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This is the story of how I became a Femdom.
Not through trauma.
Through attention.
Through pleasure.
And--let's be real--through a Muppet named Miss Piggy.
Chapter 1: Miss Piggy Was My First Role Model
She Took Up Space--and Smiled While Doing It
Miss Piggy was my first contradiction--brash, unapologetic, and dramatic. Everything I'd been taught to avoid, she wore like a crown. And the result? She was worshipped. She didn't downplay her intensity--she magnified it. And the result? She was loved. Worshipped, even. Somehow, all that flamboyance made her magnetic, not monstrous.
She didn't wait her turn. She announced her entrance. She flirted, fought, and demanded attention. And then she batted her lashes as if none of it had been her fault. Watching her on television became more than a Saturday ritual--it was a quiet education in the theater of female power.
As a child, I didn't understand exactly why she fascinated me. I just knew she stirred something in me that I didn't yet have language for. I didn't want to be her--I wanted what she had. Command. Presence. An authority so strong it made men pause and women lean closer.
Learning to Watch
While other girls talked about ballerinas and princesses, I watched Piggy. I didn't tell anyone. It didn't seem worth explaining that a puppet in heels and pearls felt like a map. But I studied her. Her voice, her hips, her timing. She didn't just enter a room--she owned it. She didn't just argue--she delivered monologues with punchlines and karate kicks.
At school, I tried to copy the way she tossed her head and planted her feet like she was about to launch into a dramatic aria. I remember a moment in third grade during show-and-tell, when I brought in my grandmother's gaudy pink scarf and tied it around my neck like a diva. I swished into the circle, paused for dramatic effect, and declared, "This scarf is for when I'm being worshipped."
The teacher blinked. My classmates laughed--but not at me. They clapped.
For a second, I stood frozen, startled by the rush of warmth in my chest. Approval, sharp and sudden, felt like power. It wasn't just that they liked the performance--it was that they liked me for daring to own the space. I felt seen, not for shrinking, but for swelling past the edges I'd been told to stay within. A few girls asked if they could try it on. I remember the heat in my cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from the buzz of control. I had made them watch. I had made them react.
At home, I would act out entire scenes for the bathroom mirror. I choreographed entrances. I practiced the way Piggy's eyes narrowed when someone crossed her. I experimented with ways of pointing, of pausing, of saying "Moi?" like I was the center of the universe. No one saw. But those rehearsals felt like rites of passage.
When she yelled, people listened. When she got angry, she wasn't shamed--she was indulged. I was too young to articulate it, but what I saw was a woman who broke rules and was still loved for it. That was revolutionary.
My First Experiments
The lessons I learned through the screen started slipping into real life. In second grade, a boy pushed ahead of me in the lunch line. Instead of stepping back like usual, I squared my shoulders, looked him in the eye, and said, "You must be confused. That's not your place."
He looked shocked. Then he moved.
The teacher gave me a raised eyebrow. But I saw the edge of a smile she didn't quite suppress.
At a birthday party not long after, during a game of musical chairs, a boy tried to shove past me to the last chair. I didn't fight. I just stood in front of him, arms crossed. "Move," I said.
He did.
And I didn't sit. I didn't want the chair. I wanted the win. The moment. I wanted to feel what it meant to make someone yield.
In the bathroom mirror that night, I practiced the look she gave Kermit. Eyes narrowed, mouth curved, knowing. It felt like I was tapping into something ancient. Something forbidden. Something mine.
The Wrong Kind of Loud
One weekend at a sleepover in middle school, the girls turned the TV to a teen idol movie. I changed the channel when no one was looking--to an old episode of The Muppet Show. The room filled with groans.
"Why do you like her? She's so extra," one girl sneered.
I remember locking eyes with her and saying, "Because she always gets what she wants."
She rolled her eyes. But later that night, I caught her trying on the lip gloss I brought--bubblegum pink, shiny, unapologetic.
We pretend not to want what we fear we'll never be allowed to have.
And then there was the eighth-grade talent show. I was supposed to recite a poem. Instead, I walked onto the stage in a vintage faux-fur coat, blew a kiss, and said, "I changed my mind. I'll be conducting this show instead."
The teachers didn't know whether to be horrified or amused. The audience howled. And when I walked off stage, I didn't just feel noticed. I felt powerful.
Not every girl who tried to be bold got the same results. Angela, in my class, shouted a lot. She stomped her feet, bossed people around, made a scene.
But no one admired her. She wasn't seductive. She was annoying.
That confused me at first. Wasn't she doing the same thing Piggy did?
No. Angela lacked finesse. Timing. Control. What Piggy had--and what I was beginning to understand--was performance. Angela begged for attention. Piggy commanded it. And I was determined to learn the difference.
Building the Archive
Piggy was the first. But once I recognized what I was looking for, the world filled with examples. Lucille Ball, who turned slapstick into seduction. Jessica Rabbit, who purred her way through danger. Madonna, who reinvented herself every time the world tried to pin her down.
I began collecting these women. Not physically, but mentally. I stored them in a kind of internal library of authority. They became reference points--how to walk, how to pause, how to speak low and still be heard.
In high school, I added real women to the archive. A teacher who made the boys sit straighter when she entered the room. She once said, "Your voice is a tool. Don't waste it on things that don't matter." I wrote it in the margins of my notebook, surrounded by stars. She never raised her voice, but we all fell silent when she began to speak.
There was a girl in debate club who wore her hair up like royalty and spoke in slow, measured syllables. When challenged, she didn't blink--she leaned back and smiled. I remember watching her respond to a boy who accused her of being bossy. "You confuse direction with domination," she replied, and won the round.
Then there was a woman at a coffee shop I visited after school--always alone, always poised. She never looked rushed. When she ordered, the baristas moved faster. I once heard her say, "Thank you, darling," and it didn't sound flirty--it sounded like a command wrapped in velvet.
None of them were loud. They didn't shout. They didn't ask. They just... expected.
And people delivered.
Other Ways of Learning Power
As I got older, I realized there were other models too--more dangerous ones. There was the aunt who weaponized guilt. The boss who micromanaged out of fear. The girlfriend who used tears like currency.
None of these felt like power to me. They felt like scarcity, manipulation born of desperation. Real power, the kind I had glimpsed in Piggy, was abundant. It didn't need to be taken from someone else. It radiated outward.
But there was a time I almost forgot that. In college, I dated someone who was slippery with his affection--affection that came in bursts when I was quiet and compliant, and vanished when I spoke too sharply. One day, after he ignored a boundary I had clearly set, I found myself imagining how easy it would be to guilt him. To cry, to make him feel like a monster, to pull sympathy over myself like a cloak. I even started the performance--a long silence, a shaky breath.
And then I stopped.
I remember thinking, "This isn't how she would do it." Piggy didn't manipulate. She announced. She demanded. She made people want to make her happy, not afraid not to. I got up, walked across the room, and said with a calmness I didn't feel, "You crossed a line. You don't get to do that again."
He blinked. He tried to turn it into a joke. I didn't laugh. I watched him flinch under the silence.
That was the moment I reclaimed the lesson.
So I made a decision. I wouldn't trade one trap for another. I wouldn't be cruel. I wouldn't be petty. I would be commanding and kind. Demanding and generous. Dominant and still deeply, humanly feminine.
What Piggy Actually Taught Me
