Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

Posts Tagged ‘spankosphere’

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.

Sunday morning dawned all-too early, although the call time for the shoot was eminently reasonable. I did all my pre-shoot prep in a buzz of happy anticipation: shooting with NSI again, and with my dear friend Bailey! Worries about how painful things might be generally don’t happen for me until we’re right about to start, which is when I always have a moment of, “Wait a minute! Why did I think this was a good idea–!”

All I knew was that they wanted me in “slinky black lingerie,” so I brought a black bra and lace thong and garter belt and stockings (I know I once had a black teddy, but I have no idea where it’s since gone, since Mr. Defeu doesn’t find such things interesting). That’s all Bailey knew, too, and so we put our sexy undergarments on with some trepidation.

Finally, we were vouchsafed that information just as shooting was about to start. (I think that sadist Paul was having too much fun leaving us to wonder!) It turns out that Bailey and I were girls who’d racked up an impressive debt at the tables in Marcus Black’s casinos (he was a multi-casino mobster!) and he was going to teach us a lesson personally. He started by having us spank each other, “because I won’t dirty my hands on the likes of you.”

When NSI releases this video, please note that he does actually at one point run his hand down our weals! In between takes, I noted to him that the psychic grime will never wash off – haha!

If you want to know what else happens in the movie, you’ll just have to join NSI. I’ll let you all know when it’s released!

My make-up was still reasonably intact after the shoot, so I decided it was time to shoot in a cute 1950’s “playsuit” that I’d be holding onto for years, waiting for the right moment to shoot in it. And a cute red “bathing cap” to match it. We met Bailey, Mr. Black, and Mr. Allen as we were heading down to the pool to shoot, and those wonderful people volunteered to help us out.

The pool and hot-tub were filled to over-brimming with kids and parents – ugh! I’m haven’t lost my shyness overnight (or at any point in my years-long modelling career!), so having everyone poolside watching me do posey-posey stuff was a nightmare. But I wanted to get some images, damnit, and I was in make-up and costume, and who knows when we’d find a chance to shoot again?! So I did my magic thing where I tuck away my shyness, and just ignored everyone. (This, I think, is the difference between exhibitionism and whatever I am. An exhibitionist revels in the attention of an audience. I just find the ability to pretend there isn’t an audience. “There is no spoon,” as it were. So I can go-go dance at a nightclub, work at a peepshow, make porn, what-have-you, and yet still be painfully shy most of the time. Yes, it is very confusing. I think I’ve just taken something from what I learned from my wonderful English teacher in high school about public speaking, and applied it to any potentially attention-garnering activity I have wanted to do ever since. And it’s worked — I manage to do the things I really want to make the effort to do!)

Since the pool itself was so full of frolicking families, I opted for the hot-tub as a place to pose, but it was stuffed with children aged about 6-14, who showed no sign of leaving. We waited and waited, and shot images in other areas while doing so, but the kiddies would not bugger off. Finally, I had an idea – I just strode over, and asked the kids if they would clear off for 10 minutes or so, while I shot some pictures I the hot tub.

Amazingly, they tripped over themselves to be helpful, clearing out of the line of the shot. That was as far as they went, however, and now I had a really really interested audience watching my every move. Joy. A few kids called out questions: “Are you a famous model?” Ummmm. “I hope to be someday,” seemed a safer answer than saying, “Yes, and your daddy may have jerked off to me.”

We got some shots, and then a few more from a different angle. When we stopped, I started climbing out of the water, and the kids burst into spontaneous applause. I bowed, pleased and surprised that they were so nice. My memories of a group of kids is from either being a kid myself (when they were all nasty vicious fiends who made fun of me) or as a camp counsellor (when they were mostly troublesome and as hard to herd as kittens) – a group of children all being nice to me is entirely unheard of in my experience. It was really lovely.

I was so happy to be done with modelling, however, just delighted to finally be out of the limelight. We all sat around talking for a while (most of us in the shade, just enjoying the desert heat), and then Mr. Defeu wanted to get out of the heat, and Bailey decided she needed sustenance. I couldn’t even comprehend moving, and so stayed down with Mr. Black and Mr. Allen, talking about everything and anything. That long afternoon rambling conversation of one of the best parts of the weekend for me: everything was over – parties and shoots and etc. – and all I had to do in the world was sit at my ease in the warm, warm air, talking with two new friends. It took me back to childhood, when summer afternoons would stretch out ahead of you like they would last forever. Except I was a self-assured (well, to the greatest extent I’ve known yet in my life) adult, who was able to really appreciate the pleasures of the afternoon for all they were worth. It was one of those “Life is good” moments, which not cherishing would be a terrible sin.

Once the shade had escaped due to the setting sun (watching Mr. Allen, Mr. Black and me hauling our lounge chairs back and back and back into the retreating shadows must have been an amusing sight!) I hauled my melty-brained self back up to the hotel room. I got ready for dinner – and my make-up was still amazingly well-preserved, and my hair looked as good as if it had just been “did” by a hairdresser – who knew sweating in a latex swimcap was the ultimate hair treatment?! However, we were hoping to have dinner with our friends, so we kept waiting to hear from someone with their dinner plans. Nothing, nothing. Finally Mr. Defeu decided, screw it, let’s have a scene. I hauled off my dinner dress and had on a white vest and navy blue gym knickers in record time!
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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 »

It’s going to be very hard to collect the memories of the wonderful Shadowlane Thursday through Monday, because there are A.) too many good ones, and B.) it’s all tending to melt together into a rosy-glowing blur of remembrance. Still, let’s see what we can do….

We arrived so late Wednesday night as to more accurately be Thursday morning. Thursday was spent chilling out and enjoying the fact that we were on holiday, whilst watching the spankos trickle in to the Suncoast Casino and Spanko Central. That evening involved hanging out with friends in this perfect combination of pre-party anticipation, happiness to see each other again, and relief to have a night of mellow chat that didn’t involve shouting over music before it all started up. If you’re going to SL and you can afford it time and/or money-wise, I really recommend this option.

That night, Mr. Defeu, obviously inspired by the companionship and discussion, bent me over his lap for a spanking, and then over the end of the bed for a taste of the belt. (Yummy, would be the taste! I really do love that belt.) Then a thank-you blowjob for him!

Friday day was a bit chaotic, as everyone was trying to get everything into place – people having suite parties were buying foods and beverages, last minute wardrobe alterations were taking place, etc. I was lucky enough to go along for the ride with Lucy Mclean and Bailey as they shopped at the Bettie Page store. It’s not every lucky girl who has able to to hang out with those two whilst they stripped down in a small room! I think I failed utterly at trying not to be lecherous.

I really could have used a disco nap when I got back, but it was time to start getting ready, myself! Here are some links for items from my outfit that evening:

• Bettie Page “Accountant” Dress
• Knee Length Petticoat
• Elegant Moments Sheer thigh-hi
• High Heel Mary Jane

I got lots of compliments! (Thank you to all who took a moment to say a kind word.) Although once the Northern Girls came in, they got pretty much all the attention for the rest of the night!

I got to catch up with friends, and meet lots of lovely people. It was very intense for me, socially, but that’s how that sort of thing always is for me. When I started doing this sort of thing in college (i.e. – hanging out in large groups of people I mostly didn’t know) it was because I was working at ManRay. And what I did there was to arrive before the club opened and get ready with my friends and fellow performers, and then spend all my time with them, much of it down in the green room. Then I would perform, which would be my real act of social bravery for the evening, but it would only last about 10 minutes! Or, if I was go-go dancing, I’d be up on a block, and sure people would be looking at me, but I didn’t actually really talk to them! After that was done, I’d be high on performance endorphins, and social interaction would seem so much less scary than being up on stage, that I’d simply not care so much about it. So, oddly, just walking around talking to people is actually harder for me, than getting up onstage in small amounts of clothing and doing kinky things in front of an audience!

Fireman Chris and Mr. Defeu and I went to a suite party after the vendors fair, and I finally got to formally meet Richard Windsor, which was wonderful and I hope to hang out with him again, but after a while I had to admit I was flagging, and so we went back to our room and snuggled into bed. Sleep was not immediately an option, as we happened to be placed next door to one of the biggest suite parties! The sounds of rhythmic slapping and cries of, well, if not pain, then some intense emotion, kept up for quite a while. (At one point someone seemed to be rhythmically lifting and dropping a piece of furniture as well – not sure what that was about, but hats off to them!) Happily, thanks to Mija and Paul, we happened to have QI on DVD, so we watched a couple episodes and by the end of the second one, things had mellowed out enough that we could drift off to sleep.

Part II tomorrow!

An awkward moment at Shadow Lane this past weekend: I was talking to some people, and made some unserious comment as to how much I wasn’t looking forward to a spanking (or something similar) and the person turned, concerned, to me and said, “But you do like to be spanked?!”

As with most awkward social situations, I made a joke* and rolled my eyes and said, “Oh, I’d hate to get spanked. That would just be terrible!” and this elicited minor chuckles and thankfully everyone moved on.

But it does bring me back yet again to my confusion with people in the scene who insist they hate spankings. (Apologies if you are one of the above – I’m not dissing you, just trying to wrap my head around this matter!) Why, if you hate to be spanked, are you at an expensive, weekend-long spanking party? (Or writing a spanking blog, or any other indication of a deep interest in all things spanking.)

When I first moved from BDSMville to the spankosphere, my attitude was the usual one you’d find in a dungeon: masochism is gooooood – in fact, the people who get the most “respect” in that scene are the serious pain sluts who could basically be skinned alive and would yet orgasm repeatedly during the process.

Imagine my confusion, upon entering the spankosphere, to come across people proclaiming loudly that they would do just anything to get out of the upcoming spanking – it was a complete and total paradigm shift, and, as you can see, I’m still not fully comprehending things.

At first I thought that it was just very extended roleplay – I mean, even BDSM folks can do scenes where they pretend, “Oh, don’t hit me with that mean old riding crop, anything but that!” So maybe, I wondered, the people who say they don’t like a spanking are just staying in that game all the time. Which is fine for them, but I would wish they’d wear a button, so I’d know what game we were all playing, the best to fit into any given spanko social situation. (I’m not sure what this button would say – suggestions welcome!)

But in the years since I’ve moved here (Years? When did that happen?) I’ve found some spanko neighbours who are as unabashedly enthusiastic as any whips-n-chains-er. So whatever reality some people are residing in, we aren’t all in the same one together. This is confusing for me – and I invariably get things wrong and joke about not wanting spankings with the happy masochists, and then boast about enjoying a recent thrashing with the no-ouchie-for-me folks. I do not like this. Being socially ept is hard enough for me as it is without people looking at me like I’ve sprouted eye-stalks off my forehead every time I talk about play.

After some conversations I’ve had since this most recent moment of social confusion, I think I may be altering my original notion about the “living the fantasy” concept. (So those of you who were just reading to the end of this entry so you could post irate rejoinders, please hold on to that thought….)
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