Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

Posts Tagged ‘Leia-Ann Woods’

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.

All the recent not-playing has left me with lots of time to read (oh, what a wild life I lead!) and I’ve continued on with my “Heinleins That Don’t Get Enough Attention” list. It seems I’m not the only one to realize what a great book Double Star is:

Whatever your viewpoint on SF, the fact that an award-winning book from a man generally named as one of the genre’s founding fathers (alongside Isaac Asimov and Arthur C Clarke) is so little known amongst otherwise knowledgeable cultural journalists says something about the way the genre has been marginalised by the UK press. Now that I’ve read the book, such ignorance also seems a shame.

The replication in question concerns an egotistical actor who is called in to act as a double for a political leader after the man himself is kidnapped. The actor (The Great Lorenzo) successfully performs a tricky diplomatic mission on Mars and is then called on to encore after encore after it becomes clear that Joe Bonforte – the man he is pretending to be – is unlikely to be able to appear in public again.

So far so simple. The story moves at a sharp pace, helped along by Heinlein’s slick prose and the kind of wry good humour demonstrated when he describes the multi-consonant names (Rrringrill) he has ascribed to his Martians as sounding like “a leaking faucet”.

In common with much of the best SF, it’s not just the scientific ideas that make this book worthy of investigation. History does too. The political concerns and philosophy that Heinlein chooses to project onto his imagined future also provide an intriguing barometer of his times.

The book’s impassioned pleas for understanding and tolerance with regard to Martian culture, for instance, might not make for a subtle allegory, but it is moving given the book’s context in 1950s America. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that a few of those impressionable teenage white males who comprised the books original target audience went on to stand with Martin Luther King on the Washington Mall a few years later.

And, here, finally, is the quote that this whole post is about!

As my father used to say, ‘Larry, you are too durned pretty! If you don’t get off your lazy duff and learn the business, you are going to spend fifteen years as a juvenile, under the mistaken impression that you are an actor – then wind up selling candy in the lobby. “Stupid” and “pretty” are the two worst vices in show business – and you’re both.’

Then he would take off his belt and stimulate my brain. Father was a practical psychologist and believed that warming the glutei maximi with a strap drew excess blood away from a boy’s brain. While the theory may have been shaky, the results justified the method…

The images in this post are from Northern Spanking Institute’s epic space opera “Schoolgirls In Space”, which you should go watch immediately! Heinlein would have entirely approved of it!

Paul from Northern Spanking Institute just let me know that there was a set he knew I’d particularly enjoy freshly posted.

And not only do I love it, I know Mr Defeu will as well, as it involves the distractingly beautiful Amelia Jane Rutherford in spandex, a sight which could turn anyone into a spandex fetishist! (Although, since Mr Defeu is already one, the effects will probably more physical than psychological. Ahem.)

Also, in adorable futuristic schoolgirl uniforms are two of my personal favourite models, delectable Amy Hunter (who just makes my painful crush on her all the worse by her being into dinosaurs) and ravishing Leia-Ann Woods (10 out of 10 fruit bats want to ravish her, I have on very good authority!) and also Paul himself, in a sexy silver shirt. (For those of you who like to see attractive male tops!)

Here they all are:

Schoolgirls Amy & Leia-Ann are on the first passenger trip to the moon, when their visit to the flight deck causes rather a lot of havoc! In space, no one can hear you scream…

For those of you who have answer my survey saying you want to see fresh ideas brought to life by attractive models — well, here you go! If you like girls being a bit bratty to “earn” their spanking, this should really do it for you! And, this has both excellent acting, and also very good “reacting” to the spanking and caning (there is protest and noise during the indignity of the hand-spanking, but they take their stripes well during the caning).

I’m really busy with several jobs right now, and I did NOT have time to go watch spanking videos and then do a blog post reviewing them. But wow, did that brighten my day, and so I forgive Paul for distracting me. [coughs] However, I must make one complaint — I didn’t get a chance to be involved in this, and it must have been simply amazing to shoot! I hope there are plans for “Schoolgirls In Space Two — Electric Boogaloo,” and I hope they include me!

(This screen capture’s from NSI’s amazing spanking film Wheatly Manor which stars the gorgeous Amy Hunter and delicious Leia-Anne Woods, who were both in not dissimilar roles at the Finishing School…)

Hello my poor neglected readers!

I am still deeply under the influence of a nasty case of jet-lag (also perhaps recovery from one of the most intense, wonderful weekends of my life), and so I’m just not ready to give you an account of myself at Mrs Darlings Academy during the Winter Term, 2010.

I assure you, however, that there is much of an account to be made. I’m afraid yours truly did manage to get herself in a wee bit of trouble at Finishing School. There were some hot moments in the chilly rooms of the ancient Scottish castle where we gels tried to learn the finer aspects of deportment and ladylike behaviour.

Until I can recover enough to get my mushy brains producing something, I have an impressive and ever-growing list of the recountings of my fellow students, and even of our most impressive Deputy Head, Miss Amelie Hammond-Grant (Or Miss Ham-and-Eggs, to go by the nickname lovingly applied to her by the ever-naughty Miss Tombola van Hoyden!)

I shall list them below, with the names they used at school.

Miss Amelie Hammond-Grant: Finishing School Introduction, Finishing School part II – The Bus Driver’s Tale

Miss Woods: Finishing School Part 1, Finishing School Part 2, Finishing School Part 3. A favorite snippet, involving me:

After the entertainment the drinks flowed and so did the punishments. I think we all received further punishments for one infraction or another. While the atmosphere seemed relaxed I took the opportunity to slip off with Zille. We had spectacular girlie fun and were both pleased as punch to have got away with it, or so we thought. When I returned to the dining room one of the girls pointed out my love-bite. Oh dear. With short hair I would never cover it. I went out for s smoke to think on what to do, when I encountered both Mrs Darling and Miss Hammond-Grant. I must have looked ultra guilty or worried as Mrs Darling, genuinely concerned stopped me to ask if I was alright. I said I was and tried to ease my way past them as quickly as possible. Suspicious both tutors took a closer look and of course noticed the love bite. Oh dear. Groundhog day. I was in trouble. Again. Finally I was released with a promise that I would be dealt with in assembly for such an infraction.

Miss Pandora Blake: Off to Finishing School, A Night At Mrs Darling’s Academy, Playing The Game, We who would virtuous be / leave smut behind us

Miss Caoilfhionn Ni Bradaigh : To Darlings We Are Sent, Finishing School: The Head Girl’s Tale (post by our Head Girl, Miss Catherine Thomas)

Miss Violet Kynaston: Finished off, or To be a lady

Miss Jemima Symington-Gore: Jemima Writes To A Friend, Eliane At Finishing School , It Gets Into Your Head

Miss Tombola Van Hoyden: Finishing School

Even a gal not attending Mrs D’s Academy has learned some lessons from it: Irelynn Logeen: Weekend Lessons.

Before I sign off for the evening, I want to note that some of the young ladies who attended Mrs Darling’s Academy do not have their own blogs. (Indeed, Mrs Darling herself does not have a blog!) I’d like to invite anyone involved with Mrs D’s fine institution to feel free to count my blog as a home for their accounts of and/or ruminations upon the event. Just email me (zilledefeu at gmail dot com, for those who don’t want to use the contact form on the about page) or ping me via Twitter or other social networking site, and I’ll be happy to give your writings the exposure they deserve (and we all want to read!)

(To already quoted people: If I have not spelled your name right, left bits off, or used another name for you, it’s because that seemed the safest bet — or in the case of a spelling error, because my guess was unlucky! Please correct me to what you prefer!)

I wanted to make sure that Saturday was less hectic than Friday, but I didn’t mean it to be so mellow that I missed the Punishment Book meeting! But I slept in late, and then Mr. Defeu and I had some nice morning sex, and by the time I realized what was going on (i.e, that the PB meeting as not on Sunday after all), we barely made it down in time for brunch with Mija, Paul, Rad, and Miss Cassandra. (Note, I see Rad has explained that he can only be mentioned “as long as it’s glowing bordering on gushing” – so he should consider himself thus described as shining brighter than a glow-in-the-dark Jesus, and gushing in a manner that would make Niagra falls jealous!)

Then Mr. Defeu and I chilled for a while, before he got called off to help the Northern folks with some errands, and I started my prepping for my outfit for that evening. To the right, a shot taken while hanging out pre-ball with Mija, Paul, Fireman Chris and Serenity, Iris and M, and Bailey.

• Black Satin Bullet Bra
• 6-Strap Garter Belt
• Pin-Up Girl Stockings
• 50′s Rockabilly Satin Dot Halter Dress
• Satin Bolero Jacket

(I’ve linked above to a nice dress that’s like the one I’m wearing, but the one I’m wearing is special because it’s loaned to me by the delicious Pandora. Although I may tell her if she wants it back she has to come to San Francisco and wrest it from my body personally!)

The dinner part of the evening was nice – and the food wasn’t bad; better than last year’s, I felt – and I basically played musical chairs moving around the table talking to people. And a whole bunch of San Franciscans stopped by to talk to me, which was so cool – of course, it is perhaps ironic that we had to go to Vegas to meet and/or get a chance to chat! My local peeps should feel free to stay in touch with me – we talked about lots of cool ideas for spanking parties and stuff!

My only complaint was that the music got cranked to 11 while I was trying to talk to people. I was already loosing my voice from all the talking and from the smoky air (it’s weird, after living in CA, to be in a place where there is smoking allowed indoors! My throat’s just not used to that sort of thing anymore!) and since there was only a small number of people shakin’ their booties, the volume seemed disproportionately loud. I would really prefer that there be a dance floor area, and an eating/talking area, and the music kept to background-level in the latter. If I want to go dancing, I’ll go dancing whether or not the music is turned up – and if I want to talk, having to shout over music just makes me cranky.

This increased volume encouraged most of my friends it was time to move on to suite parties Read the rest of this entry »