Happiness. It’s a curious thing. Why is it that a poor child who has nothing and lives in some slum or shanty town can experience complete joy in a simple game played with nothing but an empty Coke bottle, while across the world another child who has everything lavished upon them by wealthy, doting parents is so filled with unhappiness and self-hatred that they try to starve themselves. Why is it that in a rich and prosperous nation like this one, there are so many unhappy people? I believe that happiness is closely linked to expectation. The more we expect, the harder it is to achieve that expectation and the harder it is to be happy. Unfulfilled expectations are at the root of most unhappiness and it seems that our expectations are so very high these days.

 

In my own experience, a few years ago a typical Saturday’s expectation would be to get up after a night of great sex, eat lots of bacon for breakfast, head out to the shops and blow an obscene amount of money on clothes and knick-knacks, a meal in a posh restaurant and then a show or movie to finish off, before returning home for some more great sex, preferably with a different man to the previous evening. And if any of those elaborate parts did not fulfil its expectation then I would not be happy.

 

Now my typical Saturday expectation is just to have my bottom gently filled, first by my boyfriend and then by some warm, milky coffee with a generous helping of sugar and spiced with a little curry powder. Then sit around the house, listen to the radio or play some music, chat to friends on the phone, and perhaps have some of the closer ones round to dinner, which I won’t have to cook or even eat. Simple and easy to achieve and so my expectations are met and I am happy. Anything else, like perhaps a crazy night out at a fetish club or some bizarre bondage sex is a bonus for which I am always grateful and delighted to receive.

 

It seems that within the confines of this hood I have achieved a peace and serenity that was never possible before. I have my work, but beyond that I don’t have to worry about anything. No shopping to do, no places to go, no whales to save. My man takes care of everything and all I have to do is love him in return and satisfy him in any way I can. I know what’s going on out there in the world, but I’m powerless to influence it. I did my bit and now I’m out of it. I’m a prisoner of war now. I don’t have to fight anymore.

 

And so I’m actually a little sad that it’s going to be ending soon. I’ve only another week and a half before I’ll be eligible to sign their confession, condemn my actions and the cause of women’s rights, and I’ll be free of the hood and the collar. The chastity belt will stay for the full year, but I’ll be able to walk down the street with Sarah like two normal women. Of course we’ll have to be wearing dresses and probably hats, gloves and heels too, but it will still feel like freedom after this. It’s a freedom I’m not sure I want any more though. What if we don’t like what we find when we walk down the street together? What if the world beyond my black and cosy house is wrong? Will my conscience let me continue to hide from it and do nothing? Or will I have to fight to change the world again and will I once again be unhappy when I fail?

 

On this particular Saturday, it’s evening and I’m cuddled up to Rob on the sofa. He’s gently stroking my hair, which I always wear outside of the hood now, while he watches some blood and guts sounding war film on the telly. I’m glad I only have to hear it and can’t see the carnage. Maybe Susannah Black was onto something when she said men and women can’t be equal because we’re not the same. Why do they like this sort of film while we like a nice rom-com or a heart-lifting melodrama? We and they, us and them, Venus and Mars, why do we have be like that? Why can’t we be like Yin and Yan, concrete and steel, or bacon and eggs? Different, but complimentary. Two halves that make a greater whole?

 

The film comes to a noisy and destructive sounding end. Presumably the bad guys got blown up. Rob switches off the telly and we cuddle silently for a while.

 

“You want more wine?” he suddenly asks.

 

“No, I’m good thanks.”

 

“You want the tube out of your bottom? The bag’s been empty for a while.”

 

“No it’s fine. I like the tube in there. It feels nice.”

 

“You okay if we sit up with it in? There’s something I want ask you.”

 

“Oh, this sounds serious. It’s okay, I can sit up.”

 

I wriggle up off Rob and sit upright. The sofa’s plenty soft enough to allow my wine tube to stay in comfortably. I feel Rob sitting up too, but there’s a long pause before he speaks.

 

“We should get married,” he finally announces. “I mean you’ll be out of that hood soon and we can have a normal life again.”

 

Rob’s sort-of proposal comes out of the blue, but I’m not entirely surprised. We’ve been so good together in the last months.

 

“I seem to remember that we weren’t getting on too well when we had normal lives,” I reply.

 

“That seems a long time ago Jem. We’ve been through a lot since then, and we’ve both changed. What do you say? Can we get married?”

 

“It’s not much of a proposal Rob. Aren’t you supposed to go down on one knee and have a ring ready?”

 

“How do you know I’m not actually down on one knee? And who says I haven’t got a ring?”

 

“Have you got a ring?”

 

“I might have.”

 

“Ooh, you’re serious aren’t you.”

 

“Never more serious.”

 

“This ring, what’s it like?”

 

“Well it’s like a ring.”

 

“You haven’t really got a ring, have you.”

 

Rob doesn’t reply.

 

“Alright then, if you’ve really got a ring, propose to me properly and offer it to me.”

 

“Jemima Melstrom, will you do me the honour of being my wife?”

 

“Ring on finger?”

 

“Well you have to say yes first.”

 

“Okay then. Yes…. Oh, you really have got a ring!”

 

“Is that yes, you’ll be my wife?”

 

“Is it a real engagement ring?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then yes, I’ll be your wife.”

 

“Oh Jem.”

 

“But I do have some conditions.”

 

“Conditions?”

 

“Yes. Number one, I have to like this ring. It had better look classy. No gaudy big gemstones. I can’t feel any.”

 

“It looks classy Jem. But anything looks classy on you.”

 

“Good answer. Okay, number two. I’ve made a promise to someone and I have to keep it, but doing so might be incompatible with being your wife.”

 

“Promise? Who have you promised what to?”

 

“When we were in prison together, I promised Sarah I would make love to her on her living room floor. She was feeling down and I was trying to cheer her up.”

 

“I see.”

 

“There’s more though. We have to be in chains and you and Jack have to watch. Well at least I promised I’d ask you to watch.”

 

“I see.”

 

“And I’ve added to the promise that I’m going to use a whip on her.”

 

“I see. Anything else?”

 

“No that’s it for that condition.”

 

“Well I think I might just about be able to cope with that. As long as it’s just once. Or twice, or maybe three times. Shall we say once a month? Any more conditions?”

 

“Yes. I want to get married wearing this hood.”

 

“You what?”

 

“I want to get married wearing this hood. It has saved us. Before it we were drifting apart, going nowhere. Now look at us. We love each other. We’re great together. This hood has done that. It’s made us what we are. I want to honour it. And I can get Sarah to do my hair all big and long again so it’ll only be my face that’s covered. I want to get married looking beautiful, but hooded.”

 

“Okay, phew. I suppose. A small, very private ceremony then? Do they let you keep the hood once you’re finished your sentence?”

 

“No you don’t understand. I don’t want to just put the hood on for the ceremony and then take it off. I want to be locked in it. I want it to still be enforced on me. We have to get married before I’m released.”

 

“But that’s in just a week and a half Jem.”

 

“Well you better get your skates on then, Mr wedding organizer.”

 

 

oOo

 

 

Over the next few days Rob frantically tries to get an impromptu wedding arranged. I feel a little guilty that I have dumped all this pressure on him but the more I think about it, the more I know it’s right. This hood has brought us together. It has taught Rob the joy of looking after someone you love and it has taught me to let go and rely on someone else to help me, instead of having to be in control the whole time. It’s only right that the thing that has cemented us together should play some part in our ceremony. And while I hate to admit it, a part of me hopes that Susannah Black and her cohorts will find out about it all. She shut me away in a hood to destroy my life and I want her to see that she has failed.

 

With my return to some sort of normal life seeming imminent I have started taking an interest in the news again. Through my confinement I of course knew the general gist of what was going on, but in recent weeks I’ve been listening to the radio more and taking in the picture it paints of economic boom, good times rolling, a government at the height of its power, and the continuing subjugation of women. One story in particular has caught my attention.

 

A married couple had a blazing row after which the wife attacked the husband’s much loved vintage car with the stiletto heel of her shoe. As the owner of another much loved vintage car, I can understand the husband’s fury at this, but I have to concede his subsequent actions were a little severe. As punishment for the damage to his car he kept his wife handcuffed and hooded and locked in their basement for three months. When he finally released her she went to the police and tried to press charges of assault and domestic violence, but the police and the Crown Prosecution Service refused to act. They said that since no violence had been used and she had suffered no actual bodily harm then no law had been broken. When her attempts to have her husband prosecuted failed she tried to divorce him, citing cruelty and unreasonable behaviour as the cause. But again the courts refused her. They didn’t consider his behaviour cruel or unreasonable. One magistrate even criticised her for damaging his car.

 

The story had caught the attention of the still free, but generally only mildly anti-government media because it showed how much society could be manipulated and distorted without any laws actually being re-written in a democratic parliament. All that was needed was a change in the way existing laws were interpreted by enforcement agencies and courts. And it showed just how much our society was becoming corrupted and even misogynistic. The same anger and determination not to let it stand that got me into so much trouble with the library protests is here in me again. Why can’t I let it go? Why do I feel this urge to change the world all the time? I’m going to be married soon. Should I not be putting my energy into that and showing my husband-to-be how much I love him? And besides, if Rob vandalised my Lancia, I’d do a lot worse than lock him in the basement for three months. Perhaps this brave new world is not so wrong after all.  

 

On Wednesday evening Rob announces defeat. He can’t find any registry office that can do our wedding in time for me to still be locked in my hood. Most say they just can’t do it at all, citing problems with identification, signing the register etc etc, but I suspect they just don’t want to get involved in anything strange. Those that say they are happy to do it have no slots available in time. A few churches say they might be interested but I’m not religious and I don’t want a church wedding.

 

“It’s just no good Jem. I can’t find anywhere in time,” he admits.

 

“There is something I could do to help,” I reply.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Well this thing next week where I have to go round to the prison and make this confession and condemn myself and my actions, it’s not actually compulsory. I could go round and tell them to fuck off.”

 

“But then you’d get another six months in that hood. A bit extreme just for a wedding isn’t it?”

 

“It would give you plenty of time to plan something nice.”

 

“But six months Jem.”

 

“Don’t you want to look after me for another six months?”

 

“Well yes. I mean no. I mean I want to look after you forever, but…”

 

“We’ve managed the last six months okay. Rather better than the six before, if I’m being honest. I reckon I could do another six.”

 

“It means that much to you? To get married in your hood?”

 

“I think it might.”

 

“Are you scared of re-joining the world?”

 

“A bit. But the thing is, it’s not all bad in here. I’ve not been unhappy these last few months. And the thought of having to lie and grovel to those bastards at the prison, to say things I don’t mean, it makes my skin crawl. I’m thinking how good it will feel to be defiant and leave with my dignity intact.”

 

“Leave locked up in a hood though. What use is dignity then? You’re not serious about this, surely.”

 

“I’m thinking about it. Would you still support me if I do it?”

 

“Well of course I would.”

 

“Okay then. I’m thinking about it.”

 

“You’re mad Jem. Lovely, but mad.”

 

“Maybe. Now impress me with what sort of wedding you can arrange if we remove the time restriction. I want it gorgeous enough to be worth three months. Not having to sign their confessions will be worth the other three.”

 

 

oOo

 

 

“My name is Jemima Melstrom. I have been given this opportunity by the Corrective Restraint Parole Board to confess to all the crimes I have committed and to apologise to those my actions have affected. I think my first crime was probably at the age of seven. I used to steal sweets from the pick’n’mix bins in Woolworths, probably contributing to the downfall of that great establishment. And then I lost my virginity when I was fourteen, so by implication I had underage sex. And then there was my brief lesbian fascination with Tracey Hartwell which resulted in snogging and other sexual touching while on school premises. I’m sure that must have been illegal. I drove my father’s car without a license or insurance on numerous occasions, and always without his permission, so does that count as car theft as well? And then…”

 

The door to the interview room flies open and an angry whirlwind that resembles Susannah Black storms in. It stomps up to the table I am sitting at in its cheap-looking slut shoes and slams its fist down on the tabletop.

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing Melstrom?” it shouts.

 

“Erm, just confessing my crimes Miss Black. Like you wanted.”

 

The whirlwind seems to shrink into the shape of dragon which seethes and smoulders with rage.

 

“Not every fucking crime you’ve committed in your miserable fucking life. Just the one that brought you to my attention. The one in the script in front of you. Just read that you stupid bitch.”

 

The trowelled on layers of foundation look like they might actually crack if she screws her face up any harder. It wouldn’t matter if they did for I know there’s a Gorgon lurking underneath.

 

“Stick to this script Miss Black? Oh, I don’t think I want to do that. It’s all lies and bullshit and I don’t agree with any of it. You wouldn’t want me to add telling lies to my list of crimes would you Miss Black?”

 

“One last chance Melstrom. Are you going to read the script?”

 

“Err, no.”

 

“Well I hope you enjoyed this little charade, because you’re going to have six months to think about what a stupid little feminist cunt you are.”

 

“Thank you Miss Black.”

 

“GUARD! HOOD THIS FUCKING BITCH AND GET HER OUT OF MY SIGHT!”

 

 

“Jem? Jem, are you okay?”

 

“Err, yes I’m fine.”

 

“You were giggling away like a hyena.”

 

“Yeah, just having a little daydream.”

 

 

oOo

 

 

The reality of my opportunity to confess my crimes is somewhat less colourful than my daydreams. It’s just a letter that comes to Rob asking him if he is going to present me at the prison to confess or not. He has to tick a box for which option he chooses. I think about whether I should go along and then take the piss, pour scorn on them and refuse to say what they want, but of course in reality that wouldn’t be a good thing to do. I’d probably end up in prison for the next six months.

 

It is of course an impossible decision to make. And it’s not just my life that my ego is playing with. I’ve talked about it with Sarah and she has said that if I do it, she will snub them too and take the extra six months to show solidarity and moral support. Of course she actually likes being in chains so it’s not that surprising really. And it sounds like the most beautiful wedding imaginable will be happening in four weeks’ time. I could just wear a hood for the day, but it wouldn’t be the same. It’s six long months, but then I can hold my head high for the rest of my life and say ‘I didn’t give in. I stayed true to myself.’

 

Six months. One hundred and eighty three days. Twenty six weekends. That’s a lot of hunger, a lot of boredom, a lot of enemas, and a lot of not getting to drive my Lancia. And will a woman still be allowed to drive in six months’ time? Christ, that’s a scary thought. Six months. Yes. No. Yes. I don’t bloody know.

 

 

oOo

 

 

And so now I’m a married woman, and I have that awkward thing that only married women have to deal with, my name. Am I now a Macintyre or still a Melstrom? I think I’m going to be Macintyre for my personal life, but keep Melstrom for professional and financial purposes. That way I can honour my husband but also save myself a whole load of grief and paperwork.

 

As it absolutely should have been, my wedding day was the happiest of my life and was a triumph of urgent organising by Rob and Sarah. Of course I didn’t get to see any of it at the time and so the photos and videos are all the more special to me now. It was held in a lovely little registry office out in Surrey where the lady registrar was very helpful in accommodating our unusual requirements. She said there were some issues with identification of exactly who the hooded bride was, and of course with the office being a public building, I had to wear my gag strap and so couldn’t say ‘I do’. But the registrar accepted my collar-restricted nod as a sign of my willingness and we used my fingerprints to prove my identity, which were obviously on file with the authorities, me being a convicted criminal and all. And signing the register was a bit of a hit and miss affair. Apparently I wrote my name up the page instead of across it, but it still seemed legal. Sarah, who is now well experienced at doing my hair over my hood, made a stunning job of me and I wore a beautiful white dress embroidered with a few pale green flowers, matching white and green stilettoes and even a little hat with a white birdcage veil that dangled over my black, featureless face with great dramatic effect. The room was decked out in matching white and green flowers and Sarah, who was my bridesmaid of course, looked radiant in a green dress with a single white flower on it, a wide, floppy brimmed hat and of course her chains. She had unsurprisingly insisted in joining me at sticking a metaphorical two fingers up at the Corrective Restraint goons and their mock confessions.

 

The ceremony itself had been a gorgeous, but small and very intimate affair, but the reception was a much grander thing. Held in a nearby country house with a huge garden, we had fifty-six guests, and in an amazing show of support and solidarity for the bride, all of the ladies wore hoods. It was an amazing evening of fabulous shoes, posh frocks and tightly covered heads, along with speeches, music, dancing, joking, and a lot of secret partner swapping went on. There was food and drink too although only the men got to enjoy that, and there was no shortage of designated drivers when it was all over.

 

And the strange thing is that most of the ladies who were there have told me that they found it all a strangely erotic experience, some of them intensely so. And that obviously includes Sarah who took a lot of calming down afterwards according to Jack. There were of course lots of photos which found their way onto social media and got shared again and again. My wedding went completely viral and has been seen by millions of people all over the world. And that attracted the attention of the media who came calling and found a story of a lady with a mysterious, secret past, who had become a feminist protester, and ended up in a punishment hood, with her glamorous friend in chains, and who then found love and got married despite it all. They lapped it up and for a few days I was quite the celebrity. I have to say that for those few days I rather enjoyed all the attention, and my ego was delighted to have the paparazzi queuing up outside my house to snap me as I left for work on Mable. The attention span of the media is rather short and fickle though and it’s moved on elsewhere now. I’m just Jemima Melstrom, the music teacher again. And also Jemima Macintyre, the gorgeous and sexy sodomised fellatrix wife. And the fellatio never happens after a sodomising by the way. I’m not completely depraved.

 

And now the wedding’s all over and I have the price to pay. No honeymoon for me, just another four and half months in this hood. But I’m going to spend the time planning the party to end all parties for when it ends. I just hope my fanny will still work when the belt comes off. I guess I’ll find out in one hundred and thirty seven nights’ time.

Continued in The Accidental Feminist, Part Fourteen