Monday, May 1, 2017


(Arthur continues to document his submissive service to “Miss Ling,“ his dominant Asian fiancee, and to her two live-in daughters from a previous marriage, Miss A, age 14, and Miss D, age 23.)

Both of Miss Ling’s delightful daughters went to a movie today. I seized on the opportunity to iron 10 shirts for the younger girl, Miss A, then folded and sorted the rest of the laundry she had done earlier and hung it out to dry (we use the sun, not a dryer).

Alas, Miss A is still a bit hesitant about asking me to do her laundry, but when she and her older sister returned and Miss A saw what I had done, she flashed me a big girly smile and thanked me. The only thing better would be if she didn’t thank me! I'm trying to get her to take my service for granted, to convince her that a “good boy”-type acknowledgement is sufficient—after, that is, she checks that all was done to her satisfaction. But I am of course proud that my work found favor.

On a related topic, I had mentioned several times to Miss A over the past months about giving her a pedicure. She kept saying “maybe, but not today.” Finally, last week she said it was time for a pedicure. I responded with an immediate “Yes, ma’am” and began preparing the soaking bowl and supplies. Her feet were very clean and there is no dry skin on the bottom or heels. She cares for her lovely feet very well, as do her mother and sister. All the more reason for me to help keep them that way!

Anyhow, I put some nice-smelling liquid in the water and massaged her feet for a while, relaxing her, letting her get used to the pampering. She soon picked up her computer tablet and was off in her world, leaving her feet in my hands!

After drying them, I examined each toe for cuticle buildup and any loose skin that might needed trimming. After this was done, I began filing the nails. Cleaning followed, then a buffing to give them a shine.

At this point I lifted each foot for Miss A’s inspection and approval before I dared begin with the polish. She spotted a couple of flaws in my work and told me to correct them. I thanked her for her supervision, and promptly did so. This time she was clearly pleased.

It seemed an opportune time to discuss with her the importance of a woman receiving devoted service from the man in her life (in Miss A’s case, presumably, from a future husband) and how critical it can be for a couple’s relationship and establishing a proper female-directed lifestyle in the house.

I told Miss A that even boyfriends can be taught to serve; and those that refuse or don't understand are not worth wasting time with. I knew, of course, that her mother has told her this, too, and both daughters are very aware of the many dutiful and devoted services I perform for their mother as well as for them, and all three love the relaxed female-centric atmosphere at home—the laughter, the teasing, the complete absence of masculine backtalk, etc. They are learning, bit by bit, the benefits of a Female Led Household.

But back to the task at hand. I inserted her toe separators and began applying the bottom coat. While that was drying, Miss A selected the polish—actually two polishes, one with sprinkles. This I brushed on as carefully as I could, but some spilled over on to the skin, so I had to remove it and clean the surrounding skin. Despite my careful work, one toenail was still unacceptable to Miss A, and she made me redo it. Another nail Miss A herself touched by accident, so that, too, had to be redone.

Before going on to apply the top coast, I had her make another inspection at my fix to the polish. She approved, and gave me permission to put on the final coat. Afterward I held each precious foot close to my mouth so I could blow-dry the nails to help them dry faster. This service may have surprised Miss A, but she definitely seemed to enjoy it and let me finish the job.

Finally she asked me to examine the bottom of her foot as she felt something there that was bothering her, and she nodded approval when I took care of this matter quickly.

But I have left something important out of my story. You see, while all this was going on, Miss A’s mother, Miss Ling, was taking pictures of the event. I wish I could share these with the readers of this blog, but you will understand that, for privacy reasons, I cannot do so. So the pedicure photos accompanying this account are, shall we say, generic?

PS. A couple of days later, I asked Miss A if she had shown her pedicure to any of her friends at school. She said that she had, and they all liked it very much. Another of Miss A’s teen girlfriends, I learned, will be visiting next week. This young lady had recently sprained a ligament in her ankle, which was in a cast. She posted a pic of her leg/foot on Facebook.

I pointed out to Miss A that it looked like her friend needed a pedicure, and maybe that would help her feel a little better. Miss A giggled and agree and said that she may mention my pedicure service to her friend when she gets here. Fingers crossed!

PPS. I have given Miss A several more pedicures since writing this. She's very comfortable having me do this now. During the procedure I stop at certain points and ask her if all is OK. She inspects my work closely and comments. Today there were three times she made me redo a nail or correct something. I don't like making mistakes, but I do like her take-charge attitude and that way she is learning to supervise.

She also had me dry her hair again after she had washed it. She says I do a very good job. Only 14! Imagine her at 18!!!

Saturday, April 22, 2017


(Note from Thomas Lavalle: Last August this blog published, in three parts, the fond reminiscence of “Leo,” a 58-year-old submissive male, about coming of age in a strict matriarchal clan headed by his mother and her sister. In this continuation, Leo recalls how, in his early teens, he discovered that his mother regularly cuckolded his father, and, amazingly, how his father seemed to accept this humiliation almost as a badge of pride.)

I was 14 years old or so when I first realized that Mom had lovers. She used to go out some weekends and sometimes not come home until the next day. In my naivete at that age I thought she spent those nights with some of her girlfriends or with my aunt (her sister), but one night something happened that made me understand the reality about Mom’s erotic  wanderings.

It was a rainy night, I’m thinking around three a.m., when I heard Mom come home. From my room I heard the front door open abruptly downstairs and then my mother’s high heels clicking on the wooden floor of the front hall. Next I heard Dad moving downstairs, hurrying from the living room, perhaps anticipating what came next—his wife's angry voice.
 “Where are you, idiot! “ she roared.  “It's raining and you’re not able to come out to meet me with an umbrella? You good-for-nothing! “

As I noted in my earlier postings about growing up in a strict matriarchal home, it had become a habit, perhaps a compulsion, for me to eavesdrop on some of my parents’ intimate conversations and interactions, some of which, as I have admitted, I found extremely arousing.

 “I'm sorry d-d-dear,” my father stammered, “I'm r-really sorry, I—”

Dad's cringing apology was silenced with a strong slap. Mom was really angry, I realized. But, instead of being troubled, I have to confess that I liked knowing that Mom was angry and that she was about to assert her supreme power and authority over my father.

Now let me pause to point out that this was in the early ‘70s, when the miniskirt was just becoming fashionable. Let me also note that Mom, who was in her mid-30s back then, was always a strikingly beautiful woman who relished the impact she had on the weaker male sex. In fact, she used to be openly seductive in those sexy outfits she wore, such as miniskirts, leather boots and low-cut blouses that attracted the eyes of every man in view.

Now I heard her start to climb the stairs, followed by Dad’s lighter tread. I had no trouble visualizing where his eyes would be! He would be incapable of taking his eyes off the voluptuous body of his stunning wife preceding him up the stairs. The following exchange carried up the stairwell, every word crystal clear:

“You're not going to ask me how my night was?” my mother called out with stinging sarcasm.

 “I hope you had a good night, dear,” came Dad’s reply.

“Oh, I did! I truly did! In fact, my night was just fantastic! I was dancing and having some drinks with a very handsome guy. And then we went to...  Well, I guess you can imagine where we went, can’t you, dearest?”

As Mom and Dad reached the second floor and started down the corridor past my room, I eased my door shut and put my ear close against it.

“I asked you a question, cuckold!” Mom demanded. “Answer me!”

A chill ran down my spine. Mom had called Dad a “cuckold!” Yes, I had a pretty graphic idea what that word meant from conversations at school with certain boys. A cuckold, they’d said, was a “wimp,” a “henpecked” guy who allowed his wife to fuck other men.

But there was a slight problem with their definition. It didn’t exactly fit my mother and father. Obviously Mom cuckolded Dad no matter if he  “allowed “ it or not. In fact, it was obvious he had no say at all in the matter! And it was evident from the tone of deep shame in Dad’s voice that he was feeling humiliated by his sexy wife while she was having fun taunting and bragging about the fact that she’d been out fucking another guy until three in the

That night I realized what it really means to be totally subjugated under the superiority of a woman. In a sudden flash of submissive understanding, I saw my father not as a “wimp”—not in the way that insult is usually intended, or the way the boys at school had meant. I saw my father instead as a kind of masculine role model who was “man enough” to accept his natural inferiority to women. An inferiority that I, too, felt, deep in my soul.

I’m in my late fifties now, but that realization has stayed with me ever since. Over time I realized that when Mom or my aunt or even my sister called  my father or uncle a “cuckold” or  “wimp,” that they were doing it to remind them of their inferior status, a status where humility, silence and obedience are masculine virtues that all need to be reinforced again and again.

Let me add here that, although my mother and my aunt were highly educated, enlightened and classy women, sometimes they deliberately employed a crudeness of vocabulary with their husbands. I have since learned that this is quite typical of women who rule their husbands and families with a firm hand. As my Mother used to say, “A woman can treat her men how she pleases, period.”

I encourage other men, and women, to share their experiences about living in strict matriarchal households. Over the years I've had several online friends in the lifestyle, but that was several years ago back when Yahoo! groups were the best and almost the only alternative to meet like-minded people, and unfortunately I lost contact with these online companions some years back.

In closing, let me emphasize again how much I came to admire my father for his unconditional subservience to my mother. In fact, I believe that he came to take a certain submissive pride in being her cuckold, although it was obvious that it could also be deeply humbling and painful for him to have her throw it in his face so frequently. But for my father, I am convinced, this was another way of demonstrating his reverence and veneration for the woman he loved with all his submissive soul.


Saturday, March 25, 2017


When Miss Ling goes to work each morning, she requires me to open the driveway gate, then to close it after she drives through. Now, to understand what happened this morning, you need to know that for the past month Miss Ling has required me to wear only a shirt to bed and nothing else—no bottom, no underwear.

This morning, as it happened, I was still in bed when Miss Ling was ready to leave, so I jumped out of bed and hurried outside to open the gate. Miss Ling giggled, reminding me that I had no pants. Not knowing what else to do, I pulled the shirt down lower. She asked me to turn around so she could see what, if anything, was visible below the shirt. Her older daughter (Miss D), I should add, had just left, while her younger daughter (Miss A) was still asleep.

As Miss Ling was driving through, she lowered her window and said I was to be dressed like this when opening the gate from now on. She said it in a serious manner, so I bowed and said “Yes, ma'am.” She gave me a power smile, then giggled and drove on.


It is such a privilege to serve the magnificent Miss Ling and her two lovely daughters. I know how lucky I am. And just being able to see those six lovely feet each day is a wonderful reminder to me of my role in this matriarchal household.

Yesterday Miss A (aged 14) showed me her fingers with a new color polish she had just applied. They looked good and I told her so. Then I looked at her beautiful bare feet, which were not polished, and suggested that perhaps I should apply the same polish to those, too, as they should match.
Miss A smiled and said “Maybe.” I said we could even try different colors on each toe. Again, giggles. One day soon I hope I am rewarded with the opportunity.


This morning Miss A handed me her white tennis shoes and asked if I would clean them and dry them so she could take them with her on a school trip in the afternoon.

I thanked her for the privilege and took the shoes. Miss Ling has a special soap for this, I knew, but I didn't know where it was kept, so asked her. I was so glad I did ask Miss Ling, as she told me that only the rubber portions—the toe, along the sides and back—needed cleaning, so I had to take pains not to get them wet as they wouldn’t dry in time. Miss Ling found the soap, then got a toothbrush and showed me exactly how she wanted me to clean them. I followed her instructions, and they looked good and I dried them in the sun.

Later, when dry, I put them in Miss A’s room where she would see them.

Later Miss Ling told me that the toothbrush she handed me to use on her daughter’s shoes was mine!


About a month ago, Miss Ling decided that I would sleep at her feet on Thursday nights. I recall that when I first assumed this position and was fully accessible to her feet for kisses, I asked her if she was worried that one of the girls would walk in (they have full access to our bedroom).

No, Miss Ling wasn't worried, pointing out that they have both seen me kiss her feet before, as well as having had theirs kissed. Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, Miss A quietly opened the door, whispered something to her mother, went to the bathroom to get something, and then left the room.

During this interruption, I stopped worshipping, but Miss Ling continued to wiggle her foot, signaling me to continue, which I obediently did. Miss A saw it all, but, exactly as her mother predicted, took it in stride and said nothing. Miss Ling and I eventually fell asleep, with me hugging her beautiful feet.

I look forward to Thursday nights!


Wednesday, March 8, 2017


Not long ago Miss Ling made arrangements for her younger daughter (age 14) to have her very first pedicure, then informed me that I would be accompanying them to the nearby spa, which offers pedicures and manicures, facials and massage, in addition to waxing. While Miss A was having her feet soaked, Miss Ling began a rapid-fire exchange with several of the spa ladies, including the owner, a very elegant and well-dressed woman in high, high heels. All this talk was in their native tongue, which of course I could not understand.

I did, however, manage to catch one word—“Brazilian.” So it was not a total surprise when Miss Ling turned to explain me that they’d been discussing waxing. Not just for herself, mind you, but for me, as well.

"They will do you,” she said, “for—” And she quoted a local price that equaled about $18. That was a bargain price, Miss Ling said, because she’d explained to the women that I had only light hair growth in my genital area, while hers was much heavier. The higher price for her waxing would be determined once they saw what it looks like. She had told the women that she wanted this done to give us both a fresh look for our wedding. “Of course, I told them that you are always happy to go along with whatever I say, so please turn to the ladies now and bow and nod your head several times.”

I did as told, and the spa ladies all had a good laugh over this.

So, while Miss A’s pedicure was still going on, I followed my ruling wife-to-be into the adjoining waxing room. Miss Ling ordered me to remove my pants and underwear and lie on the table, which was pointed directly toward the door. The door was still open at that point, and there was one other customer just outside, a young woman getting a facial, who obviously could hear everything we were saying—and see inside by simply turning her head.

Off came my pants and underwear, in front of Miss Ling and the waxing technician, an attractive and courteous woman about forty, who was also one of the spa pedicurists. This woman now placed a modesty towel over me before she going over to close the door, but a moment later the towel was whisked away so she could begin working on me.

Miss Ling remained, both to watch and offer occasional assistance, and she and the waxing woman chatted continually. As the woman began trimming my genital hair with scissors, Miss Ling turned to me and said the technician had been asking about my previous waxing experience. Miss Ling had explained that she’d had me waxed once before, during our early courtship, but now that our wedding was coming up, she wanted me done again.

“He will look and feel more naked this way,” she told the technician, “and more under my control.” Miss Ling said she told the woman that I was the type of man who deeply respected women and preferred to be with a type of woman who could exercise firm control. Apparently the technician very much enjoyed hearing all about who was boss and who obeyed in our relationship.

Several times during this conversation, the woman glanced over at me, but never spoke directly to me, only to Miss Ling. Apparently she told Miss Ling that it seemed very obvious that I was a subordinate, and Miss Ling agreed that was very much the case.

Another time during the session the technician left the room, and this time left the door slightly ajar—and didn’t even bother to cover me. Before she returned and closed the door again, two staffers passed by and looked in to see me lying naked with my legs spread.

I must say the technician was an expert waxer. She had no shyness about handling my penis or testicles (though Miss Ling did help out by stretching my testicles when the time came for them to be waxed). After a while, apparently satisfied that I was in capable hands, Miss Ling left to see how her daughter was doing with her pedicure, then returned when it was time to wax the area between the testicles and anus.

Miss Ling then asked the woman if she wanted my legs raised over my head to make the area more accessible. But as the technician said that wasn’t necessary, as she had already instructed me to lift my buttocks off the table and to spread my legs wide. I did, however, get the impression that the woman appreciated the directness of Miss Ling’s question. It showed that Miss Ling definitely wanted all my hair removed.  (I learned later that while some local women like to have this area waxed, mostly it’s foreigners who do it. Except for local “ladyboys,” who also have it done frequently.)

All in all, Miss Ling seemed very comfortable allowing the female technician to take control of my private parts for a good half-hour. Once the procedure was finally done, the technician rubbed in a solution to clean the just-waxed areas and another cream to reduce itching. (It worked, as I have had none since.) At this point the woman indicated to Miss Ling that I was finished and could get dressed.

As I started to obey, Miss Ling gave me a sharp look and told me to remain where I was, fully exposed. Then she turned back to the woman and they spoke for several minutes. The woman smiled, then laughed, and finally covered her mouth shyly at what Miss Ling was saying.
Finally Miss Ling turned back to me and told me it was “time to properly thank your Waxer.” I nodded, and bowed formally to the woman, expressing my thanks. Miss Ling shook her head and repeated the word “properly!” in a louder voice, pointing to the floor. So I kneeled at the woman's feet, bowed and thanked her. Again Miss Ling repeated the word “properly!” The woman was just standing still and smiling and watching me as I looked up to Miss Ling. Then I lowered my face to the woman’s pretty, well-pedicured bare feet and kissed both fervently and once more muttered my thanks.

This time Miss Ling approved and instructed me to get dressed. But she admonished me and said that next time I must obey immediately. “Yes,” I answered, “I will obey and I am sorry.” But my apology and promise was not sufficient. Miss Ling informed me I would be punished when we got home.

I think the technician, who was closely observing this, had a pretty good idea of what was going on. But just to be sure, Miss Ling now turned and translated my scolding to her, word for word. The technician nodded and smiled, then smiled at me and pointed to her own feet and politely thanked me for my special thanks.

It was Miss Ling’s turn to be waxed now. She asked me if I wanted to stay and watch, and of course I said “yes!” Actually, I was extremely excited by this prospect, and Miss Ling could see that, I’m sure.

As Miss Ling had mentioned earlier, her own genital hair growth was much more luxuriant than mine, so there was a lot of scissor work to start with. Miss Ling informed the technician that a previous treatment had caused itching in her vagina, and so the area was examined and the problem discussed in detail. This was all pretty hot from my standpoint. Although I couldn’t understand the actual discussion, I could make a pretty educated guess when my lovely bride-to-be spread her lower lips to show the girl precisely where the problem was.

After a while, despite my obvious preference to stay, I was dismissed from the room and told to wait outside and sit next to Miss A and observe how her pedicurist was doing her job. As I left, I heard both females laughing at another comment Miss Ling had just made, obviously relating to me.

Finally Miss Ling came out, announcing that her waxing had cost twenty-five percent more than had mine. Later, after I had paid for both waxings and for Miss A’s pedicure, plus generous tips all around, Miss Ling told me that the technician who’d worked on us was an employee of the shop, but was soon hoping to leave and open her own studio. She and Miss Ling had exchanged phone numbers in order to keep in touch. The idea, Miss Ling told me, was that a waxing every few months would have less complications and aftereffects.

In the lobby, as we waited to go home, Miss A got an earful of information from her mother about my waxing experience, and about my proper and respectful demeanor in the presence of the other women.

Quite an exciting day, all around!


Thursday, March 2, 2017


I’ve been asked to share some thoughts on the family dynamics of a gynarchic or matriarchal household. First, let me make clear that the following is based solely on my personal life experiences described elsewhere on this blog. This makes mine a somewhat informed, experienced opinion, I’d argue, but an opinion nonetheless. In my examples, I’ll use a family formed by a Wife, husband and children for convenience only. These suggestions can apply to any family type.

To rein in my tendency toward long-windedness, I’m going to use a trite but hopefully effective aid to put my few random thoughts in some sort of order—the anagram. In this case, the anagram is W*O*M*A*N.

The first letter, “W,” stands for Wisdom.

I don’t believe it’s wise to post just a set of gynarchic principles on the wall, no matter how clear and precise, and expect everybody in the household to follow them or be punished. A cult-like isolation is required for such a method by itself to be effective. In the modern world, our kids are influenced by the Internet, their peers, celebrities, teachers, the watchful eyes of various officials, and a thousand other things.

Our ideas regarding female superiority must compete with mainstream culture and win. This is where wisdom comes in. If I could give only one sentence of advice it would be this: TEACH BY EXAMPLES FIRST, AND CONCEPTS SECOND. We have to show our kids that gynarchy works in a practical sense. All adult males in the household, be they fathers, brothers, uncles, “mannies” or non-familial servants, have to show that serving and obeying females is a privilege, as well as a fulfilling and proper way of life.

An adult male ought to go about his chores cheerfully during the day and expect the younger males to help him as a matter of course. It’s not so different from the older patriarchal practice of women taking pride in their culinary and housekeeping skills, and passing that pride and skill on to their daughters. A male needs to show pride and skill in everything from managing the mundane task of monthly bill paying, to fixing a teenager’s broken heel, to cleaning the commode (and keeping the seat down), depending on what the ladies of the house want and expect of him.

As for concepts, they can be taught formally, of course, from any number of sources, just as religious parents teach their kids from scriptures. But in my experience, informal chats and musings are at least as effective, probably more so. For example, let’s say a father or manny is preparing a favorite dessert of Mom’s or of one of the girl’s. One or more boys are helping him. There’s a radio or TV on, reporting some major or minor wrong against a woman by a male (there’s never a shortage of such reports) . Depending on the story, the father might say, “Men like that are a big part of what’s wrong with this world. Look at the way he treated her. The gall! He really thinks he has the right to do that. Real men know better. Real men know that everyone would be a lot happier if women were in charge and led the way.” A boy of any age can learn something from nonchalant comments like these. Girls too, if they’re nearby.

Having said the above, let me admit that formal instruction is vital. We ought to be able to defend our way of life to our kids the same as anybody else. We can use older texts like those mentioned elsewhere on this blog, as well as contemporary ones such as Sheila Ellison’s (ed.) If Women Ruled the World, or Donlan and Graves’ Her Turn: Why It’sTime for Women to Lead in America. A word of caution, though. Don’t get caught up in endless debate with a child. A sharp boy (or girl, for that matter) can pick holes in the most coherent philosophy just for the thrill of it. If that happens, you need to say something like, “That’s enough. This is how we do things here. If you don’t see the wisdom of it now, you might when you get older.”

“O” is for Oversight.

If you’re a male with some authority in the home, you should make sure it’s known by all that everything you do or want done is ordered or sanctioned by the female(s) in charge. In my experience, indicating this fact repeatedly through casual chitchat is effective. For example, you’re moving furniture around, and you might say, within earshot of the kids, something like, “All right. Mom wants this table moved over here, because she and Haley need more room when they do Pilates. Tim, Danny, take the other end and lift. Mom will be back soon, so we better get this done.”

Any male you enlist to help must be aware of who is really in charge, and the younger they are when they learn this, the better. If you’re not sure of what to do, say, “We have to ask Mom” or “Mom needs to know about this,” and, of course, “Wait till Mom comes home!” ought to be a classic phrase in the matriarchal household.

Now, if phrases like those above are repeated enough, I can almost guarantee that before long a child is going to say something like, “Is Mom the boss here?” Your response should be a firm, serious, “Yes, Mom is the boss here.” Say it as though it’s the most natural thing in the world (as it really is), conveying the fact that you wouldn’t want it any other way. If the child wants to know why, give him or her intelligent reasons, but as I mentioned above, don’t get caught up in an argument. Make it clear that we adults think that matriarchy is better for everyone, and that’s the way it’s going to be.

“M” is for Maturity.

Again, setting an example is key. An adult male should not complain about his lot. Don’t grouse or show resentment over the sacrifices you have to make and the orders you have to obey. And, above all, don’t use the children as confidants for your venting. You agreed to live in a matriarchal household, so suck it up. If you have concerns or problems, take them up with the appropriate female, according to the procedure she’s laid down. You are subordinate, and you have to bear that with cheerful, stoic perseverance and pride, as an example to everyone else in the household.

Females are going to have more privileges from birth, and will gain ever more authority as they mature. It is up to you to show the other males how to react. It’s likely that girls will have the bigger bedrooms, more privacy and downtime, more autonomy and money, and, as soon as they are able, the privilege of command. To use a military parallel, you might be an experienced master sergeant, but as your adolescent daughter matures, she becomes a lieutenant, and you have to recognize her authority and obey her within the limits of reason and safety. All females are officers or officer candidates, and males are perpetually enlisted. Your job is to simultaneously aid your wife in teaching the “Officers” leadership skills while setting an example for the “enlisted” and preventing too much resentment among them.

I’ll take time now to mention the obvious. The most important foundation for everything else is love. Boys need to know their place, but they should never feel unloved or unwanted. If they get enough affection and attention, they will be a lot less likely to rebel against the established matriarchal household order. Sometimes it takes conscious effort on our part. As Gynarchists, Matriarchists, Female Supremacists, etc. (choose your term), our natural instinct is to favor the females in our lives, whatever their ages. That’s fine, but we should do it with wisdom and skill.

“A” is for Ancillary Aspects.

This is a broad topic, and I won’t spend much time on it because the details will vary among families. It includes whatever peripherally promotes gynarchy and female superiority. Everything from special ceremonies and celebrations, to art reproductions and decorations, to the books and magazines that lie around the house. I’ve mentioned a few examples from my own childhood in other posts, such as the celebration ceremony my family had when a girl reached menarche, the artwork depicting heroines from history and mythology, and classic books on matriarchy. Even hobbies and craft projects can be employed for this purpose. In my childhood home, a feminist spiritual atmosphere was prominent. I remember my mom having
me help her create a small wall-hanging that put a twist on the famous religious quote. It said: “AS FOR ME AND MY HOUSE, WE WILL SERVE THE GODDESS.”

Again, however, these aspects will vary widely depending on the household. My wife has made it clear that while she wants to retain some Goddess symbolism, she prefers a more “secular” atmosphere overall. She’s going to emphasize more contemporary heroines from the STEM fields and athletics, and naturally I’ll follow her lead in this direction.

“N” is for Normalize.

Every idea and manifestation of matriarchy must be made a normal part of everyday life. Ideally, from the time your family is formed until the last person leaves or passes, female rule and privilege should run through everyone’s life like a string through the beads of a necklace. There would be no necklace without the string, and there would be no family without matriarchy. Like the string, matriarchy might not always be blatantly visible to outsiders, but it will be there, holding the family together.

There’s no one way to achieve this, of course, but in my opinion, a stable, productive household atmosphere, routine but not boring or stultifying, is vital. Males need to know what is expected of them, and females need guidance to enable them to enjoy their power and privilege within the family as early as possible. The senior adults of the family, regardless of gender, need to have their act together. That’s not always possible, but it should be the goal, because if there’s too much dysfunction (I’m thinking of things like drug abuse) among those in charge, matriarchy won’t save the family. Speaking of things that are not always possible, any matriarchal family needs to try hard to find at least one other functional matriarchal or gynarchic family. The sense of community, even among only a couple of families, can have tremendous benefits that are too obvious to need explaining.

Our household now consists of my wife, myself, a son, and a daughter on the way. Using what I’ve learned from my own childhood and from helping raise my nieces, I’m trying to take my own advice—that is, I’m trying to set a good example above all. Her son is only 3, but he already sees that his mother has supreme authority in our home. He watches her tell her older husband what to do and he sees me do it with cheerfulness and alacrity. We want to normalize female authority for him, so when he faces the situation in the future when his younger sister becomes a “lieutenant” and he’s still a “private,” he’ll see it as simply the way things are done. And if we’re successful in getting across the reasons why, and showing how well and happy our family can be, he’ll see it as the way things ought to be done.

To me that’s the most important thing: Passing gynarchy onto the next generation.


Tuesday, February 21, 2017


Two weeks ago we had a photo session for our upcoming nuptials with me dressed in a borrowed suit. (Since all my dress clothes are still back in the U.S., I'm having a suit made for the wedding, but it isn't ready yet). The three “girls” were all dressed up and made up and looking particularly beautiful. Then, yesterday afternoon, Miss Ling informed me that we all had to go to the wedding shop to look at the pictures and select the best one to be framed for the reception. So off we went, and the selection was made, a large photo, probably around 20 by 20, with Miss Ling, of course, casting the deciding vote.

Then it came to choosing the frame. We couldn't agree, and, risking insubordination, I respectfully pressed my point. In my view (though I didn’t actually say this) her choice was, stylistically, right out of the 1950s. But in this Asian country, there are culture issues at stake, and Miss Ling did not understand my objection. But, rather than make a scene, and seeing that several of the female staff in the shop seemed to agree with me, she informed me, in front of all, that she would allow me to choose, but that this was the last time I would ever have my way. Well, there was loud laughter all around at that! Miss Ling and her daughters and I were sitting side by side, with the wedding shop staff around us. To emphasize her statement, Miss Ling pointed down to her bare foot. When she does that, it is her signal for me to stop talking and to listen to her. It can also be her signal to kneel or to kiss her foot. I stopped talking.

Later, after we had left the shop, I asked her about the finger pointing. Did I react properly, or did she want me to kneel and kiss her foot to show my obedience? She said that I should have gotten on my knees and bowed, but without a foot kiss. She said that, with younger people present, including her daughters as well people in their twenties to forties, it would be appropriate for me to promptly obey her order and kneel so all could see her power and my obedience. And that is the response that she will expect
from me from now on. But with older people more her Mother's age, such a submissive response from me would be viewed as disrespectful to them as they would not have seen that and might be embarrassed by it. While younger people, if unfamiliar with such public male deference, would perhaps simply ask, “Why is he kneeling?” Which would give Miss Ling the opportunity to talk about an FLR and all its advantages.

I said that I understood and I apologized for questioning her choice, and then for my inadequate response to her hand signal. I suggested, for future reference, that if I ever fail to react to her signal properly, she simply say “Down!” If she wants me to also kiss her foot, then she should raise it close to my face. That would solve any misunderstanding. She agreed to that and went on to say that she thinks she will be doing this more at home, as well. I agreed that this is a good idea as it will help the girls get good training themselves in male-control, and they will of course be pleased to witness the way their mother continues to have the upper hand over me.

As for why no public foot kiss, Miss Ling explained that that is only allowed in front of her daughters and perhaps close friends, but not at a place of business. I did not mention that, a couple of years ago, I was told by Miss Ling to kiss her foot when helping her choose new shoes in a shoe store—and in presence of the young female clerk.

I didn't bring it up because I believe that not only can women change their mind at any time, but that they are also free to amend their rules at any time.