Sunday, March 28, 2010
Pierre Molinier (April 13, 1900 - March 3, 1976) was a painter, photographer and "maker of objects". He was born in Agen (France) and lived his life in Bordeaux (France). He began his career by painting landscapes, but his work turned towards a fetishistic eroticism early on.
Molinier began to take photographs at the age of 18. When Molinier's sister died in 1918, he is alleged to have had sex with her corpse while left alone to photograph it. "'Even dead, she was beautiful. I shot sperm on her stomach and legs, and onto the First Communion dress she was wearing. She took with her into death the best of me."
Molinier started his erotic production around 1950. With the aid of a wide range of specially made 'props' – dolls, various prosthetic limbs, stiletto heels, dildos and an occasional confidante – Pierre Molinier focused upon his own body as the armature for a constructive form that ultimately produced a large body of photographic work. Most of his photographs, photomontages, are self-portraits of himself as a woman.
He began a correspondence with André Breton and sent him photographs of his paintings. Later Breton integrated him into the Surrealist group. Breton organized an exhibition of Molinier's paintings in Paris, in January-February 1956.
Pierre Molinier's enigmatic photographs have influenced European and North American body artists since the 1970s, including Jürgen Klauke, Cindy Sherman and Ron Athey, and his work continues to engage artists, critics, and collectors today.
In the 1970s, Molinier's health began to decline. Like his father before him, Pierre Molinier committed suicide at 76 years of age by a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Upon discovery of the body it was clear he had shot himself almost immediately after masturbating.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Like all writers, I have recurring obsessions – including, in my case, the divinity of sex, barnacles, and J. Edgar Hoover. I want to say, for the record, that I am not now and have never been, a columnist, though, thanks to M. Christian’s sweet offer, today I am a guest blogger.
Let me be clear. I’m not really as fascinated by the historical J. Edgar as I am by some of his image and the legends created around him. In popular culture, he assumes almost a mythical stature. This is the man of whom Lyndon Johnson, himself one of our larger-than-life Presidents, once said “I’d rather have him inside the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissing in.” As America’s top cop for most of the 20th Century, Hoover affected public morality perhaps more than any other person, and all too often, not in a good way.
Since his death, Hoover’s cultural image has evolved from an arch-foe of super criminals like John Dillinger into a rumored cross-dressing pedophile who held the great and powerful in a grip of legal fear, the master of files that revealed public figures at their most human and vulnerable, the ultimate voyeur who was himself above the law.
Hoover plays an important off-stage role in my new short story, “Lawman”, in the Circlet Press anthology Like a Mask Removed Vol. 1, a collection of tales about sexy superheroes. I wrote “Lawman” in early 2009 when more realistic superheroes seemed to be everywhere. Curt Purcell at the Groovy Age of Horror was writing blog entries that I was following closely and he asked me if I had ever written an erotic superhero story. Right around that time, my partner Drake was reading Secret Identity, Craig Yoe’s wonderful book about Superman artist Joe Shuster’s fetish art, and The Watchmen movie was getting a lot of pre-release press.
“Lawman” is the story of Dean, a retired member of a force of superhuman law enforcement agents, and his quest for a little taste of the sin he has spent his life fighting. The premise I started with was similar to The Watchmen graphic novel, which I had read several years prior – what if superheroes had really come into existence in the late 30s, at about the time Superman was created by two Jewish boys in New York City? Drake, having come into a treasure trove of 1930s crime magazines, was constantly regaling me with tales of Hoover’s self-publicized triumphs over the crime lords of the time, and he introduced me to culture of the time via colorful print ads and over-the-top cover art. It didn’t take long for the ideas to coalesce and blend into what I consider one of my best stories.
It definitely helped that I love comics, even though I came onto them later than most fans. I hung on every panel and every word of some of the superheroic soap operas of the X-Men books and then later on the sexy adventures I discovered in Heavy Metal, in Witchblade, Lady Death, Shi, and similar fare. In recent years, Drake has guided me through some of the history of comics and I’ve discovered the joys of Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman, men who have authored true literature in graphic form. I’m interested in the way comics have evolved over time to reflect our culture, our fetishes, our fears, and our aspirations. One of my secret author wishes is to have one of my works adapted into a graphic story someday, and I have to admit, there are a few stories I’ve written that I see in my mind’s eye as wondrous adventures that break out of the panels in full, four color glory right before I turn them into black and white, 12 point Times Roman text on a screen…
But who knows? One day, one of those visions just might wear a skintight, red leather corset and a glossy blue cape.
I’d like to leave you with a short excerpt from Lawman and with a huge thank you to M. Christian for giving me some space here.
“So,” she said, slowing her stroke along the length of his cock. “What do you want?”
“You got some place to go?” he asked her. “Some place safe?”
“You tell me when you see it,” she answered and worked on her drink. “You want to go there?”
“Yeah. In a minute.” He drank to match her, the amber rye lush on his tongue. A slow fire burned from his belly to his head. If he’d taken a drink four years ago, the other Lawmen would have smelled it, even a day later, or they would have seen the delicate pulse of his aura where the alcohol had changed his blood.
“Want to tell you a story first,” he said, his head pleasantly light from the rye. He studied Maggie’s beauty, the subtle curve of her small breasts in a white cotton blouse, the deep blue splendor of her eyes, her lips. “First week I was in the air, I flew out over Levittown 1122. One of the sector wardens called in a 4069, that’s a sodomy complaint, and dispatched me. I’ll never forget it. September…”
The air burned chill, scattering waves of heat as he cut through it, dropping in freefall then diminishing gravity to a slow glide, hearing the whisper of flesh on flesh, the board and stucco bungalow clear as glass when he filtered through the waves and pulses, finding the man and woman.
“She was beautiful,” he told Maggie. “She looked a little like you. And he was some kid no older than me. She had her mouth on him, on his … you know. His cock. I could smell their bodies, see the ... excitement between them. It’s hard to explain…”
White flash pulsing, then blue, white, blue. The taste of butter. Red heat between her legs as she sucked and pulled. The flood of blood through the veins of his member. The salty perfume of his seed and her saliva.
“I waited till she finished him before I busted them,” he said. “I got a fucking demerit for that. See, when you are a Lawman, there is always someone watching you. I never made that mistake again.” He killed the rye and waved the bartender away.
“Jesus,” Maggie barely whispered. “What happened to them? The kids you busted?”
He shrugged. “Rehab. Judge gave them a break because they were married. Not a peep out of them the next five years I was over Levittown 1122. That was a long time ago, a lot of years, but I think about it all the time. Can we go to your place now?”
Maggie watched him, the seconds dragging. Dean’s gut tightened. Maybe he’d said too much. She pushed the empty glass away. “Alright, but can I ask you something first? Didn’t you ever want to push back?”
Push back, he thought, as memory sliced him in places that still hurt.
Some days, in that interminable morning hour before the shot, with his head clear, he had wondered what would happen if enough of the Lawmen got together and said “no,” but the thought blew away on the winds of need. Saying “no” meant no more ACIP. To Dean’s knowledge, no one had ever even said, “maybe we should think about this.”
“Never,” he told Maggie. “But I’ll tell you what I do want. I want exactly what that dude got the night I busted him.” The devil danced in his words, and Dean’s heart beat a little faster.
“I want a blowjob.”
Angela Caperton writes eclectic erotica that breaks genre rules. She won the EPIC award for Best Erotica in 2008 with Woman of the Mountain, and is one of the authors in the 2010 EPIC award winner Coming Together: Against the Odds. Look for her stories published with Cleis, Circlet Press, Drollerie Press, eXtasy Books, and in the indie magazine Out of the Gutter. Visit Angela at http://blog.angelacaperton.com
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
You know the drill. Every 14th of February you get the chance to display your fondness for a significant other by showering her with gifts, flowers, dinner, shows and any other baubles that women find romantic. Every Valentines day you rack your brains for that one special, unique gift that will show your wife or girlfriend that you really do care for them more than any other. Now ladies, I'll let you in on a little secret; guys really don't enjoy this that much. Sure seeing that smile on your face when we get it right is priceless, but that smile is the result of weeks of blood, sweat and consideration. Another secret; guys feel left out. That's right, there's no special holiday for the ladies to show their appreciation for the men in their life. Men as a whole are either too proud or too embarrassed to admit it.
Which is why a new holiday has been created.
March 14th is now officially "Steak and Blowjob Day". Simple, effective and self explanatory, this holiday has been created so you ladies finally have a day to show your man how much you care for him.
No cards, no flowers, no special nights on the town; the name of the holiday explains it all, just a steak and a BJ. Thats it. Finally, this twin pair of Valentine's Day and Steak and Blowjob Day will usher in a new age of love as men everywhere try THAT much harder in February to ensure a memorable March 14th!
The word is already beginning to spread, but as with any new idea, it needs a little push to start the ball rolling. So spread the word, and help bring love and peace to this crazy world. And, of course, steak and BJ's.
Why? Well, as some enterprising men have declared March 14 to be "Steak and Blowjob Day", we women thought we'd get in on the act as well, a month later.
Cake and Cunnilingus Day is about celebrating female pleasure. It's about putting our orgasms on the agenda and demanding pleasure equality! It's about lying back and gorging on chocolate mud cake while our lover sticks his eager tongue into our pussy!
Valentine's Day is for lovers, no matter what their gender. It's about emotion, about committment, about relationships.
Cake and Cunnilingus Day is a little more carnally obsessed. Forget the roses! This day puts the focus on women, their sexuality... and their tastebuds!
Of course, it doesn't have to be all about cake. If you're so inclined you're welcome to celebrate Muffins and Muff Diving Day. Or Pudding and Pussy Licking Day. Or even Candy and Clit Licking Day. The important thing is that our coochies get the oral treatment they deserve!
Saturday, March 20, 2010
I'm back at his doorstep. This place I've sworn I'll never return to. Many times.
I feel dirty, ugly, as I ring the bell, and uglier still when he answers the door wearing nothing but a pair of baggy trousers. His feet are bare, his hair disheveled, he hasn't shaved in a while. He's not handsome, or well built, or even particularly well hung. Worst of all, he has a laugh that makes me cringe. I do my very best to never make him laugh.
"Hey, you," he says, and gives me a grin I know doesn't represent anything terribly witty or wry.
A slow nausea brews in the pit of my stomach. The better part of me tells me to smile, apologize and walk back down the street as fast as I can. I should go, but I never do.
He pulls the door open wider. "You look like you need a good, hard fuck." The tone is casual, like anyone else might say, "you look like you got caught in the rain," or "you look cold."
Knowing I won't answer, that I can't admit to it, he does what he always does; he shrugs, reaches across the threshold, grabs my wrist and pulls me into the damp, dingy hallway that smells of cat's piss.
He kicks the door closed and turns, pushing the air out of my lungs as my back hits the shabbily plastered wall, and he's on me like something hungry. Hands tug my coat open. One paws at my breast through my shirt and the other makes a wedge-shaped indent in my skirt. That's all it takes to ensure I'm not going anywhere, or changing my mind now.
"Been a long time. You had me worried there for a while," he growls, pressing his forehead to mine. "But I knew you'd be back. 'Cause you need it, don't you? Greedy little pain slut."
It always starts like this: so fast, so direct. There's no chatting about the weather or offers of tea or a drink. The ferocity of it floods my cunt. I worry about it soaking through the wool of my skirt and leaving a stain, but I press myself into him anyway.
He's instantly hard, grinding his erection against my hip. Sometimes he doesn't wait for an answer, but this time he does. He wants something in lieu of the service he's about to provide.
"Say it. Come on, you fucking little slut. Tell me how much you want it."
All I can manage is a croak, but I touch the side of his face, and move my head, sliding my cheek against his. The whiskers scrape against my skin as I nod.
He's not settling for that. He pulls away, and the slap that hits my face and makes me gasp resolves into a mean, painful hold on my jaw. "Say it, bitch."
The slap wasn't hard, but it stings and I already know that I'll have faint bruises where my skin stretches over my jawbone. I've left this man's house with a lot of marks. Not scars, just proofs of a well-tended garden.
"Better," he says, releasing his hold on my chin, only to catch me around the neck and shove me, bodily, through the open door off the hallway.
It's a bedsit with nowhere to sit. There's only a bed--which I've never seen made--and a table and a TV. I have no idea what he does for a job or how he lives. I've never cared and I don't care now. Shrugging off my coat, I drop it on the floor on top of my bag, and turn to unbutton my blouse.
Today he doesn't want to wait. The grip at my neck is gone and he pushes me hard, the flat of his palm planted between my shoulder blades, face down into the bedclothes.
They smell of him and sex: his, perhaps, or another woman's--maybe both. I wonder how long she's been gone, and feel for the presence of lingering warmth without really thinking about it. Before I can roll over, he's wrenching up the back of my skirt.
"Don't fucking move," he says, and then inhales. A few moment of silence thicken the atmosphere. "You smell like cunt."
His hands make a warm survey of my ass cheeks and skim down the backs of each thigh. I'm wearing stay-up stockings because, the last time I was here, he destroyed an expensive pair of 10-dernier pantyhose. This time I've planned ahead.
Outside a car goes by along the wet road, its engine echoing through the canyon of white painted townhouses. The street is mid-morning quiet, and the sound of his uneven breathing fills the room. That's how I know he likes the stockings.
"Next time, don't bother with the knickers. Alright?"
The bed jostles as he climbs onto it, pressing one knee between my legs to part them. I lift my head to look back at him. I want to tell him there is going to be no next time. That this is the last time.
"Alright," I whisper instead.
His hand shoots out, grabs a handful of my hair and forces my head, my face back down into the rumpled linen. "Don't," he growls, suddenly angry. "Don't look at me."
Even as the words have left his mouth, his other hand has pushed between my thighs, and his fingers are digging into the sodden fabric at the front of my panties. He knows exactly how to make me raise my hips in avoidance of the pain, and he persists until I have to use my knees to gain some relief. Only when my ass has risen to the height he requires does he relent. The cruel fingertips that have been digging into tender flesh are suddenly replaced by a cupped, closed hand that smoothes and squeezes me until I start to gasp.
"You're so fucking ready for me, girl."
"I know. I am." I consciously make myself say the words; the least I can do is avoid hypocrisy.
"Fuck, yes." He groans a knowing approval.
He kneels close behind me. The fabric of his trousers is rough and scratchy on the exposed skin of my left upper thigh. Pressing closer, I can feel his erection against my ass cheek as he teases himself, fully clothed, against it.
His hand slews sideways, and his fingertips curl under the inside leg of my panties, pulling the crotch aside. Thick, blunt digits skim into my cunt, parting the swollen, wet lips.
It becomes impossible to stay still or quiet. Growling like an animal, I push my hips back. Want to feel something, anything inside me. But even as I do it, I know he won't give me that right now. This is the game we play: I beg and he refuses.
While one hand torments me, the other follows the line of my spine, from my tailbone up the center of my back, dragging the hem of my silk blouse with it. I know what's coming. Even before his dripping fingers have withdrawn, I steady myself and tense my muscles.
When the first blow comes, it's so fast, so sharp, I don't have time to make a sound. Instinct locks my hips so my knees won't give out and my jaw clenches tight. I've paid for my eagerness; his hand is wet and the sting is worse. If the smack hurts him, he doesn't let it show. Instead he pauses, watching my skin turn crimson. Only when it does, does he hit me again.
The second slap is as hard as the first, and this time I yelp. The sound pleases him; the covered cock pressed against my unslapped cheek twitches. A few more hard spanks and the tears start, hot and wet, soaking into sheet under my face.
I don't hold back. Sobs ascend from some riotous place in my belly, at first stale and hesitant like something shut up in a closed place for too long. But then they emerge louder and freer with each successive burst of pain, as if every blow scythes away another choking tendril.
This is our transaction: the culling of my creeping, strangling vines of confusion for his love of the pain he inflicts in the process of culling them.
When he's heard enough, he stops. His breathing labored, he bends over my upturned ass and presses his lips to the burning skin. The heat of his mouth intensifies the sting, but the same hand that has beaten me returns between my legs to revel in the strange quirk of my nature. My cunt has also wept, so freely that the inside my thighs are slick and the juices have soaked into the tops of my stockings.
"Want my cock?" he murmurs against my seared flesh, lifting his mouth only to pull my sodden panties down my legs
I take a staggered lungful of air and nod. "Yes. I do."
He backs off to unzip himself. That's all he ever has to do because he doesn't bother with underwear. Then he's back between my legs, sliding his thick, pulsing cock along the moist skin of my inner thighs.
"Well, that's good. I want your cunt. Or should I fuck your ass?"
This is always the question he asks while guiding himself between the lips of my pussy. I never answer him and, for some reason, he never chooses my ass. Perhaps because that's the location of pain and now he's focused on pleasure? I've never understood it, but I know, with absolute certainty, that it wouldn't matter what I said anyway; he'll choose the orifice he wants.
And so he does, easing into me with surprising gentleness considering what has just passed. Still, the penetration makes my cunt ache. I'm wound up, tight from the pain and it takes my muscles a while to accommodate him.
Instead of holding my hips, he reaches beneath with both hands, gripping the tops of my thighs in a way that forces my pelvis to spread. My inner architecture is changed, and as he begins to thrust, the head of his cock pushes hard against the end of my passage. And again there's pain, deeper now. It gives birth to guttural, strangled noises that escape my throat, even when the hurt leaves me breathless.
My mind is solely focused on the way he swells inside me, the way his fingers dig into my thighs, the way his hot skin presses against mine, still smarting from the spanking. When I'm empty of all thought, when he's fucked the last existential, angst-ridden worry from my skull, my body takes over.
Chemicals stream from synapse to synapse and trigger a storm of mindless pleasure. My muscles obey, contracting like anemones in a warm current. I flood around his punishment and begin to orgasm.
He speaks as I come, but the words are just so much noise. The mechanism that makes meaning is broken and in its place is a gripped fist of blind, stupid bliss. And when the words fail him, too, he grunts at my contractions, forcing his way through them, past them. Hilting himself in the spasming flesh, he erupts with a jagged exhalation.
"Slut," he whispers, once he's caught his breath. He reaches down and tries to brush the hair off my upturned cheek. Strands of it are caught in the streaks of tears; he picks them away with a strange, precise delicacy.
Even as he does this, a few thorny tendrils of abstract anxiety slither back into my consciousness. I give a hollow laugh tinged with weary triumph. Today they can't win. He'll cut them all back to the root, one by one.
When he pulls out of me and lets me curl up on my side, still mostly dressed, he asks the question he always asks: "More?"
It will start again, in some new place. He always finds the best locus of torment for the occasion--he's an expert. I don't love him or even like him and, for many weeks, I can pretend that my interior garden is beautiful and colorful and doesn't need weeding. But it never lasts.
He tends my dark garden with a skill like no one else. That's why I promise myself, each time I leave, that I'll never return. And why I always do.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
My introduction to BDSM was through stories. It was a gentle, yet erotic initiation.
N.T.Morley’s anthology, MASTER/SLAVE, (available from Amazon) showed me the way. Tempting me, enticing me, luring me along the forbidden, erotic pathways.
There’s nothing like the forbidden, to make me want to explore further -- and so I did, and I devoured the stories. I’m not brave enough to have ventured into the alluring world of BDSM, so I talked to people who know more about it than I do.
So, I thought, in a moment of clarity, that’s what they mean. It’s not just about inflicting and receiving pain and humiliating the submissive. It’s a negotiation, between adults, capable of making their own decisions in a simple and loving way. It’s a two way compliment and commitment from one to another. It’s a relinquishing of power, an exchange of power.
I love you and I trust you. Of course to the uninitiated it’s horrifying -- whoever wants to make love to the sounds of their lover’s cries and sobs. But to those involved, it’s intoxicating.
Jude Mason told me; “I can't speak for anyone but myself. But, in my mind, it's nothing like that at all. The person who gets a thrill from having someone else control him/her is simply enjoying an aspect of themselves not everyone has. A spanking can be the most sensuous act between two people who enjoy it. The feeling/shock of being spanked at the instant of orgasm is amazing. Having someone offer up their bodies for you to play with is such a rush.”
The stories in Morley’s anthology are amazing. M.Christian’s, superb, IN CONTROL -- who is in control? The master or the slave? Kristina Wright; IN THE STACKS -- a little homage to the Marquis de Sade. Midori; I SHOULD NOT WANT THIS -- a slave questions her willing participation in a violent whipping. She concludes; how could I not want this?
Life all fetishes BDSM has a long history; it goes back deep in time. Here’s what Wiki tells us.
The historical origins of BDSM are obscure. During the ninth century BC, ritual flagellations were performed in Artemis Orthia one of the most important religious areas of ancient Sparta, where the Cult of Orthia a pre-Olympic religion, was practiced. Here ritual flagellation called diamastigosis took place on a regular basis. One of the oldest graphical proofs of sadomasochistic activities is found in an Etruscan burial site in Tarquinia. Inside the Tomba della Fustigazione, (Flogging grave), in the latter sixth century b.c., two men are portrayed flagellating a woman with a cane and a hand during an erotic situation. Another reference related to flagellation is to be found in the sixth book of the Satires of the ancient Roman Poet Juvenal (1st–2nd century A.D.), further reference can be found in Petronius’ Satyricon, where a delinquent is whipped for sexual arousal. Anecdotal narratives related to humans who have had themselves voluntary bound, flagellated or whipped as a substitute for sex or as part of foreplay reach back to the third and fourth centuries.
Do you get the feeling that I’m avoiding talking about extreme BDSM? Yes, I am; but I think I have to; talk about it I mean. We have the right to do as we wish to our own bodies; don’t we? We have the right to give consent to someone else to someone else to do things to our own bodies; don’t we? Well, apparently not.
Yet I can visit a tattooist and have tattoos all over my body. I can have my clitoris, my nipples, or any other part of my body pierced. Of course I can.
But in 1990, the infamous Spanner case was brought to our attention.
In December, 1990, in the UK, 16 Gay men were brought to trial and given prison sentences of up to four and a half years for engaging in consensual S&M activity. This followed an investigation, by the police called “Operation Spanner” prompted by the chance finding of video tapes of S&M activities.
During a raid in 1987 the police seized a videotape which showed a number of identifiable men engaging in heavy SM activities including beatings, genital abrasions and lacerations. The police claim that they immediately started a murder investigation because they were convinced that the men were being killed. This investigation is rumoured to have cost £4 million. Dozens of gay men were interviewed. The police learned that none of the men in the video had been murdered, or even suffered injuries which required medical attention. However the police may well have felt that they had to bring some prosecutions to justify their expensive investigation.
The convictions have now been upheld by both the Court of Appeal and the Law Lords in the UK and the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg.
If the police discover you have engaged in SM activities which have caused injury, you and your partner could be prosecuted for assault.
Despite what you may have read in the newspapers, for the most part, the men were convicted of the standard offence of assault occasioning actual bodily harm. Their defence, that they had all consented to the activities, was denied. S&M is not itself 'illegal'. I don't know about the laws in the U.S., but Janine Ashbless tells me, that here in the U.K., you cannot consent to your own assault.
It’s not very comforting to know, is it, that if the police investigate you for participating in BDSM, the law is not on your side? Even though you have freely given your consent.
Billierosie lives in a pretty village in England. She doesn’t fit with village life; certainly not the Women’s Institute. Billierosie loves the theatre, Art, film, books and all things eccentric. Fetish is high on her agenda too. Billierosie plans to have fun and stay young, writing pornography.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The Musée de l'érotisme or the Museum of Eroticism is a museum in Paris devoted to the erotic art collections of antique dealer Alain Plumey and French teacher Jo Khalifa. Founded in 1997, the museum is situated in the Pigalle district of Paris, at 72 Boulevard de Clichy. The collection ranges from the ancient religious art of India, Japan and Africa right up to contemporary art with an erotic focus. There are five floors, including a basement exhibition. One floor is devoted to maisons closes, the legal brothels of the 19th and early twentieth century. The film Polisson et galipettes is shown; it is a collection of pornographic shorts formerly exhibited in the maisons closes. The upper two floors have revolving exhibitions, mainly of contemporary artists. It is visited by the main character in the novel Merde Actually, the sequel to A Year in the Merde.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
How passing the time in a coffee shop can lead to a business arrangement. Mobile phones and vibrators required...
“I’m playing a game with myself,” Stef explained. “I look at people as they come in and guess what their underwear’s like. Of course I don’t very often get to find out, but it helps pass the time.”
We were drinking skinny lattes in an upmarket coffee shop, a converted bank in the city centre. Around us were businessmen in flashy four-button silk-lined suits, solicitors taking a break from the magistrates’ court round the corner, ladies who lunch (after retail therapy) and some bright young things from the art college for whom a skinny latte would be the most expensive thing they’d buy all week. Stef was one of the latter, so it was just as well I was not only meeting her but picking up the tab.
“I suppose,” I mused, “it’s a kind of thought experiment. Even if you don’t know what underwear people are really wearing, you’ve made a judgment based on what they look like, how they dress, how they act, and made a leap of imagination about what they’re like underneath their public appearance. Are you imagining their hidden desires, or yours?”
“Probably both. Mostly I’m just thinking smart suit equals white CK boxer briefs, designer dress equals La Senza natural colored thong, briefs or French knickers depending on, erm, body mass index. But sometimes you get surprises. See the lawyerly type three tables along?”
I looked round casually. Smart suit, tight collar, sober tie, in reasonably good shape for someone in their mid-fifties. Probably a regular user of hair dye, because his carefully styled cut was jet black.
“I’d lay money on him wearing a full set of feminine intimates. Lacy teddy, stockings and suspenders. See how he sits so his trousers don’t ride up past the top of his socks? A lot of men like that, when they sit, you get to see a couple of inches of masculine hairy shin. But he doesn’t want to flash his pink stockings. He just gets off on the fact that he can wear that stuff in public and not be spotted.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “What about the guy in jeans at the head of the queue?” Twenties, in ripped denim and a white T-shirt so bright it sparkled under the lights when he flexed his pecs. A dozen rings in the ear I could see, a labret stud just under his lower lip.
“I’d say he’s the kind of gay who should be wearing something like a silver glitter posing pouch, except he puts more thought into who he can get his dick into than what underwear he keeps it in. Yesterday’s Y-fronts, turned inside out?”
I pondered this. “If you’re trying to profile people, I suppose the theory behind it has to be that some people just wear whatever comes out of the drawer first, and others care about what they wear because it has some private meaning, some feelgood factor, either to them or because they have a partner who’s going to see it. And the underwear style’s going to reflect something about their sexuality, whether it’s dominant, masochistic, kittenish, conventional…”
“So today you’re wearing the leather thong with the studs on the inside?”
I laughed. We’re both perverts and we know it, although that particular item was a running joke. I have never possessed such an item. The studs were on the outside.
Then her phone beeped. She consulted the screen, frowned, texted a message in rapid little clicks with long nails. Smiled brightly at me.
“Enough theory. Just play the game.”
I looked around the room. One of the retail therapy women was moving away from the counter. Bottle-blonde shoulder-length hair that made her look younger than the lines in her face said she was. Unconventionally for that crowd she was wearing leather trousers and long boots, a military-cut short jacket. One of her bags had a designer logo on it. The other was plain black plastic. She sat down carefully, leaned forward slightly rather than relaxing against the back of the chair.
I described her; Stef’s turn to look round casually and scope out my subject.
“Does a butt plug count as underwear?” I asked.
Stef had her cup raised to her lips. Trying not to laugh made her almost spill her drink.
Her phone beeped again. A frown, then a smile. “Can you lend me ten? I have to do a quick bit of shopping. It’ll only take a minute, you can get me another latte while I’m gone.”
I opened my wallet, passed over the note. Watched long legs in stripy back-and-purple over-the-knee goth socks walk out of the café, flashing thighs under the short tartan skirt. I did say she was an art student.
Stef returned, but needed the restroom. Her coffee was lukewarm by the time she came back to the table. And she’d lost interest in the game, because her mobile was going off every thirty seconds. And then she went to the toilet again.
I sighed, extracted a book from my shoulder-bag, settled down to read splatterpunk fiction. I’d found it earlier that day in a charity store. I’d reached page 21 by the time Stef returned, finally, from the ladies’ room. She looked slightly flushed.
“No thanks. I fancy one of the blueberry muffins they have here though.”
“I just wondered. Cold weather, short skirt, many toilet trips, you know…”
“All will be revealed.”
I couldn’t repress a snigger. When I’d finished sniggering I bought the muffins, because I have a soft spot for Stef. And because I fancied one myself.
The lawyer type, the one Stef thought was wearing a teddy and stockings under his suit, finished his drink and stuffed paperwork into his briefcase. As he came past us to the entrance, he nodded to Stef. She had something in her fist, reached out and gave it to him. He took it with one hand, and with the other placed a twenty note on the table. He raised a trouser leg just enough to show she’d been right about his choice of intimate garments. They both giggled. He walked out of the door without looking back.
“Explanation?” I prompted.
She took a breath. “We were playing with our mobiles last night, taking raunchy pictures. And swapping them, using the Bluetooth function. So I just forgot to turn Bluetooth off and all the files were set to ‘discoverable.’ He spotted the phone, spotted them, and texted me.”
She had the grace to blush. “And I’m wearing a little vibrating egg that’s phone-activated. It goes off when the phone bleeps.”
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
She shrugged. “And he showed me some of his pics. Then he asked if he could buy my panties. The only problem was, I wasn’t wearing any. I had to nip out and buy some.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I know it’s big in Japan, the used panty thing. You can even buy them from vending machines. But here?”
She sniggered. “There’s a definite trend. That’s why I haven’t got any panties at the moment. I’ve sold them all online.”
“Do I get the ten back?”
Stef thought. “He left a twenty note so I can’t give you change. But you could treat it as an investment.”
“Terms and conditions?” I enquired.
Stef finished her latte, put the last crumbs of muffin in her mouth. She always looks strangely hot when she puts things in her mouth and licks her lips.
“Buy me a dozen more pairs of panties. Then we’ll go back to your place and you can stipulate my ass off, with changes of underwear between each clause.”
Stef’s an entertaining person to do business with.
I might have been sitting next to her, but I texted my reply. She was still wearing the vibrator, and her face flushed.
Fulani has a deviant imagination, is socially isolated and lives a quiet life of grinding poverty. He likes playing with fire, usually a paraffin-soaked whip. He has also been known to create spectacularly complicated bondage suspensions on dance poles in fetish clubs. He sometimes blogs at http://fulanismut.blogspot.com/
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Soggy biscuit, sometimes also called Cookies and Cream or Ookie Cookie is a purported male masturbation game which originated from the United Kingdom in which the participants stand around a biscuit masturbating until ejaculating on to it; the last person to do so must eat the biscuit. The game is also known in Australia as soggy Sao after the SAO brand of biscuits popular there. The term "soggy biscuit" is thought to have originated in the UK sometime in the 1960s. Although the terminology may differ slightly, the notability of the game is such that variations on the theme are referred to in popular culture, examples including Stephen Fry's The Liar, the German movie Crazy, Adam Green's song "Mozzarella Swastikas", and Skinless's song "Scum Cookie". It was also referred to in a 2009 episode of Skins and the second episode of the first series of sketch show Horne and Corden and in a 2007 episode of the web show "Dorm Life", and in the 2007 season 3 episode of Drawn Together "Nipple Ring-Ring Goes to Foster Care," in the song "Sick 2 Def" by Plan B, and in the Blackadder episode "Chains".
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
What was there about the 1930s that made American men want to tie up women? A certain amount of BDSM begins to show up in popular culture from the 1920s, though not overtly. Pearl White knew her ropes and Houdini got a lot of publicity in the teens and twenties by being tied up naked. Aleister Crowley’s much publicized sex magic in his Greenwich Village years included the kinds of restraint and sensory deprivation erotic play that his pal William Seabrook carried to more creative heights, but the full flowering of ropes and chains didn’t occur until the 30s.
Was it the Great Depression? Some writers have theorized that the explosion of damsel-in-distress stories in the pulps and crime mags came about because American manhood was threatened by its new economic straits and needed to feel more in control. It’s probably telling that the 30s’ variety of bondage was almost exclusively female focused – images of bound men are far more common in the 50s for example – and the sensations evoked by having a lovely lady trussed and ready for intimate attention may well say something about male fixations in the decade.
The decade’s signature kink is probably best expressed in the pulp magazines. There was an entire genre of pulps that focused on binding and whipping women, fetishistic rather than misogynistic (though the line blurs often). Called Weird Menace pulps, magazines like Dime Mystery, Dime Detective, Terror Tales, Thrilling Mystery, and Horror Stories month after month featured beautifully painted girls tied, threatened, stripped, and ready for rescue. The genre became widely enough known there was even an article in the American Mercury parodying the genre.
The cream of the sexy pulps were the Spicy line, published by Harry Donenfeld’s Culture Publications. Not quite as rough as the Dime books and their brothers, Spicy Mystery, Western, Adventure, and Detective featured an emphasis on heaving, barely restrained breasts, but the women were not tied up quite so often. The end of the line for the sex pulps is often traced to an issue of Spicy Detective for April 1942. As the story goes, Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia happened onto the issue, freaked out, and ordered a crackdown on what could be sold on New York City newsstands. With the lucrative New York market closed to smut, the pulp publishers gave it up, Spicy pulps became Speed pulps, and the glorious era of bondage fantasy ended.
The end of the age had a lot more to do with the war, I think, than with the Little Flower. America cleaned up its act with the coming of the war – vice crackdowns happened across the country as we steeled ourselves to fight the bad guys. Now it was only the enemy who tied up our women and they did it more discretely than the maniacs and mad scientists of the 30s.
The great survivor of bondage culture was the creation of a guy named William Moulton Marston, a psychologist and inventor. Marston was a sort of Renaissance man, who dabbled in many areas. His discoveries about systolic blood pressure and stress led to the development of the lie detector and his behavioral theories about – yes – dominance and submissive behavior led to the “DISC Theory,” still beloved by management training companies today. Marston lived with both a wife and a mistress and his theories about the roles of men, women, and bondage led to the creation of Wonder Woman for DC Comics in 1941.
Early Wonder Woman comics are … there is no other word for them … amazing. Marston’s preoccupations infest every issue, with the Amazons playing elaborate BDSM games and finding liberation in their chains. If the philosophy is not always consistent, it is totally, wonderfully kinky and entertaining.
Marston may really be a kind of key to the cultural meaning of bondage for America in the 30s… a 20th Century expansion on “She Stoops to Conquer,” the emergence of women from passive objects to equal partners in sex, work, and creativity that we know and love today. World War Two empowered women and, after the war, popular culture sees an explosion of strong women and bad girls that probably represent a new kind of male anxiety, coupled with the desire for a little reversal in who gets tied up.
If Mr. Christian is willing, I may have more to say about that in the future…
If you like these images and my musings, you can find more of them (more pictures, fewer words) on my Tumblr Blog, Drake’s Way. My partner is erotica writer Angela Caperton. My obsession with vintage kink has helped inspire quite a few of Angela’s stories in books from Cleis, Black Lace, eXtasy, Circlet, Drollerie, and other publishers.