Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

Posts Tagged ‘David Bowie’

Just a couple days ago I linked to a post by Haron of The Spanking Writers which discussed the painful truth that: “without taking on and processing different kinds of violence visited by one human being on another throughout history, we would be bereft of any settings for role-play.”

Well, Pandora also had thoughts on the matter, and it inspired her to write this amazing one, in which she points out:

Reading this material is uncomfortable in several different ways. The first and obvious is basic human compassion and empathy: we are horrified to hear of suffering, particularly prolonged cruelty visited on the most vulnerable. At the most basic level, it’s painful to imagine torture because the idea of experiencing it ourselves is horrible.

As a pervert, it’s uncomfortable because of the superficial resemblance between the horrific reality and the sex games we enjoy. Never mind the consent boundary, the crucial factors of choice and agency; the difference between an experience that one chooses and can stop at any point; that is short-lived; that one shares with loved ones – and an experience that one does not choose, that is inflicted by people you hate, that is ongoing. The idea that we enjoy something which looks like something real and tragic and horrible makes us feel doubtful and guilty. The idea that we might be selfishly exploiting the suffering of others adds to that guilt.

Both Haron’s post and now Pandora’s have got me thinking, and I actually have a moment to write it down!

I have a lot of fantasies or general interests I probably ought to feel guilty about — and sometimes do, although less and less as the years go by….

When I was but a wee little girl, I knew I was into spanking, and I knew it was something to hide. And other ideas got my little mind all hot and bothered: the sight of a girl in a guillotine (I like to think it was about the bondage aspect of it, not the decapitation, but I was a sick lil’ thing, so who knows…), or the violence of the afternoon cartoon line-up when I was a kid — particularly Tom and Jerry, although they were all quite violent, come to remember it! I was fascinated by violence and couldn’t take my eyes of the screen, or close the pages of the book — well, unless some adult came by, in which case I’d very studiously be interested in something else, or flip to another page in the book. Me, fascinated by this stuff? Never!

When I was 12 I renounced all my kinky fantasies, and decided I would only allow myself a straight, vanilla sexuality. I didn’t have those words for it, obviously, but basically I looked around, found women’s romance novels, decided that was the paradigm of what I should be “into,” and banished all my kinky, bisexual notions from my head. (What I didn’t realize at the time was that romance novels are kinky in their own way, being generally either pre-feminist or so post-feminist as to have forgotten feminism ever existed, and having the fetish of “Big Strong Men With Shiny Muscles.” And there was usually a sexy bad guy who looses out in the story, but to whom my heart — and, errr, my loins — were always much more sympathetic.)

I thought I was well on track, despite the fact that first adult male I had a true sexual crush upon was David Bowie as Jareth in Labyrinth. I was obviously in a deep and sincere state of denial that it didn’t occur to me that this was kinky; that such lines as, “Just fear me, worship me, and I will be your slave,” might not be what is normally said in vanilla relationships. And the fact that I hated Sarah for not taking Jareth up on the above offer, but spurned his obviously superior affections … well, all I can say is that I obviously never had a good idea of what “normal” was in the first place, so it’s no wonder I should fail so utterly at trying to live up to such unknown and illogical standards!

Getting back to serious matters, though, I didn’t really understand the guilt of liking things other people “knew” were wrong until well after I accepted my kinkiness at age 17. It was my boyfriend Iago who got me into role-playing, and so even while I was a schoolgirl, I was playing “schoolgirl visits her Uncle Iago’s house and gets taken advantage of,” as well as my first explorations in bondage and rough sex. (He also gets the credit of talking me into shaving my pussy for the first time, and as I have done so ever since, I do owe him a thank you for that, even though he dumped me at my prom — leaving me to find my own way home, I’d add — which does temper my gratitude, rather!)

It was some years after that in which the big moment of disgust at myself for my twisted desires occurred. I’d done a fair bit of “rape play” (or, to use a far more comfortable and p.c. term, “consensual non-consent”) by this time, and I’d always been entirely sanguine about it.

And then one of my little sister’s best friends got raped. Really horribly raped.

I knew the girl and liked her a great deal. And she so didn’t deserve it — not that anyone ever does, but this girl had had a hard enough life without adding that much more trauma and pain and years of self-doubt and god knows what it did to her ability to have a normal sexuality, whatever “normal” was for her.

Suddenly, I hated myself. How could I — how dare I? — get turned on by playing with the idea of something so terrible, so destructive, so wrong! And my sister insisted on telling me details — I knew I really oughtn’t hear them, but I did need to provide support to my sister if she needed to talk about the situation — and to make things all the worse, the details sounded like something that, if I was doing them in a role-play setting, would have turned me on no end. Even just hearing about them caused physical, sexual reactions in my body, even as my mind was horrified at the details — and all the more horrified by my response.

It took years to get me back to that innocent appreciation of rape-play. That sentence may sound funny to some, but the fact is that if women were safe to play with such concepts, and never fear actually suffering them in real life, it would be a much better world! Now, with Mr. Defeu, I can explore my darkest fantasies, because I trust him so utterly. This is something I deeply appreciate.

But I still have a reaction when I see a brutal beating in a film, or a rape scene. One part of me despises it — wants to cover her eyes so I don’t see the violence. The other part of me can’t shut her eyes because it’s too erotically hypnotic. I can wince in total empathy … and yet get wet at the same time. And both are unconscious reactions!

For example, Mr. Defeu and I have been watching Heat of the Sun and one episode starts with a Boer man beating a worker (to death, it turns out later) and then walking back to his house, where his daughter has been watching the whole time. “Daddy,” she says, lust oozing from her voice. (Actually, what she says is “Daddeh” — sounds much sexier!) And her father reaches out, smears her lipstick with his finger across her cheek in this movement of pure promised sexual violence, and then grabs her and kisses her.

Well, I nearly fell off the sofa. I’m not made hot by the actual fact that things like this really happened in East Africa in the ’30s, but all the ingredients for a hot role-play (by my standards!) were there! Move the beating from some poor worker to me, and suddenly we have a winner: Daddeh and I (Motheh is out of the picture — it’s just me and Daddeh on the farm in the middle of nowhere) go out to a party, and I have a bit too much of the bubbly and flirt with a boy. Maybe even a native boy! [gasp shock] Well, Daddeh drags me home, where I am suitably unapologetic enough to warrant myself a serious beating — possibly with Daddeh’s belt, as it may be the first thing to hand! Then, because I’m like that, Daddeh takes me roughly (probably in the ass, which is what normally happens in my fantasies) to prove that I belong to him. What really gets me off in this fantasy is that it is entirely true for my character: as an unmarried young lady, I’d be the charge of my father, and he’d be within his rights to beat me. And, in that time and place, no one would pry into Daddeh’s business (he’s rich, a “gentleman,” you see) so he could really do whatever he wanted with me — use me as vilely as he liked, and there’d be nothing I could do to stop it. That’s the really hot part for me.

Of course, for me to get aroused while watching the scene in the show, I had to seriously overlook the poor guy who gets beaten to death. I have to seriously overlook how terrible the scene I just wrote above would be in reality.

Mr. Defeu, noticing my humping his leg during the scene in the show, and perhaps noticing that I wouldn’t stop talking about it, the next day showed me a scene from made-for-TV movie, “The Happy Valley”

Again, overlooking certain truths means that I can find that extraordinarily arousing. I’m bugging Mr. Defeu all the time now, “You can’t show me that and not do a role-play of that with me, Sir!” and [tugging on sleeve] “When are we gonna play Happy Valley, huh huh?!”

This post has taken me five days to write, not just because I’m rather busy caring for Mr. Defeu post-his accident, but because I’ve had to think through this stuff a lot. (And, in the case of The Happy Valley, think about it with Mr. Buzzy held between my legs.) Just last night, with strange correspondence, we watched a show with Trevor Eve from Heat of the Sun, and a grown-up Holly Aird from The Happy Valley. It was Waking The Dead Season Four’s “The Hardest Word”

(Spoiler warning — don’t continue unless you want to know the plot of the episode Read the rest of this entry »