ResidentSadist
Posts: 12580
Joined: 2/11/2007
From: a mean old Daddy, but I like you - Joni Mitchell
Status: offline
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Life is what you make of it, no matter what you have been dealt.
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As a boy, I encountered a real slave…
I am part Armenian and have met nonconsensual slaves that had been captured by the Turks during the invasion from 1915 - 1918. I was amazed at their stories. Those stories and the innate charm of the belly dancers (ex slaves) I met are part of what inspired my lifestyle interests in my youth.
I recall one story in particular. At the age of nine, while I was at an Armenian ethnic festival, I peeked into the belly dancing troupe’s tent. In the middle of the tent, at the most elegant dressing table there, I saw an older woman that was literally covered in tattoos. The tattoos ranged in size from as small as a business card to the size of a playing card. She had back to back rows of these tattoos running up and down both her legs and arms all the way to her wrists and ankles. All the other younger dancers had only a few tattoos, none reaching past their knees. But they all treated the heavily tattooed woman with the highest amount of respect.
I was enthralled just watching these dancers move about getting ready for their next show. The grace, elegance and sensual self awareness they exhibited compared to the average person would be like comparing the grace of cat to a dog. There was something magical in the essence of these belly dancers and it had me fascinated and captivated as I watched them dress and prepare for the stage.
Eventually the older woman saw me standing in the open seam of the tent. She addressed very me politely and earnestly asking what I wanted. Her voice caressed me with tones of sincerity and respect. Her eyes met mine with unabashed openness and vulnerability. Although she was my elder by 40 or 50 years, and I was in her territory which meant it was I who should have obeyed her, she addressed me as a subservient and humble woman that was making a sincere inquiry of an adult man. I did not know it then but, she addressed me as a polite slave would address any young Master.
I responded instinctively to her respect and with all sincerity I asked her why she had all those tattoos? That old women had a slave’s heart and she offered to answer my question while inviting me in to come in and sit with her on her dressing table bench. I was mesmerized as she began to speak. She stopped working on her hair and gave me all of her attention. Words cannot convey how the world around us disappeared as we formed a very intimate and deep connection with our conversation.
She pointed to a tattoo and told where she got it, then asked me about my nationality and my interest in the art of dance. She explained that the “dance” was an art a woman or slave uses to please men. As she told me of her tattoos, her owners and their locations, she recalled sale prices she fetched in the transactions. She told me about being an Armenian slave when she was younger and showed me where the Armenian tattoos ended. She told me the story of Turkish invasion and showed me how the styles of the Turkish tattoos were different.
She would pause every once in a while at the recollections a special tattoo would bring. I could see the joy and passion in her eyes as she would say that owners name and then speak praise of him with respect and how he treated her well. She would speak certain owner’s names with such reverence it was obvious she worshiped their memory as told their story of her ownership.
She would tell of the Masters that had her trained to sing, or dance or “please a man”. It was awesome… I was 9 years old and this 50-60 year old women had seduced my heart with her passion, her openness, honesty, vulnerability and willingness to serve my request by answering my questions. It seemed the more questions I asked her about her experiences as a slave, the happier she became recounting her tales.
Finally I asked her why she had so many tattoos and the others girls didn’t? She paused. It was a long pause and I could see her compose herself. She explained that the more talents a slave had, the more valuable she was in trade. Therefore a talented slave was likely to be traded more often. Then she pointed to one tattoo and explained how in Armenia she was traded for equipment to make a well and how it was her value that brought water to that village and improved everyone’s life there. She explained how she learned as much as she could to make herself a more valuable companion for her Masters. She spoke of how she used her mind and talents to express her heart in dance, song and conversation with her Masters. As a young boy, to some degree, I think I fell in love with that old slave as much as I fell in love with what she represented.
Although the connection we made was sensual, it was not sexual. However, she came to one tattoo and spoke her owner’s name with such passion I could feel the sexual nature of her memory in the tone of her voice. “Arman” she said… “such a man”. He was such a “good man” and he was “so handsome” and he “treated me very well”. She spoke of him and how he took such good care of her, providing tutors, the finest clothing and making her feel like a “his woman”.
My intimate conversation with that freed slave, taught me that passion and service knows no bounds, no age or social status. My mother had taught me the art of conversation at a young age. I learned how to make a woman “feel” your interest by giving her your complete attention, hearing her desire and fulfilling it. That was exactly what the Armenian belly dancer did for me. She selflessly connected with me and gave me her full attention. She fulfilled my desire completely. She served my request by answering my all my questions and showing me her slave’s heart and its history plotted on her skin by a map of tattoos.
When we were done, I had traveled back in time to the very places in the desert villages, towns and cities where she got those tattoos. I had met her owners, shared her emotions, tasted the Armenian sands, traveled the dusty Turkish roads and seen the silks, rugs and artwork in palaces fit for a sultan. I had heard the music she danced to on palace stages and by tribal campfires. She gave me her history.
My mother had also respected and studied the Armenian culture and some of the arts and talents that support it… like belly dance. But my impressions of it through my mother’s research never prepared me for the sense of honor, pride and compassion that old slave held for the art of dance and slavery. The way she spoke of her time and talents serving as a slave, her healthy and strong self image about her life as a nonconsensual slave that was taken as a prize of war by the Turks was commendable. Her attitude towards life and her role in it was balanced and admirable.
Having that old woman reach out with respect, share her life story, her passion and letting me see her heart changed my life and gave me the deepest respect and appreciation for slaves and the slave arts. I hope this short story pays her the homage she deserves for the respect and quality she has brought to the art of slavery and dance through her life and contributions.
…bless you where ever you are my sweet dancer. Thank you.
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