Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

Archive for the ‘Ms Maggie Mayhem’ Category

Two things are making me think about my schoolgirl uniforms, today.

One, American Apparel has just come out with their own line of Pleated Schoolgirl Skirts which is really good news, because it means that it is much easier to pick up very authentic looking (not the slutty, obviously fake kind) skirts which are nonetheless made to fit people who have secondary sex characteristics (relevantly: a hip to waist ratio which is not equal!) They have a range of colours including: Heather Taupe, Light Charcoal, Dark Charcoal, Navy, and Black.

For me, authenticity is just so very vital. I don’t mind wearing a tarty little tartan number for parties, or in a joking way around vanillas or spankos who will find it funny. But for real scenes with Mr Defeu and other people who care about such things, well, authenticity is where my heart lies; it helps me get into that vulnerable headspace which makes a spanking scene so much more intense. For me, a slutty skirt would actually act as a shield, something I can hide behind, not something which helps me open up. (I realise this is ironic when the slutty skirt involves so much less material. It’s just one of those weird things: I feel emotionally nakeder in the longer skirt, with big ol regulation knickers under that!)

On the other hand, I don’t want to be just wearing an ill-fitting costume. I want the uniform to be something I would wear, something in which I can look smart. So sometimes, it is hard for me to balance the desire to get all my schoolgirl clothes from the children’s uniform section. Making real schoolgirl skirts for adults addresses this problem perfectly. (After all, the skirt fit you when you were a child. Why should an ill-fitting one be more “authentic” than one made for your current shape and size?)

Also, Maggie Mayhem has done a very intense post entitled Why I Hated My School Girl Skirt Then And Why I’ll Fuck In It Now. A quote I really like:

Porn isn’t in the wrong for using the school girl uniform, schools are already forcing and establishing the dominance pecking order by establishing a school girl uniform. That’s some non-consensual D/s shit and it’s much more appropriate to do between two consenting adults. Consensual outlets for self-aware control freaks, that is my sexual harm reduction method. Your brain is the best sex toy you will ever own and part of fighting oppression is looking into yourself and how it holds you back and how to participate in it. When you eroticize something, you pull it from that context and begin to engage with it in a way that moves towards more awareness. Just playacting doesn’t create the conscious awareness, thinking about why and the context with which you have those feelings is a separate and long process. At the very least, the images jump to the forefront of your brain in a place where you cannot and will not ignore them completely.

So what’s the word for that sexual identity?

Maggie Mayhem recently wrote about the shocking news that high school kids are having “group sex”, in one of her usual witty posts.

It got me remembering high school, and those memories exactly confirmed what she said in her post

Teenagers don’t have studio apartments. Maybe they have cars, all ages punk rock venues, hamburger stands, coffee shops, dances, parking lots, playgrounds, and their one friend who has parents vacationing in Europe. It’s not like teenagers invented the rule that you had to be 18 or sometimes even 21 to rent a hotel room.

Multi-person sex among teens is also known as, “DUDE! Steve’s parents are out of town and he has a heated swimming pool in his backyard! Party Friday night!”

I lost my virginity (with a boy, that is) when I was 15. My friends had gotten tired of me endlessly discussing my desire to have my cherry popped, and so they introduced me to a nice guy named Kwan who also, it seems, had been endlessly whinging about the same things as I.

He and I went on one date to make sure we liked each other, and we each found the other person eminently suitable for the job. We started chatting on the phone, and decided we actually really liked each other. So the date was set, and off we went, out into nature, for a ménage a sur l’herbe, as it were. A bit of the ol’ al fresco, nudge, wink.
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Last week, Leia-Ann Woods wrote about a strange phenomenon that exists in our little corner of the kinky world (it no doubt infests many other places, too). The issue is the strange morphing of the idea of supporting everyone’s kinks and fetishes (which is a splendid one, as long as the kinks and fetishes are involve consent of all involved) into a sort of pressure to actively like and enjoy anyone’s kink, no matter what it might be. Call me cynical, but I suspect there’s an unstated hope that not only should one like and enjoy that kink, but one should eagerly rush to participate in it with the person who mentioned it.

Written down like that, the whole idea looks obviously silly; we’re well used to the description of Voltaire’s views: “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it”, and its easy to apply that the world of kink. For example, I fully support your right to engage in Roman Showers, but please, please, please don’t start spewing anywhere I can see, hear or smell your happy ralphing games!

We even used to have an acronym for this: YKIOK! (Your Kink Is OK… with an implicit “but not my kink” tagged on the end). We can also simultaneously defend the rights of neo-Nazis and raving communists to spout their opinions, while personally preferring to listen to Rick Astley‘s Greatest Hits — on the basis that the Mr. Astley’s songs contain more useful social commentary than that of the others I mentioned…!

In essence, tolerance is not the same as taste, acceptance is not approval, enlightenment is not engagement.

All of which is fine and lovely, but Leia-Ann said it perfectly well, so why do I repeat her musings here? (And indeed, she expands more on the topic, covering the individual’s right to change, too).

Well, there’s a not unrelated piece of social politics that I’ve noticed popping up in the past few weeks. An account of our friend Maggie Mayhem‘s recent involvement in a new scene event managed some mild innuendo about Maggie and her partner Ned’s supposedly questionable ethics while demonstrating all the fun you can have with liquid nitrogen, but reserved the bulk of the author’s disapproval for the selection of artwork on display. The issue? That despite the venue being self-identified as “sex positive”, only fractionally more than one picture in ten was “female gaze” — which is, in this context, apparently a euphemism for “of men“; we’ll quietly ignore that this usage neatly glosses over the idea that a women might actually like looking at a picture of another woman, because that’s just a flea on the back of this dog of a problem. The furor continued with the shocking revelation that none of the artwork featured obviously transgendered models!

It’s not clear quite what ratios would have been considered acceptable. Perhaps the ratio should have matched the national average, which would have meant that 50.9% should have been “female gave”, or perhaps that 50.9% should have been of women? Maybe we shouldn’t be parochial, and should use the global average? Let’s be extremely generous and assume that 1% of the population is transgendered, and the male/female ratio is even (which it isn’t), so that means that 0.5% of should be of M-to-F transgendered folk, while the another 0.5% should be of F-to-M people. But wait, there’s more: out of each group, surely we have to balance the dom/sub imagery; let’s arbitrarily assume an equal balance, and that gives us a figure that 0.25% of the art should be of dominant female-identified trans people.

Oh, hang on: what about race? That soon takes us to a requirement that 0.001% of the artwork, or one picture in every one hundred thousand, should be of a native Pacific Islander M-to-F dominant! Phew! Sorted! Ah, wait a moment: that covers art of people, but not by them. But no matter: with an insane amount of effort, we can probably ensure that our picture of a Pacific Islander M-to-F domme was created by a Australian aboriginal lesbian sub, and cover those bases in that way. Of course, since even the Louvre in Paris only has 35,000 pieces of art, finding somewhere to display all those gloriously inclusive pictures may prove to be a bit of a challenge…

Now, heaven knows inclusivity is a great thing, and is to be encouraged. But so is art. The moment one lets political or social goals, however well intentioned, control what art is acceptable or not, one inevitably sacrifices quality to the quota. It just doesn’t work.

And more importantly, it cannot work. Art won’t, and shouldn’t, say the same thing to everyone; and part of the price of having something inspire you is that it may well leave someone else cold, or even repulse them. And even art which is generally considered “good” may be less-than-perfectly-suited to a wall in a “sex positive” space; for example, a print of John Sargent’s “Gassed” may put a bit of a damper on the mood!

Which brings us back to Leia-Ann’s core point: just as with taste in art, sexuality is individual and personal. It has to be absolutely OK for us to both like and not like things. And when someone starts trying to impose their taste, their opinions, their politics on our individuality — even in the name of inclusiveness — they become the oppressor, the tyrant, dictating what should be.

While on the subject of not liking things, there’s also been trend of conflating not liking with hating. In the spirit of such partisan mantras as “if you’re not with us, you’re against us”, the idea that someone might not actually want to see (e.g.) M/M spanking is equated with homophobia. Unquestionably, homophobes do exist, and it is undoubtedly a factor in the acceptance or otherwise of such material, but personal preference is an entirely different, and possibly more significant, factor. Those who rail against the lack of a particular type of material in porn strike me as like campaigning against the lack of vegan menu options at a steakhouse. If the market can support a holistic, fair-trade macro-biotic eating house (or whatever), then someone will go ahead and start one, or the steakhouse may decide to branch out and offer foodstuffs that didn’t once go “moo!” But if it the customer base isn’t there, then you don’t get to insist that the steakhouse must offer nut cutlets or Tofurkey just because you want to eat those dishes; your preferred dining choices don’t automatically preempt the steakhouse’s market-driven business decisions.

In reality, while those mutterings about the ratios of types of art were probably well intentioned, it’s a fundamentally misguided challenge to a symptom, and does nothing for the cause. The “problem” isn’t that a particular sex-positive space has “the wrong sort of art”, but that there are not enough such spaces. And the solution is rather simple: instead of complaining about the deficiencies of other people’s actions, DO something. Start a Filipino-Transgender-Dominant co-operative; open a Wahhabi-male-submissive space, make art featuring African women in chains (that wouldn’t be controversial, would it?).

And then put whatever you want on your walls.

At least, I think that is Bettie — what do you think?

I just love this clip, and hope it survives on YouTube (just in case it doesn’t – Chross, do you have this?). There is, technically, no reason it shouldn’t be on YouTube, as everyone stays dressed, and there is even a moral lesson!

My exciting lesson for the day is that I find white knickers with black garters underneath very exciting! Who knows why — I’m normally the kind of girl who matches her lingerie not only bra-to-panty, but to all the rest of the outfit as well — but that look totally just pushed all my buttons — well, stroked them, really!

Hey, Maggie Mayhem, what say you that we remake this video, as authentically as possible? That could be our next project together…!

Here is a shot of Rain Degrey from our recent schoolgirl shoot. I know some people (okay, well most people!) think that gym knickers are about as sexy as mullets. However, of course, the people who are turned on by gym knickers think they are hot as hell!

Mr. Defeu being one of those people turned on by those scratchy nylon “granny panties.” When we first got together, I was deeply dismayed that instead of wanting to explore my thong collection, he wanted me to go take my little racy lacy number off and put these nasty, unflattering things on instead! For a while, he actually used them for discipline/humiliation purposes, making me wear them under outfits I otherwise thought were quite sexy — feeling those gym knickers underneath was really embarrassing, even if no one could see them! (Worst nightmare: my skirt would blow up and every would see my unsexy knickers!)

I eventually got used to them, but it was not until one day when we put Miss Maggie Mayhem into them for a photoshoot that I realized, hey — these look really good on her! Her beautiful round bottom snuggly encased by the strong fabric … and it didn’t hurt that I was getting to give her a spanking at the time!

In retrospect, this is of course how a fetishist is made in the first place. Something happens, at some time (usually in impressionable childhood, but I am still rather impressionable and/or have not grown up!) that combines a glimpse or other impression of something with a good feeling (safety, comfort, arousal, happiness) and something clicks and your sexuality is set for life. So, Mr. Defeu, with my active participation, has managed to corrupt me into a lust for girls in gym knickers — I join the legions of Janus and Blushes readers.

Now, my work-a-day knickers are my lacy thongs (they are actually the most comfortable for me) and the special sexy knicks, for a hot date, are the big, high-waisted, low-cut leg, scratchy regulation underpants — viva gym knickers!

(More images of Rain in blue gym knickers…)