Daddy's Girl Cult Discussion

auntkaren0
October 22, 2021

As A Kid I Was Told Armageddon Was Near, So I Wouldn’t Need A Job. Now I’m A BDSM Model.

Ariel Anderssen
HUFFPOST PERSONAL
February 5, 2021

"I was told I'd stop aging and I'd be a teenager forever. I didn't think I'd ever earn money for myself, have a bank account, own a home, fall in love, get married."

Guest Writer

My teacher, having asked everyone who got 10 out of 10 right on the spelling test to put their hand up, went on to ask who got 9 out of 10. She proceeded from there, down to 4 out of 10. I put my hand up. I actually got 1 out of 10, but didn't want to admit I didn't study for the test. She wouldn't have understood why.

I was 9 years old and I wasn't going to grow up. I didn't need to learn to spell because I'd never need a job. It was 1986, my family were Jehovah's Witnesses, and the JW governing body was confidently predicting that Armageddon would arrive by the mid-1990s. Everyone who survived that would live forever in Paradise on earth. We were promised this at each of the thrice-weekly meetings we attended. In Paradise, we'd build log cabins, make friends with wild animals and spend our time picking fruit with other Jehovah's Witnesses. This was all lovingly illustrated for us in the Jehovah's Witness literature.

I tried to suppress the panic I felt whenever I perused the pictures. To me, it looked boring — because it was going to last forever. I had many opportunities to consider forever, sitting on a plastic chair under fluorescent lights, during the interminable Jehovah's Witness meetings. Forever meant that eventually, the whole world would be so familiar to me that there would be no wonders left. One day I would have had every possible conversation with every single person still alive on the planet. It gave me a feeling like vertigo. So I told myself to trust what I was learning because if everyone else wanted to live forever, it would surely somehow be marvelous, and a more-than-ample reward for all the activities we missed out on in the present-day world.

There were plenty of those. No Christmas, no birthdays, no Easter. Technically, Jehovah's Witnesses were allowed televisions, but we were warned frequently about "worldly influences" and my parents had elected not to have one. Higher education was frowned upon — it was considered selfish not to use all your available time and energy trying to convert nonbelievers, so as to save their lives during Armageddon. Many young JWs left school as soon as legally allowed, took low-paying jobs, and spent all of their spare time and energy evangelizing, or "storing up treasures in heaven." I banked on Armageddon coming quickly enough to save me from having to become a window cleaner. I was keen for it to arrive before I turned 16. This, the JW literature assured me, was almost certain.

We collectively closed our minds to the fact that this was not the first time the Jehovah's Witness organization had predicted the end of the world. They first believed it would happen in 1914. Their subsequent predictions (1918, 1925 and 1975) were similarly anticlimactic, but many JWs still delayed further education, put off getting married and decided not to have children. All these things, we were promised, would be better done later, in Paradise. I was aware of the large number of unmarried elderly ladies in our congregation — they'd been waiting, lonely and patient, for their entire adult lives. I was also aware, at least vaguely, that perhaps someday I'd be one of those old ladies. That is if the Jehovah's Witnesses were wrong about Armageddon. Again.

I wasn't terribly worried about not having a career. My dad, who'd grown up in a non-Jehovah's Witness family, was a nuclear physicist, having safely qualified before anyone told him that the end of the world was on the horizon. I certainly didn't want to do that — his job seemed terribly difficult and jobs in general seemed scary, tiring and not sufficiently rewarding. Rather like studying for spelling tests, I thought. The ones that appealed to me (being a ballerina, a model or Sherlock Holmes) weren't allowed by the JWs. I might as well make friends with lions in Paradise, I reasoned. And though living forever sounded overwhelming, not having to die certainly had some appeal. We learned a lot about death — it sounded awful. The Bible was full of violent, painful deaths, and all were presented to us with lurid pictures. If the price for my family staying alive was eternal boredom, that at least sounded better than torture and murder.

I might have gone on like this for the rest of my youth, if not for a spectacular fight that ended my family's association with the JW organization. An elder from our congregation told my 16-year-old sister's boyfriend that he should break up with her since Armageddon was just around the corner. He did so without hesitation, over the phone. My sister was devastated. My parents were concerned that she was suicidal. It was exactly the opportunity they needed to decide that raising their children in an authoritarian sect was perhaps not the best choice. I was 13 and suddenly we were free.

I was going to grow up after all. I'd reach adulthood, earn a living, eventually die — it was a lot to come to terms with. I wasn't condemned to eternal life in Paradise after all.

My parents joined a run-of-the-mill evangelical church, and while I found it preferable to the JWs because the services were blessedly less frequent, I remained unconvinced of its beliefs. If the JWs could be wrong, so could everyone else. Perhaps, if other people's rules were not to be trusted, I should make up my own rules for my own life.

It took me three more years to wake up to the idea of applying myself properly to my schoolwork. I realized I wasn't likely to become a ballerina (I'm 6′2″) or a model or a fictional Victorian detective, so at 16, I started doing homework and studying for exams for the first time in my life. I turned out to be good at it. Almost overnight I became a straight-A student. I was offered a spot at a London drama school and I took it.

Four years after graduating, I stumbled into an underground art gallery in London and found myself standing amongst life-sized bondage sculptures. An artist approached me and it turned out that 9-year-old me had been right — I could be a model after all. Specifically, a BDSM model. I'd always been fascinated with stories about captivity, authority and punishment, but I hadn't dreamed that it might be a bona fide sexual identity that others shared.

The JWs had taught me that almost everything a person could want was wrong. Especially anything sexual. Gay sex? Wrong. Oral sex? Wrong. Masturbation? Wrong. Sex outside marriage? Wrong. They hadn't seen fit to counsel us on whether modeling bondage, dominance, sadism and masochism was wrong too, but I could figure it out. It'd be wrong. But if it was what I wanted to do (and it was), I realized I could decide for myself how to approach it in a way that I could be proud of.

Be honest, I thought. I wanted to represent my sexuality truthfully. I was tall and statuesque, so people wanted to cast me as a domme, but I was submissive. I only accepted work if it represented who I was, not what people wished I were. It paid off. After being turned down for submissive roles early on, I discovered that by publishing reviews of shoots I'd enjoyed, producers who subsequently booked me would know more about the things I liked and could do well.

Consequently, my work reflected me. The more I shared of myself with others, the more it encouraged the people I encountered to share their stories with me. I made the best friends I'd had in my life, especially compared with my JW friendships, where we'd all been intent on not showing weakness or vulnerability, lest we be judged.

Do no harm, I thought. I wanted to put work into the world that portrayed male dominance and female submission. I was worried about the impact it would have on people who found the images disturbing. I realized I needed everyone to know that it only represented my sexual tastes, not my worldview. If I wanted to produce BDSM images, I needed to also be a good friend to other women and to be the best feminist I could.

Leave things better than you found them, I thought. As I got older and started hiring performers for my own productions, I tried to be the fairest and kindest employer that I could be. I paid everyone equally and factored performers' interests into my shoot plans. I decided to help every new model I encountered to navigate the industry safely. I eventually set up a YouTube channel dedicated to this.

I couldn't be perfect and I couldn't earn a place in Paradise. My own expectations were less grand but still meaningful to me. I tried to be honest, to do no harm, to leave people in a better state for having known me. With this in my mind, I was relatively unmoved by occasional poor reactions from family members to my career. I was a pornographer of sorts, but being an ethical pornographer is something I will never feel ashamed of. And 9-year-old me would be flabbergasted to discover that we can work hard when we know we're shaping our own future. I can't imagine she'd be ashamed of me. I want to call back through the years and tell her she will be a model after all — and that it would probably be useful if she paid some attention to her multiplication tables.

Seventeen years later, I'm still a BDSM model and filmmaker, married to a bondage photographer, and happily atheist — no eternity for me. I acknowledge that growing up in an apocalyptic sect was perhaps not the most healthy start to life. Yet I cannot regret the things that I learned and unlearned as a Jehovah's Witness and then ex-Jehovah's Witness.

Firstly, my life truly exceeds my expectations every day. I didn't think I'd ever earn money for myself, have a bank account, own a home, fall in love, get married. I was told I'd stop aging when Armageddon came and I'd be a teenager forever. Growing up — and growing older — comes with inconveniences, illnesses and fears. But they're also privileges of a sort, as is the whole human experience, complete with joy, grief and challenges to overcome.

Having spent my childhood feeling there was no point in excelling at anything, I learned that there is every point. You are the captain of the ship that is your life and working hard will make you a better captain — your voyage will be more rewarding for it. God will not fix it for me so that I can live in a log cabin with a tame lion in the backyard. If I want a cabin, and indeed a backyard, I will have to earn it with my own skills. Believing in Armageddon's imminence, childhood me felt nothing I wanted was possible. In contrast, now I feel as though everything is possible. But I'll have to get it for myself. The independence remains intoxicating.

Death is tricky. I was brought up to believe that I'd never die. Coming to terms with the idea of my own eventual death, and that of everyone I love, was difficult at age 13. As Jehovah's Witnesses, we saw our current existence as a sort of warmup — a qualifying stage, perhaps. The main event would be Paradise. But now, I recognize that I probably have just one shot at life. Everything I want to achieve, I must do now, because there likely isn't another chance. The people whom I want to feel loved by me, I must love them now, as completely as I can. I remember those elderly Jehovah's Witness ladies, waiting forever for Paradise, not marrying, not having careers or children. I will not wait for Paradise. I am making my own right now.

Ariel Anderssen is a classically trained actress and submissive BDSM model, filmmaker and writer based in the U.K. You can find her on Twitter at @ArielAnderssen. She publishes advice for models on her YouTube channel, Ariel's Twilight Years. Her website is www.arielanderssenauthor.com and she replies to all (sensible) emails. Her email address is kinkyarielanderssen@gmail.com.



https://www.huffpost.com/entry/bdsm-bondage-dominant-submissive-model_n_6019919ac5b653f644d7ade2

I had coffee with a San Francisco Satanist group and this is what I learned

Dan Gentile

SFGATE
December 28, 2019


“Bagel with tomato, avocado, cucumber and onion,” yells the heavily-tattooed barista at the kink café & boutique Wicked Grounds.

Tabitha Slandee shakes her head. “I didn’t ask for onion,” she says to her friends. They tell her not to worry about it and she picks up her food, then places it on the table, a foot away from a black pentagram tablecloth and miniature bronze statue of the goat demon Baphomette.

Then Daniel Walker, one of the group’s founders, rings a bell to call the Satanic Bay Area monthly coffee hour to order.

Turns out Satanists are just like me: they like bagels, act polite to baristas and also … don’t believe Satan exists.

SBA was established in 2015 as an atheistic community organization. All sects and individuals believe different things, but SBA does not believe a muscle-bound devil lurks in a fiery underworld practicing pitchfork tricks and encouraging people to lie and shoplift and murder. They identify with the myth of Satan as a freethinker and rebel, and feel that his image has been distorted by mainstream culture into a catch-all for immoral behavior. But they don’t think he’s real.


Once a month they reserve tables for two hours at Wicked Grounds, which looks more like a college coffee shop than a demonic lair (although they do sell BDSM accessories). Unsurprisingly, nine out of 10 people in attendance wear black (the group counts about 50 members). There’s a fairly even gender split. Many attendees go under pseudonyms for safety (and fun), shifting between monikers in casual conversations.

The meeting serves as a time to socialize and go over a printed agenda of upcoming projects, which range from Christmas cookie decorating parties, Satan’s Little Helpers art supply drives and planning the next Black Mass, where they mark each other’s foreheads with animal blood (or for the squeamish Satanists, red wine).

“It’s like Ash Wednesday, but all the time,” says Brigid Breed, a college student who attends a Christian university incognito.

So aside from baking and marks of the Beast, what do Satanists actually believe in? Before they begin rattling through agenda items (which are weirdly a bit dry), I poll the group on what Satanism means to them. Collectively they claim there aren’t actually many references to Satan in the Bible at all, and his character takes on a new meaning when viewed with a contemporary lens.

“Satan is the universe’s first revolutionary. The first person to say, I want a change that benefits me, a system that would work better,” says Daniel Walker, one of the group’s founders. “You’re supposed to assume that he is the villain, because it’s based on these bronze age values of a divine all-powerful King that’s the ultimate source of what is good in the world. Any disruptive element has got to be the root of all evil.”

For Harq al-Ada, a Satanist who’s been associated with SBA for two years now and leads group meditations at masses, his practice is about understanding your darker impulses.

“In psychology, there is this aspect of shadow. A darker part of us, more primal. Most of the Abrahamic religions they tell us to get rid of your sins, your flaws, hide those parts of yourself. A Satanist is more like, own it, take it, look at it. It’s owning all parts of yourself, whether they’re dark or bright, easy or difficult.”

This all sounds pretty reasonable to me so far, but it begs the question, why use the S-word when it holds such a divisive connotation? Turns out they have an episode of their podcast “Black Mass Appeal” all about this very topic, but Simon Lasher, a group administrator, gives me the short version.

“Being a Satanist isn’t for everybody, and that’s okay. You do attract a lot of heat,” she says. “We’re not using it to be trolls. It’s not a joke. We’re not just trying to get back at Christians, but it is a powerful symbol that stops you in your tracks and attracts attention. And makes you want to learn more.”


For Brigid Breed, Satanism fits in with broader cultural shifts.

“We all grow up in this society where Abrahamic religions are the cultural context wherever we go. The morality of these religions grew in a time when individualism and rebellion were very much taboo. The ideas that you can be weird and queer and outside the brinks of society, there wasn’t a space for that in a religious context. If you’re a feminist or queer, you’re going to be called a Satanist anyway, so you might as well lean in.”

The Black Masses are where the real leaning in takes place.

“The joke I always make is that it’s like going to church, but more metal,” says Walker.

The group members paint a vivid picture of their gathering. Ceremonies vary based on the date, but there’s core aspects: an altar with animal skulls and giant pentagrams, group meditations, remembrances of people who’ve passed, there’s some kind of reading, and of course, a recitation of the Dark Lord’s prayer, which several group members recite in unison (“Our father, who art in hell. Unhallowed be thy name.”)

I chuckle at the parody of a prayer I heard every Sunday growing up and realize that although SBA clearly isn’t a joke … they really like joking around. Several members collaborated on a comic book skewering reproductive rights hypocrisy and there’s plans to record an old timey Satanic radio play. They’re the type of people who’d be kicked out of youth group for asking questions both stupid and way too smart. They’ve given conventional religious doctrines a lot of thought and come to the conclusion that the dogma is ridiculous, but the stories and rituals still hold the power to bring people together.

“At the end of the mass, there’s a moment of recognition for everyone who’s come here and participated in what’s taken place,” says Walker. Harq al-Ada adds, “basically it’s like any religious ritual. It brings the community together and celebrates a purpose.”

The meeting nears an end, but I don’t feel like I’ve been at a cult meeting or dark séance. Maybe I’d think differently if I’d had blood smeared on my forehead at a Black Mass, but as bizarre as that act sounds, the ritual isn’t that different from Christians drinking sacramental wine during communion to symbolize the blood of Christ.

Overall these Satanists seemed relatively wholesome, and as I listened to them talk about decorating cookies and donating toys, I almost forgot where I was … until at eight o’clock when Walker rang a bell to close the meeting and the group loudly joined their voices together in unison, filling the coffee shop with a single chant of “Hail Satan.”



https://www.sfgate.com/offbeat/article/satanic-bay-area-coffee-meetup-14934830.php