about the conversations is that, if someone does wish to engage on the merits of the conversation, it ultimately gets bogged down into what I commonly refer to as "definitional disco." As in, someone uses a word to define something that only includes actions that are good, creates another word to define a series of actions are bad, throws their support behind the good definition, pins their opponent to the bad word and...cue the spinning circles arguments.

Typists that express their character's thoughts in roleplay is generally referred to as thoughtmoting (from the combination of thought + emote, so it essentially means expressing thoughts in ways that are not dialogue).

Except on the forums, we have to create two words. One is narrative, which is all the types of thoughtmotes that produce good roleplay results (i.e., when someone uses thought expressions to add to the background, their character's thought process and helps create a more immersive scene). The other is thoughtmote, where someone uses thinking actions to ruin the roleplay atmosphere (by making snarky, insulting comments directed not at the character, but the typist).

Functionally, these two words refer to the EXACT SAME THING. Both are expressing thoughts in non-dialogue ways. It's just we have the defined the words to be result-oriented. Things that we like are narrative, things we don't are stupid thoughtmotes. And because the words are result-oriented, no one can agree to a common definition: what someone views as immersive may not seem immersive to another. And then you get a lot of people who shouting over one another, when they actually are in substantial agreement.

The situation that prompted this post was the term "notecarded chores." To me, the obvious definition is simply recording a roleplay action onto a notecard. Simple and uncomplicated. But no, apparently, the term "notecarded chores" must refer to situations wherein the only purpose for creating the notecard is to metagame (i.e., the person requesting the notecard places demands on the notecard writer on what must be produced). Sometimes you can use the word "notecard" and people won't go apeshit. And sometimes you can use the word "chores" and people won't go into a tizzy. But don't you ever dare to combine those words, because then the shit hits the fan. Apparently, the correct wording is "roleplay logs." Say roleplay logs instead of notecarded chores and no one gets upset. The only problem is....IT'S THE EXACT SAME FUCKING THING. A roleplay log can be a notecarded chore and a notecarded chore can be a roleplay log!! There's no logical reason why we have to create a totally different nomenclature for the exact same fucking phenomena!!

It's so fucking stupid. It's like when politicians have to spin a tax increase as a "revenue adjustment" or something equally retarded. I just assume that everyone realizes that the politician is making a token change to make his action sound less stupid. That everyone would realize what the action actually is. Apparently, I give people more credit than they deserve. The politician apparently does it because there is a large enough segment of the population that is apparently dumb enough to fall for the ruse. Which just happens to be the same segment of the population that visits the Gorums.

I'm not done with the Gorums. There are portions of it that serve a genuinely beneficial and productive purpose. And I know, because I have a hypercompetitive personality, that eventually someone will say something so monumentally fucking stupid that I can't restrain myself from responding (it will most likely be Aseptimus trying to explain what the law says. Every time that man tries to explain the law, somewhere in the world, a lawyer makes partner because of his complete ignorance at what the law actually is).

But blargh.

I hate how I allow myself to get roped into these "conversations," get into these "definitional discos" and the masses aren't even slightly put off by the fact that the very crux of their problem is holding onto these definitions that don't make any fucking sense. No, they want to create even more words and lingo to make their world so nice and easy. It just can't be roleplay. No, we have to have BtB roleplay and Gor Evolved roleplay, even though we have no idea what the fuck either of those terms mean. No, we can't have roleplayers (i.e., all those that desire to make the character and typist separate entities) and lifestylers (those who don't care to). We also have to have soulplayers, and storytellers, and moleplayers and god knows what the fuck else. And no one has any clue what any of these other categories mean either, except they have to exist since the words roleplayer or lifestyler can't adequately describe the differing roleplay experiences people have.

Memo to you nimrods: you are either one or the other. It doesn't mean to be a roleplayer, you must always keep character and typist (or in common parlance, IC/OOC) separate. It's just that, given a choice, you want to keep them separate. People who fail to keep IC/OOC seperate don't magically unbecome roleplayers and suddenly become lifestylers. It is possible for people to make mistakes and fuck up every once in a while. You see, words aren't defined by their outcomes because...that would be retarded. Words whose meaning depend on their result...can't have definitions. And that means you can't use them in a conversation and expect the conversation to be productive or rational...because you're not being rational!!! Defining a word that requires perfection isn't rational. It...ah hell, there I go again. I need to stop.

Double blargh.

Rant off.

Chapter 3: Crescent Moon

Looking up into the night sky, it is the first and smallest of the moons. From the darkness, only a sliver can be seen; it appears in the shape of a crescent. It is the most fragile of the phases: a delicate balancing act between establishing its position in the sky and hiding itself from the reach of the sun. But where the other phases of the moon only appear once before waiting their turn again, the crescent moon appears four times. Twice, it is bathed in the light of the sun and twice it receives its shape from the pure darkness. Because of this, the crescent moon, though small in stature, commands the most power and attention.

The Free Woman in Gor performs a balancing act of her own. She is tasked with the unenviable responsibility of being able to stand shoulder to shoulder with the men of the world, but must also be the matriarch and glue of the family- the most precious commodity in Gor. To accomplish this, she must earn the respect of men by playing a strong hand in the game of politics, while birthing and caring for a large and prosperous family.

In the forest, the women know that each walks their own path alone.

At least, that is how it worked before. Panthers were runaways, escaping a life they once knew in order to one day die in the harsh wilderness. The Sa-ta-Tor did not escape. They were a group of survivalists. Where a city has a home stone to unite its people, they had a symbol. It was a simple mark: three moons in three phases over one sky. If you asked one of them what it meant, you would receive no answer at all. Then again, if you asked a man of a city what the home stone meant, you would receive a similar answer. It meant everything and it meant nothing. The symbol was a bind that held them altogether.

* * *

They finally decided to set their roots in the midst of a small canyon dug within the sea of endless greenery. There, they built a camp and family. There were rules. There were friendships within friendship. If a man somehow managed to penetrate the walls of the camp, he could have sworn they were experiencing normal city life. But no man could voluntarily enter the sanctuary of the camp. So a man would have to dream of the life inside. What it would be like if he could hide in the trees and watch them.

The trees rise above them, seemingly stretching towards the sky. Interspersed amongst them are the little huts where they sleep at night. In the middle of the clearing, a big campfire roars providing the warmth for all the women, sitting on logs beside it.

At the head sits Eve; her legs are crossed one over the other with a finger against her cheek in quiet contemplation. What she contemplates, no one in the tribe can know.

To her right is her Second, Gretchen. She looks into the eyes of her En, and knows no good can come from that look, so she mentally prepares herself to silently clean another inevitable mess. Her hands look strong and rough. Her eyes are lakes of calm, scanning the entire camp to ensure that she bring peace to the places of turmoil.

To her left is January, her self-proclaimed rock. It’s a subtle movement, a simple touch to Eve’s shoulder. Words are whispered though no one can know what they are. All they can know is that they bring a smile to Eve’s lips, something no one else in the tribe can do with such seeming ease.

At the foot of the fire lies Azalea. Her body is turned towards the warmth of the fire, drying herself after receiving a bath courtesy of a wild tharlarian she was hunting. Her hands reach to her long hair and she squeezes out the river water. Only Azalea would be fearless enough to think she could hunt a tharlarian alone.

Jayda stands close by, waiting for the moment to chastise her sister. Of course, every sister knew better than correct Azalea. To do so would be suicide. But there is a triumphant smile in Jayda’s eyes; even if she cannot voice the words, she is happy knowing that, for once, she is not the one breaking camp rules.

From somewhere in the distance, a quiet thud of an arrow hitting a tree trunk can be heard. It is Kathy, splitting arrow after arrow into the same spot with her bow. Behind her stands Quruni, unsure of whether she should be standing or kneeling. There seems to be a natural attraction between them: the one who collected slaves and the former slave. They seemed like a perfect match.

Suddenly, his ears fill with a sweet sound of a flute wafting through the night air. The tone begins with a sorrowful long bass sound. The note holds and then changes into a rhythmic pulse. She cannot be seen, but Lily is perched somewhere in the trees, looking out into the vast expanse of the forest as she plays. She shares her gift with all those deep into the canyon and beyond. The range is so deep and the music so beautiful that it is not inconceivable that many men of the forest outposts would sneak to the edges of the forest in hopes to catch the faint whisper of such music.

The music brings Becca to her feet. She is beauty incarnate, seemingly chiseled from marble. She is breathtaking. Her perfectly formed and rounded breasts; her slender hips sway in time to the beat. It is an intoxicating sight; any man witness to this scene would succumb to his desire. Of course, it is not just men that would be hypnotized by such movement. There is a slight movement just behind Becca. It is Night. Only, Night’s hand is not reaching out to touch Becca. No, her fingers slip into her furs. Her eyes are filled with lust by the simple movements of her sister. Her lips form into that familiar “O” and then produces the ever satisfying sigh accompanied with it. It is no wonder why so many men, even when caught and humiliated when placed in a collar, have no desire to escape their reality immediately.

…And then, a bang out of nowhere. It’s Nosyrb, throwing her…no one can really know what she was throwing. Whatever it is, it is loud and bright. The blast echoes in the canyon, distracting everyone. But no one can be mad at her for long: the pure joy on her face would make anyone laugh. Of course, the noise makes Jenny roll from the side of her hammock and stare at Nosyrb. If eyes could kill, Jenny would have exacted a gruesome death on her sister. It is the look that has sent a chill down many a man's spine, reminding him of the warning: when you came to the forests of the Sa-ta-Tor, you would live in a constant state of fear. With one simple look, it is easy to know why.

Kneeling by the logs, it is Madison holding her knife. She is skinning some small forest creature. While her hand expertly separates skin from muscle, she chatters happily to Solange, who stands above her. Solange has her hand placed on Madison’s shoulder, just as a mother would do when guiding her child through a task. In fact, that is exactly what is happening.

Sitting near them is Bhakta, the broken soul. The sorrow in her eyes is evident as she stared into the fire. There is an unspoken longing in her body. Of everything within the camp, it is her expression that is most familiar.It is the look of the woman who needs no independence but is stuck in the middle of nowhere, alone with her thoughts. It is the look of a woman who needs a Master. Almost on cue, Maria slips behind her sister and covers her eyes with her hands. Maria’s joy is contagious. Before long, both of them are laughing and holding one another. Whatever lonely hunger there was disappeared with the familiar touch of a friend. The camp jester lives up to her title.

Sylvia, the newest and youngest member of the tribe, stands at the edge of camp, with a finger in her mouth. She watches the whole scene like an outsider; she does not know where she fits in. Almost in understanding, a chilly breeze floods the camp, bringing goosebumps to her skin. The forest beckons her closer to her sisters and she finds a seat by the rest of the sisters by the fire. They accept her without a word; she had never needed their acceptance, she just needed to take her place amongst them.

There were more names and faces that pass through that camp. Sometimes they stayed for a few days; others stayed for years. But each, once they were accepted within the ranks of the tribe, became family forever. There would always be a spot for them around the campfire.

* * *

A panther tribe cannot exist completely on its own. Sometimes the forest is kind and offers total sustenance: food, shelter, and clothes. Other times, it cannot provide enough. In those times, a panther must seek trading points, exchanging goods and services from merchants and other dealers for things that they need. While a panther is not known to be a social creature, circumstance and timing dictated that sometimes she could not choose to walk her path alone.

The art of the trade was difficult to perfect. The Sa-ta-Tor were immaculate. They would scout a suitable location for days. They would pick a dip in the terrain as the spot for their trade point, marked by a small fire and surrounding logs. They always made their own trade point. The traders- Rahn, Prometheus and Shand were the regulars- would be attracted by the smoke of the trade fire; they would come and see nothing. There would only be a note, informing them that if they waited, a trade would be conducted. For some reason, they always waited. The cover of darkness would come and envelop the trading the point. Without warning, the panthers would begin to emerge from the shadows, filling the trading point. Gretchen would approach the trader, Azalea opposite her. The others would form a ring; there would be no escape from this point. And then Eve would appear and sat down, directly opposite the trader. She sat because she did not fear them. There would be no escape from the negotiation: either it would be successful or he would gain nothing. The trader could never win the confrontation. He could only hope to accomplish his task without injury.

Of course, artful negotiation was not enough; the parties had to meet first. Eve was smart enough to know that men would not be naturally inclined to trade with panthers. Why would they? What did they have to gain? So, as it was with everything in Gor, it became a game of politics. She needed to cull relationships and friendships with people. She had to make men trust panthers in areas of neutrality.

* * *

Once, as the Sa-ta-Tor were returning from a pilgrimage to the Sardar, a silkened kajirus followed them into the depths of the forests. Showing interest, the Sa-ta-Tor took him back their camp were they enjoyed him for a few days. Eventually, they decided to sell him off when they discovered from their trade point. A man stood there, sent by the Ubar of a faraway city. He had been sent to collect the favorite kajirus of the Ubara. Failure to return the kajirus unharmed, the man warned, would result in a war of sorts. Men would flood the forests until the slave was returned.

The threat was shocking. Starting a war over a kajirus? The man was sent away with a message for the Ubar: the Ubar himself would have to return to the post. But he would return to purchase a sleen.

A few weeks later, a grand caravan arrived. The Ubar and his companion emerged, draped richly in the robes and jewels common of their city. Eve took her customary seat opposite the Ubar and informed him that she had a sleen to sell. The Ubara shrieked and screamed to high hell: she wanted her boy, not a sleen. The Ubar managed to finally silence her after a long while and then motioned for the En to explain. With a wave of her hand, a huge sleen was brought from behind the hill controlled by several panthers. The Ubar looked confused as Eve demanded payment. He continued to look at her and she continued to return his gaze. Neither said anything as the sleen thrashed about and the Ubara screamed in fear at being so close to an untamed beast.

Finally, something seemed to click in the Ubar’s mind and he motioned for a great amount of coin to be brought. After the coin was laid out in front of Eve, the sleen was handed over to four very confused looking guards. Just as the panthers turned to slip back into the forest, Eve looked to the Ubar.

"Ubar, I suppose it would do no good to send such a fine beast on such a long journey without food."

She plucked the boy from the shrubs by the post and tossed him in front of the sleen. She nodded to the Ubar, collected her coin and disappeared.

She had protected the forest from potential danger. He had received the kajirus back. He lifted his gaze, catching her eye from across the crowd and paused. A smile found his lips and he tipped his head in respect. They had both exited the trading point with their reputation in tact.

* * *

It is said that every panther walks her path alone. Of course, that cannot always be true. Every once in a while, a situation arises which requires a strong hand at the game of politics and a large, supportive family. Without those ingredients, no woman can truly survive.

Chapter 2: New Moon

The moon rotates around the planet. This is not an interesting or new observation; it is a simple law of science. Every cycle is the same. Every cycle is inevitable. The new moon is the first phase. It begins the dance between the sun and the moon over the sky. The new moon signals a new beginning for, at that moment, the moon retains no shape. The moon rests high in the sky, but it cannot be seen directly by the naked eye. Only those that pay careful attention can notice the black circle in the sky, surrounded by more darkness, and know that the moon is still there.

A woman cannot live alone.

She didn’t know where she was supposed to go. She simply trusted her feet would take her to the place she was needed. Armed with only a quiva and her wits, she wandered aimlessly. At first, the path took her westward to the coast. She begged, borrowed and dealed her way up the Thassa and eventually arrived at Port Cos. The people of the city would not accept her. Why would they? She had no companion; she wore the tatters of a dress that barely covered her body. Just outside the city walls though, she knew why she had been compelled to come here.

Eve met the first in the forests just outside of Cos. Unlike Eve, she was angry. A fire burned in Kathy’s eyes that sparked the idea. Then came Jenny, who presented an ever-present calm. Next was Lily. Gretchen. Quruni. January. Nosyrb. Azalea. Becca. Caly. Night. Eris. Jalav. Solange. Madison. Jayda. Maria. Bhakta. Alastair. Sylvia. Some came to the forests as slaves. Some came as Free Women. Their stories were different, yet all the same. Something compelled them to the wilderness; something drew them to seek each other. Together, they became the Sa-ta-Tor, the Daughters of the Light.

The camp grew too big for the small island of Cos. So the women left everything behind and started anew in the north. They found their way to the Northern Forests. They met other panthers along the way, living at the edges of the forest, close to places like Laura and Rive-de-Bois. The Sa-ta-Tor was not content being so close to men. They drove deeper into the woods where none had dared brave before. Soon, the legend grew: to find the Sa-ta-Tor, one needed to travel the farthest north and most eastern point of the Forests that a man had ever traveled…and then go deeper for another week. Only there would men find the thirty women that comprised the very first band of panther women.

Chapter 1: Sunset

The world is bathed with light. During this time, that people refer to as the “day,” the most important tasks happen. People need the sunlight to be productive. But, like everything in the world, the day must end; the sun must sink below the horizon and the people must welcome the darkness. When most people see the sun setting in the west over the Thassa, they know that it is time to rest and sleep. And as the sun’s last light creates a million different colors on the water, it allows people time to reflect on their thoughts and welcome the change from day into night.

It started with a choice.

She had been born of the Scarlet Caste in Ar, a true gentrified noblewoman. Because of her shrewdness, she found herself companioned once, then twice and then at the side of the Ubar of the Kataii on the Plains. It was a hard life, but it was a good life. The men respected her, the Wagon Camp flourished and most importantly, she fell in love with him.

And then, she made her choice. She asked, “Do you love me?” He never answered the question; he didn’t need to. She saw the way that he looked at his slaves, lying by his feet. She could never compete with that. “If that’s what it would take,” she said, “I would kneel before you.” He laughed at her statement and waved his hand dismissively. He hadn’t even given her offer a moment’s thought. She decided in that moment that not only did he not love her, he couldn’t. She retreated to her chamber, aghast and broken, and spent the loneliest night of her life…waiting to see what the morning would bring.

At the dawn’s first light, he was gone. His slaves were gone and his only lasting mark on the Camp was two wagon wheels ruts trailing off into the distance. He had not even bothered to say goodbye. None of the men seemed to care or notice her; they simply packed up their own wagons and set off to follow their Ubar. As the last wagon left the Camp and the sun slipped beneath the ground, the woman known as Livia DeBoar died on the Plains of Turia. As the moon rose, the Panther Eve was born.

The Prologue

It starts innocently enough.

A little girl crawls on the limbs of a tree in the family garden. Her mother sees her out of the corner of her eye and comes running, pulling the girl down from the tree.

“Don’t let your father catch you doing that,” her mother chastises. “We do not want to have a little Eve in the family. Get off that tree before your father finds you.” The mother speaks half in fear, half in hope that the sentiment comes true.

Night falls and the little girl looks outside her window. In the clear night sky, she can see the three moons each in a different phase. The largest is full, followed behind with a half-moon and a crescent. “Look mama!” the girl exclaims excitedly. “Look how pretty it is!” The mother looks out the window and her face pales. Immediately, the curtains are drawn and the child is dragged back to bed. The mother slaps the girl across the face and rebukes her, “No more of this talk. You are no Sa-ta-Tor. Go to bed and get this silliness out of your head.” As the girl’s eyes close, taking her to the dream world, she is confused yet mystified. A simple tree and the moons had caused such a commotion: why?

Three moons, three phases, one sky. It was…it IS…the symbol of the Sa-ta-Tor. There were many panthers before them and there will be many panthers after them, but they will always be known as the first TRIBE in Gor. Men will speak of their fierce cunning, their prowess with the bow and their shrewd negotiating skills at the trade fire. Women will scoff at their wild ways, their howling at the moon and the general terror they caused a city without ever setting foot inside.

The truth, of course, is always much simpler. They were the Sa-ta-Tor because of the singular unwavering dream shared by all 30 women: three moons, three phases, one sky.

Guttentag

Apparently, my last post is pretty popular with people in Germany. It was linked by, from what I can tell, a German Gorean internet message board, linked here. I'm pretty sure they're making fun of me...which is totally cool! There's really a lot of material out there so if someone can't make fun of me, perhaps they need to stop and take stock of their life.

As I do not understand a lick of German, I have no idea what the thread is about, what it says, or why my last post has something to do with the topic. BUT...I have figured out that "rollenspielwelt" means "roleplayer" in German. And quite frankly, I'd rather be called a rollenspielwelt than a roleplayer any day of the week and twice on Sunday. I also have no idea what "gegenüber" means either, but I'm pretty sure I'd want to be that to. Anything with an umlat is gold to me.

So hello Germans!

Submissives

Ranting time...and what are blogs if nothing else than a way to rant in public and hope no one reads it although secretly hope that the right people actually do read it?

I don't understand "submissives." I don't WANT to understand submissives. Most women in SL Gor self-identify as submissives. I can understand and appreciate that. I have my own understanding of what being an overall submissive is (and I've shared it on this blog a few times), but it's clearly not the definition of choice of most submissives in SL Gor. As far as I can tell, "submissive" in SL means to be intellectual lazy, helpless and wanting to obviate all responsibility for themselves and their life choices. They'd rather pawn that off on someone else. Essentially, being a submissive in SL means to be an overgrown baby. Apparently, that's a good thing.

And even if that's the definition (or even if I'm wrong), I have no problem with that. Everyone has their emotional and psychological problems. I've got plenty myself that probably make me appear childish and selfish, so I really can't be throwing rocks at that type of behavior. Where my problem occurs is when women confuse roleplay with reality and assume that because my male characters portray dominant personalities and react well to submissives...they assume that I personally am a dominant individual and am actively looking for submissives to dominate in my normal life. Ergo, them.

This can't be farther from the truth. First of all, my characters are fake. They exist in an imaginary roleplay world that are subject to the rules of John Norman's very stupid writing and the rule sets contained within them. My characters have to be callous and "dominant" because Norman says they must be. That's not reflective of my actual personality simply because...shocker...I don't live in Gor. I am a product of my environment and my environment says I must respect all people and treat them as equals. So I do, and more importantly, I want to treat all people as equals.

Second, I'm not looking for a relationship in SL Gor outside of someone who can entertain me in roleplay. I find it monumentally stupid to try and find love in a game where people present false depictions of themselves. I understand that this is no different than trying to find a date at a club where a woman is all dolled up and not acting "naturally" because she, too, wants to instantly attract a mate. The only reason I tolerate clubs is, well, it's real so even if the woman is faking it...I might get something tangible out of it like sex or a companion to do fun things on a date with. For an online relationship, I'm simply deluding myself: as long as I can convince myself this person is what I want, I'll stay. Seems rather hollow and superficial to me. I'm not saying I can't do it- it just seems a waste of my time.

And even if I were looking for an actual relationship based on my roleplay interactions, I sure as hell wouldn't want a submissive women. I find the idea of having a "genuine submissive" as a potential mate utterly repulsive. I can interact with them, no problem. But get serious with them? No thanks, not my cup of tea. I'd rather have a woman with a brain who asserts herself. Someone might argue that a submissive can be all those things and assertive...but really, she can't. It's listed within the definition of submissive that she can be assertive, but can't be an assertive person. If she can be all that, then she's not submissive- she's just pretending she is. And I hate people that can't try to be honest with themselves so I wouldn't want to have a relationship with them anyway. On the intimacy front, "submissives" and "me" do not mix- just a fact of life. And those that want to convince me otherwise are largely wasting their breath.

Finally, I think "dominance" and "submission" as state-of-beings is a crock of shit. I consider it something akin to homosexuality. There are certainly a group of people in this world that are inherently and genetically homosexual. No matter what can be said or done, these people will always be attracted to the same sex. Same can be said for bisexuals as well. But there are a group of people who experience the psychological condition of "mimicry." If you put these people around lots of gay people for a long period of time, they will self-identify themselves as gay...and if you took them out of the gay population and put them back in heterosexual communities, they'd self-identify as heteros. You find this exceedingly common in prison populations: inmates have homosexual sex inside the clink to mimic the rules, customs and behavior within prison...but revert to a hetero lifestyle when living in a mixed population. Same thing with SL: when confronted with a paradigm where everyone must be split up into "dominants" and "submissives," women see that submissive box, self-identify with some of those characteristics and then unilaterally decide that they must be all of those characteristics...when they're not.

I don't doubt there are a few genuine submissives in SL Gor. As in people who have an innate tendency to follow and please people. It's just written into their DNA. But I suspect that 99% of the "submissives" out there are actually just sexual submissives who mistake their timidness in the bedroom and sexual relationships to be representative of the rest of their personality. And if you take them out of a sexual relationship, they are confrontational, abrasive and controlling...just like normal human beings. Which is cool. I like normal human beings. I just don't like people who pretend they are something they're not.

The other truth I've learned out there is that most people who roleplay in Gor either do not understand the IC/OOC split...or don't care. They are here for boyfriends and damnit, they're going to get them. Somehow, I end up on their wish list because I can type a complete sentence and can show an original thought from time to time. I have no idea how to disabuse them or get them to ignore me. So...I rant. And this is one of them.

Alright, it's all over now. I will now put myself into that state where I debate whether I should have posted this and whether I should delete it.