I had a friend who described once in quite a bit of detail, how she fisted her lover as a ‘submissive act’. I couldn’t get my head round it.
He was a surgeon I think. (Oh god or did I make that up? I don’t think so. He had a good job. He was Australian and married I know that much). The surgeon idea stayed with me because of the way she described the fisting ‘operation’.
She put on a red silk long glove I think. Or was it black and rubber? The point is I imagined her putting the glove on herself and stretching it up over her wrist, all the way up her arm to her shoulder.
And then turning to his ass laid out before her, and massaging it gently opening it up gradually, widening the hole. Before placing one gloved finger in, then two then three. And spreading her hand slowly open like a flower blooming in slow motion on a nature programme. I don’t know how she did it. Ive never done it or had it done. But I know she did.
I just don’t understand how he was the dominant partner in that situation? Lying on his front his arse in the air, or what on his back, his legs up her surgeons glove going in to find his innermost organs. The pain??
My conclusion is that when people say words like ‘dominant’ and ‘submissive’. ‘top’ and ‘bottom’ they dont know what they are talking about.
When one person has her fist up another person’s arse, she’s fisting him. She is the do-er. He is the receiver.
Power is everywhere and it never only goes in one direction. We try to harness it but we can’t.
‘If you need to piss in the night you must ask my permission. OK?’
‘Ok’ I say. I don’t really think about what this means. I am battered, my mind is still bent out of shape.
Earlier he told me to piss and he collected it in a bowl and put his dick in the salty liquid and told me to suck.
So I sucked. And I didn’t know which of us was inside who or how a cunt and a mouth and a dick can become as one.
I can’t explain why but there was something magical and serene about this act.
You have to walk through the glass doors into the other world to know what I am talking about.
But now I am battered, and bruised, and I feel like I am a child. Like someone else is in charge and it’s all going to be ok.
Sleep descends on our tired bodies, the smells and scars of sex sticking to our skin like bits of cum, or blood.
My dreams are a waterfall, a hot spring, a river bursting its banks.
At dawn the light jolts me awake. I need to piss. I still feel like a child, but this time I am scared. My bladder is bursting with shame.
Can I just sneak to the toilet without waking him? What if I wait too long and wet myself? Did he really mean it or was it a joke, a trick? What if he tells me I’m a stupid, dirty slut, for imagining he’d told me to ask if I could go for a piss?
In the end, I can’t hold it in any longer. He stirs next to me and the first thing I say is:
‘I need to piss’.
‘Good girl’ he says. ‘Good girl’.
It wasn’t a joke. I did the right thing. I feel relief wash through me as he takes me by the hand and leads me to the bathroom.
We are still in the other world. The room is filled with an aura, an electricity. I sit, naked, pissing. I look up at him in awe and wonder at how something so basic I have been doing all my life can suddenly seem exciting, and beautiful.
The joyful sound of piss hitting ceramic and water, a golden stream splashing into our consciousness, waking us up this morning.
Move over Elle McPherson, there is a new ‘The Body’ in town, and it has got abs to die for.
I was never a massive Ronaldo aficianado. I knew he had a great physique, but there was something about his slightly puggish, prissy face and lack of anything particularly unique about his countenance that meant he never really turned me on. Until now. This new ad for Armani Jeans shows the footballer as the adonis he truly is. And he knows it.
The advert is interesting on a number of levels. As Mark Simpson has pointed out, not only does it play on the narcissism of the modern, gym-toned, fragrant, man, and our growing acceptance of the objectified male body in contemporary representations, but it also features, on screen in the form of the watchful chambermaid, the ‘female gaze’ . I think if Laura Mulvey saw this ad she might have a heart attack.
If the woman was not on-screen, the promo would be a noteworthy and sexy as hell example of the metrosexual revolution in action in contemporary capitalism: Men’s bodies being used to woo customers, male and female and everything else, and ultimately sell product. Top-ranking buffed footballers are products, just as much if not more so than the classic supermodels of the 1980s and 1990s.
But here in the form of this svelte and foxy maid comes a more subversive addition to the melting-pot of our visual pleasure. At points in the film (can you tell I have watched it a few times? ahem!) she is viewed by us, the audience, mainly in the background, so as not to distract us from The Body. But then the point of view shifts and we see Ronaldo wandering round the hotel room, as if through her eyes. It is easy to remember countles ads featuring women stopping traffic, and men on building sites whistling at sexy chicks, but it is only recently that women have been shown on-screen to objectify and look at men with desire. The ones that spring to mind for me are the ones set in offices where women workers enjoy the arrival of a hunky delivery boy. But I can’t think of another advert off-hand where it is a single woman who owns and occupies the ‘gaze’, especially not so surreptitiously.
The maid doesn’t hold the gaze for long though. She is also seen, sometimes via the camera’s gaze, and briefly through Ronaldo’s, as an object herself. The archetypal sexy but disposable maid figure, seen from behind, stretching to reach with a duster, or bending down, searching for that elusive t-shirt the footballer has lost. (Doesn’t he have anything else he can throw over his offending torso??). It is a competition between the two for the role of the object of desire. A dance, a fight. Ronaldo’s tactic is sheer, physical force. Don’t you dare take your eyes off me, cries his perfect form. The woman is a little more subtle (as women, sometimes can be). She hides his t-shirt when she finds it, prolonging our torment by The Body. But this also gives her more time to become the object of his, of our desire. The fact that Ronaldo acts as if he has not even seen her, and at one point looks right through her, adds a kinky dimension to this scenario. The hardcore perverts amongst us can be forgiven for letting our imaginations wander to the point where he is actually deliberately treating her like an object, like the invisible, low-down, chambermaid that she is. And for finding that very hot.
The advert ends with Ronaldo still t-shirtless, but a blurred figure in the background, with the woman’s face framed in the foreground, as she leans, prone, over the sofa, waiting, looking like the cat that is about to get creamed.
I know I have interpreted this short jeans advert in my own, twisted vision, and have projected my own desires onto it. But in doing so I think I can make a valid point about ‘metrosexuality’ and objectification in our culture. No matter how much men become narcissistic, marketable objects of desire, women will never become ‘un-objectified’. So when an attractive woman and man appear on screen, there will be some kind of tussle for our attention. And in this tussle, something interesting happens, as we all grapple with our own position in relation to them. I was surprised here, to find myself drawn to the woman, even in the face of such a towering inferno as Ronaldo. Does this point to my latent ‘bisexuality’? Or does it relate to my ‘kinky’ side, seeing through her the potential for a ‘scene’?
I have been discussing this advert as if it were a piece of pornography, which, of course it is. This I find funny from a purely personal perspective, because when it comes to moving images, I really generally dislike pornos. The sight of people fucking, over and over and over again, and working out all the different combinations of where to put a dick in a hole, bores the tits off me. But the suggestion, the promise, the hope of a desire being fulfilled, shot in black and white to high production standards with beautiful models…now that turns me on. Feminists lament this ‘pornification’ of our culture, where sex sells everything, and everything sells sex. But I find it interesting and even exciting to see the tropes and styles of pornography disseminating so successfully into our mainstream culture. Maybe it is linked to the blurring of identities that the metrosexual inadvertently achieves, a breaking down of that false boundary between ‘porn’ and ‘art’, ‘good sex’ and ‘bad sex’. ‘moral’ and ‘immoral’ sexualities. I know there lies at the heart of all this fluidity, a bottom line, capitalist intent. But the side-effects are what interests me. The margins have always been the centre of my world.
Apart from the obvious, commercialised, commidified narcissism being sold to us on a daily basis, there is another downside to this hyper-objectification of advertising and visual culture. Once again it is visible via the wonderfully obvious objections by feminists to our brave new world. Organisations such as OBJECT (Get it??) are ignoring the blatant flaunting of male sexuality by The Body (as stubbornly as Ronaldo refuses to acknowledge the maid) and insist that it is women who remain objectified by male-dominated commercial society.
Feminists talk of a ‘backlash’ against feminism, shown in part via the continued sexualised imagery we see of women in the media. It is possible to look at this situation the complete opposite way, and see contemporary puritanical feminism, as a backlash against the metrosexualising, and ‘democratising’ of sexualities in our fields of vision. The feminists want to keep women as objects, because that is what justifies their project and their cries of male oppression of women. Lobbying for restrictions on lap-dancing clubs, campaigning against the opening of ‘Hooters’ restaurants, attempting to ‘End Demand’ for prostitution, are all campaigns by feminists in the UK, which can be seen in the light of this ‘backlash redux’. I wouldn’t be surprised if feminists claimed the Armani advert was misogynist, and made it into some kind of rape fantasy of the maid by Ronaldo (oh, no, that is just me. Sorry!)
But it is in America that I think neo-conservative ideals and feminists join hands so scarily. Melissa McEwan , an influential US based feminist activist with tendrils that scale the Atlantic, has written:
‘Rape culture is the objectification of women, which is part of a dehumanizing process that renders consent irrelevant’ .
This suggests that objectification of women’s bodies is a societal accomplishment that makes any negotiations between individual women and men over sex ‘irrelevant’. Women are already raped by the ‘male gaze’ so they can’t consent to sex. It is a 21st century version of the ‘heterosexual sex is rape’ argument of 1970s radical feminism. Laura Mulvey probably would have a heart attack if she heard that, too.
In America, and increasingly in the UK, there are growing numbers of campaigns against Street Harassment and sexual violence against women. The focus of these campaigns is to admonish men for catcalling women, for touching them in any social situation, and to prioritise and exaggerate the threat of rape by men of women. A friend of mine has linked these campaigns to the ‘social control’ of public space, via things like smoking bans in pubs, restaurants, and some streets in America. It brings to mind a very dystopian picture, whereby, if these anti-objectification feminists get their way, it could become illegal for men to even look at women in public. A policing of our desires taken to Orwellian, or probably Foucauldian extremes.
The irony, already noted a long time ago by Patrick Califia is that this kind of anti-objectification feminism just objectifies women to the point of idiocy. One anti sexual-violence campaign states that in a rape case, ‘the woman’s body is the crime scene’. Possibly one of the most de-humanising phrases I have come across in relation to women. We are presented as perpetual victims, caught in the omnipresent, violating male gaze, with no agency to either resist or enjoy that gaze, let alone to have one of our own.
The problem Miss Marple is attempting to solve, is just what is the relationship between our opportunity to ogle Ronaldo’s gorgeous body in Armani ads, and this Nazification of attitudes towards the objectifying of women- from feminists, conservatives and the tabloid-driven media. The competition for status as object between Ronaldo and maidie in this piece of representation is erotic, subtle. But it hints, as advertising tends to do, at a more sinister struggle, over how our desires and our ‘gaze’ can either be liberated or controlled in capitalist post-modernity.
Arguing about gender roles is something I love to do. I have realised that I particularly enjoy doing it with dominant men, even when I am within striking distance. Foolish maybe, but I cannot help myself.
A typical argument might go along these lines:
Him:’I would like to see you in stilettos and a tight pencil skirt’.
Me:’That’s such a fucking cliche. Why does the collective imagination of all the male dominants in the world get reduced to a woman in heels and a revealing outfit?’
Him:’Because it looks good. And you would be restricted and exposed at the same time’.
Me: ‘It’s not fucking fair. Women submissives have to fit into this cliched stereotype of femininity in order to fulfil their need to be submissive. And I am a feminist and it makes me angry to be forced into a role I have been resisting all my life’.
Him: ‘Oh good. So you might find it humiliating as well. Excellent’.
Me: ‘GGGrrr. That’s not the point. Why can’t men think of other ways to objectify women apart from the ways they are already objectified in society?’
Games Perverts Play : stories and essays from the sidelines of pornography…
Games Perverts Play is a new and unique collaborative writing project, edited by Quiet Riot Girl www.quietgirlriot.wordpress.com
Games Perverts Play uses pornography and essays to explore the less examined sides of our libidos, and to dissect our sexualities. Gender, power, pain and violence are all present in the background when we play. This project brings them to the fore, and enables us to look afresh at what it is we are doing when we write about sex, when we play sex games, and when sex gets serious.
First edition September 2010: OBJECTIFIED
We are told every day that women in particular are objectified in our culture, particularly by pornography. The word is supposed to have negative connotations.
But what happens when a bunch of writers take that word, and roll it round their tongues. What emerges from their pens? Their cunts and their dicks?
Here, writers Dan holloway, Marc Nash, Penny Goring, Mark Simpson, M de Winter, Arjun Basu and the editor, Quiet Riot Girl have objectified ourselves for your pleasure, and maybe your discomfort too.
I am delighted to announce the second edition of the Blog Carnival Of Kinky Feminists has been released. This time the theme is ‘experience’.
All the pieces are essays, as the erotica/porn we received was not of a high enough standard. If you do write S and M/Kink porn and want it to be included please send to me quietriotgirltwitter@gmail.com !
As I have been disassociating myself from ‘feminism’ I have realised some of the posts in the Carnival are not exactly in line with my thinking. But what I like about it is it is a place where difference and discussion are welcomed, and where narrow-minded puritans dare not venture. In that sense, I am happy to be called a ‘kinky feminist’.
This missed the deadline but would have fitted with the Carnival. This blogpost by Laura Augustin comments on how Julie Bindel was caught on camera at a feminist event saying if she had ‘one bullet’ she would put it to the head of academics who do research into sex work! The lovely Julie adds a comment below the post saying she was ‘joking’. I would agree that contemporary feminism does seem to be a bit of a joke these days, wouldn’t you?
It is hot in the city. But underground it’s a furnace. My tights are sticking to my legs as I clamber onto the tube with all the other sweating commuters. Hanging from the rail above my head, my underarms are not as fragrant as they were when I left the office. There is nothing I can do about it now.
The doors slide open to let another bunch of wilting workers onto the train. I squeeze myself further back into the vehicle. I am someone who likes her personal space, so the tall, muscular man that pushes himself right up against my body has well and truly invaded. I try to scowl at him but end up staring pleadingly into his dark, inscrutable eyes. His look says ‘I will stand where I damn well want’. I cast my eyes down and keep them facing my shoes for the rest of the journey.
When we finally reach my stop I fight through the crowd onto the platform and and over to the escalator that will lead me back out into the humid evening. I do not turn back to look, but I sense someone behind me, so close I can feel his body lightly brushing against my back. I hold my breath. At the station entrance I hesitate, suddenly unsure which way to go even though I have made this journey a thousand times before. ‘Hello’ says a voice, deep and self-assured. It is him. What happens next is inexplicable, and completely out of character for me. My whole body is screaming at me to run, to ignore this stranger and get myself to the safety of my home. Maybe it is the heat, but I ignore my instincts. I smile weakly at the man, who has now placed his hand on my arm and is squeezing it firmly. ‘Hello’. I am now disoriented and don’t know where I want to go. Sensing my indecision, he says ‘follow me’ assertively, and starts to march down the street in the opposite direction to where I live. I do not disobey.
At the entrance to a pub he stops abruptly and so do I. Looking me dead in the eye he tells me, ‘You are free to go. It is your choice. You do know that don’t you?’ I nod, in some kind of daze. Before I know it I am sat next to him in a dark corner, sipping a glass of white wine, my fingers shaking slightly as I try to look composed. He on the other hand is as relaxed as if we had known each other for years. He wears a shirt but no tie, and the top button is undone to reveal the top of a hairy chest. I don’t even know his name.
Suddenly I feel his hand between my knees, pushing them apart. Not roughly, but not gently either. He leans in and whispers in my ear. ‘I want you. Now.’ The words make me panic. I look around me, feeling slightly nauseous. I am in a public bar. I could get up to leave. I could alert a member of staff. I could scream. But I do none of these things. I am not in danger and yet I am terrified. I am terrified of what he might do to me. I am terrified of what I might let him do to me. I take a gulp of wine and feel his hand move up from my knees along the inside of my thighs. Oh God. I blush red crimson. I wriggle to avoid his fingers reaching in to find me. When I dare to look at him he is grinning broadly. ‘Good girl’ he says. ‘You’re a good girl.’ Then he grabs my hand, pulls me from the seat and drags me out of the pub into the hot, humid night.
It was our second date. Our first to begin in the bright light of day. We were in a pub, with the Saturday afternoon crowd. I sipped my wine and my hands shook a little. His hands were busy stroking my leg, my crotch, my hair. I felt as if everyone was looking at us disapprovingly. I felt like some kind of whore.
When we finished our drinks he shoved a note into my hand and sent me to the bar. I queried something with the barmaid and she snapped at me. Normally I wouldn’t take this personally, but today I did. I was convinced she was judging me, and my slutty behaviour. I tottered back to our seats on my heels.
Next thing I knew he was whispering in my ear.
‘There is something I want you to do’ he said.
I tensed, alert.
‘What?’
‘I want you to go to the toilets, take off your knickers and bring them back to me’.
I recoiled at the thought. But it was only 2pm. We had the whole afternoon, evening, night to get through. If I refused this first, arbitrary request, I may as well give up and go home.
So I found myself walking into the Ladies’, taking off my shoes, leggings and knickers. Putting my clothes back on I felt relieved that at least I wasn’t just wearing a skirt, so anyone could see what a dirty girl I was. As I walked the gauntlet back to him, I still felt all eyes were on me. I blushed in shame.
When I unravelled my fist and handed him the ball of cotton, he smiled and said: ‘good girl. Now drink up it’s time to go’.
As we walked out of the pub he slapped my arse. Not hard, but enough so the blokes stood at the bar noticed. He led his whore away, back to his house, where the serious business was about to begin.
1. Are you single? If yes, go to q3. If no, go to q2.
2. Are you and your partner(s) open and honest about the fact you see other people? If yes go to q3. If no, go away.
3. Are you a feminist, or at least an ally of feminism? If yes, go to q4. If no, fuck off.
4. Do you believe we should be making kinky spaces and erotica that is accessible to everyone, including men and women, cis and transgender and gender-non conforming people, LGBQ people, and people from all ethnic origins? If yes go to q5. If no, go and educate yourself.
5. Would you ever consider switching during play or during a relationship? i.e. from D to S, from Top to Bottom? If yes, go to q6. If no, grow a pair.
6. Do you like any or all of Bitchy Jones, Girl with a one track mind, Michel Foucault, Stephen Elliot, Anais Nin, Sappho, Filthy Gorgeous Things, The Piano Teacher, Hoxton Honey? If yes, go to q7. If no, go and explore.
7. Do you agree with Judith Butler that gender is performance? If yes, go to q8. If no, go to the back of the class. If ‘who is Judith Butler’? just go, and don’t come back till you know the answer.
8. Do you practice safe sex, take responsibility for and talk about contraception with your playmates and partners? If yes, go to q9. If no, get with the programme!
People always say that. Normally they mean it is paradoxical that a feminist and a ‘strong woman’ like me could be submissive. Let a man walk all over her like that. But I don’t see any paradox there. It’s just sex. You don’t have to re-enact all your political views in the bedroom do you? If so, I expect the Christian Right and the environmentalists have a pretty dull time in the sack.
But he means something else. I know. The way his eyes bore into me the way he told me to look at him, but I couldn’t. The way I suddenly got embarrassed when I was undressing and stopped until he told me to go on. He knows that there is a part of me that just doesn’t want to do it. That is so shy I cannot quite bear to be exposed like this, naked and vulnerable in front of him. And yet I keep coming back, keep turning up in those heels I can’t really walk in. Keep bending over. Expectant.
He says I am a paradox and he is right. But paradoxes can be hot, can’t they?
Quiet Riot Girl 