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DirtySomething: Bond Girl

"I've been a bad, bad girl."
Fluffy Dutton,
'Jailbird Jane',
1999.

Oh, the smooth sellotape sound of the bondage tape as it unsticks blackly from the roll, the chink of the furry cuffs as they snap into place, the smell of the rubber as it squeezes my soft, quivering flesh...

So my hooded master forces me to write, as he taps the leather crop against his palm with tightly controlled menace. Bent over my desk at a rather exposed angle (I cannot bear to be seated after the thrashing I recieved earlier), wrists chained to the keyboard, he has forbidden me any respite until I've given you, my readers, your portion for the week. The price for disobedience will be some harsh discipline. Now, what do I desire more? To write my column for you, my fans? Or to succumb to a sound and thorough beating? As much as I love you all, sweeties, it's a difficult choice.

"People are strange", mused Jim Morrison. And I have to agree. Take our age-old addiction to violence. We've been tying up, punishing and maiming one another for at least as long as we've been documenting the process. Auschwitz was certainly not the first torture chamber. In medieval times, the rack and the Iron maiden formed an integral part of any self-respecting dungeon, and like the Romans, the early American settlers, were masters in the art of enslavement - a history rife with beatings, chainings and other savagery.

Even stranger, then, that a lot of us perverts nowadays do this kind of thing for fun. Though in no way making light of the aeons of suffering endured by tormented martyrs, prisoners of war and bonded servants, I think it's true to suggest that for as long as the inquisition or the Nazis or the conquistadors have been in operation, so too have the Madame Whiplashes of the world, with people even paying good money to be a party to their discipline (as I would probably be doing now, if my boyfriend Jake Savage, today, in his guise as Dungeon Master, was not so obliging about servicing my little peccadilloes). Why do we desire this, I ask myself, why?

As a child, Hare Houdini was my hero. I fondly remember nights in front of the crackling living room fire, tied firmly to a wooden chair, as my family timed my escapeology efforts. Everyone took their turn, and the winner gained huge applause. (We didn't have a TV, and had to make our own amusement in the evening time.) Over time, the impulse blossomed. Whenever a bunch of kids played 'Cowboys and Indians', I didn't care which race I belonged to, so long as I was the one tied to the tree, wound head to foot with rope. "This explains a lot," said Jake, smirking, when I first told him the tale.

A lot of people are intimidated by the idea of bondage, thinking it only brings humiliation, injury or pain. But like any pursuit, the thing is approached in degrees, depending on your preference. It's like sports - you get your spectators, your Sunday kick-around types, your professionals, and your extremists. It's just a case of sorting out where you fit in, finding some like-minded folks, assessing the (very important) safety issues, and ensuring you have adequate equipment.

For some, the foray into punishment is purely a psychological affair. They may enjoy the idea of prostrating themselves before another, perhaps kneeling at their feet and acting as a servant. Pain may not really enter into this equation, a light tap on the bottom being adequate punishment for the disobedient slave. The sub/dom exchange can sometimes be even more subtle than that. It can manifest in the likes of an attraction to partners much bigger (or smaller) than oneself. The strangest case is a girl I know, a natural blonde, who is attracted to brown-haired men simply because their colouring is genetically dominant to her own.

At the other end of the scale, we have full-on torture; spiky paddles, dungeons, hog- tying, piercing, electric shocks, lashes, asphyxiation and other nastiness. We have people who enjoy being belted till they're bruised, or the skin breaks, and others who enjoy dishing out the punishment. We have people who fantasise about the act of comsuming another being - or of being consumed themselves - the ultimate act of submission. This of course is where people run into trouble, as recent legal cases testify.

Although I in no way advocate physically damaging another person (or yourself) I do acknowledge that the pursuit of sub/dom pleasure falls across a very long range, or distribution curve. And there's no doubt that for many, a dash of bondage adds a piquant sauciness to the act of love. Whether you prefer a Korma or a Vindaloo, I guess, is up to you, and your individual palate. If you start getting the urge to eat the chef, however, you should probably seek some professional help.

But why this urge to dominate, or willingly submit to the might of another? Why do we so love the swish of the crop or the cane that terrorised us in school? "Because I like the smell of rubber" says one chap. "It makes me horny" says another fellow, quite the pragmatist. "I was being beaten within an inch of my life, and I didn't care" confesses a young lady who's normally very assertive. "I love the sense of naughtiness, of being bad" says another.

I guess the motivation all practitioners share is, well, that they enjoy it. There is certainly a purely fetishistic element for some, in that the trappings of S&M (particularly shiny rubbery things) are a turn-on. Others like to take on new identities, to get 'dressed up', if you will. But for most, the sense of power, control and / or physical sensation are equally important.

For a more intellectual approach, the writings of Michel Foucault provide an interesting perspective. Foucault saw social structures as sort of conduits for 'power'. Every social transaction, no matter how tiny, or apparently insignificant, involved a power struggle or an exchange of some kind. From the level of simple conversations, to the control mechanism exercised by government bodies and religious organisations, everything involved a power flow between humans.

The act of willing submission, or dominance then, was very exciting to Mr Foucault, because it injected a sense of playfulness into this notion of 'power relations'; participants could shuck off the station allocated to them in life, and play around, taking turns if they wished, enjoying the sense of power over another, (or of their own powerlessness if they allowed themselves to be dominated). And this, he felt, was a liberating move.

Of course, he was a kinky old chap, and quite fond of a bit of tie-me-up, tie-me-down himself, so his area of academic research must have been a source of great pleasure to him. For me, willful diva that I am, the pleasure comes from, for once, not being able to stamp my foot and have my own way, of abandoning myself completely to the vagaries of some stern master. For others, I believe that the pleasure of submission is in letting go, forgetting their responsibilities, going back to a childlike state when we weren't in control of our lives, and therefore not responsible for the outcomes of our own decisions and free will.

For Dominants, perhaps, the pleasure lies in seizing power, in being God for a day. There is also the adolescent joy of holding another captive, and visiting strange torments on them - of making them squirm, or squeal, or beg for mercy. You are free to bestow the most intense pleasure, or the most humiliating castigation (not to be confused with castration, please, to all of you Mrs Bobbits out there), and there is not a thing your supplicant can do to prevent you from either. Nor do they know, up to the last moment, which course of action you will follow. And it is often the psychological thrill of making another excited, of threatening them with punishments, and generating a sense of anticipation, rather than the end act itself, which is the most effective and joyful part of the whole transaction.

For transaction it is. Control is exchanged for pleasure, punishment for joy. And so the drama is played out. Because that is what good S&M is about - play-acting. It's supposed to be fun (or at least, physically pleasurable), not dangerous. That's why it makes sense to take safety precautions, to avoid risky practices, like asphyxiation, and to agree on a 'safe' word so that you don't have to guess whether your partner's cries are ones of joy or severe pain. If you find yourself wanting to endure (or inflict) lasting bodily harm then perhaps it's time to get some therapy.

Just a few thoughts, but I'm sure you have much more to add - so mail me, please do. The human race is full of kinks, and I know that my scarlet gel nails have only scratched the surface of yours. So write in, do, and tell Fluffy what you kind of fun and games you like to get up to.

Bent over my desk, I've performed my task to Master's satisfaction. The column is complete, and I've escaped a thrashing. But what did I desire more? To commune with you, my lovely fans, or to succumb to a sound and thorough beating? Perhaps, both. Wilful diva that I am, I want to have my cake and eat it. So as I lean forward, wrists outstretched so Jake can unlock the cuffs, my elbow 'accidentally' brushes against the delete key...

Oops

Yours, pink-cheeked
Fluffy D

Greetings Fluffy fans! I'm delighted that you've all got so much to say to li'l 'ol me, although I'm having to work hard to deal with all of your naughty enquiries, and separate the wicked from the downright unprintable.

Like Mr S. of Drogheda, whose rather revealing photo of his magnificent appendage is unfortunately a little too turgid to display on these pages. But I can assure you, Mr S, that it's up on my wall and being used as a dart board by Frou-Frou as we speak (you can take that as a compliment, sweetie, she's only jealous!).

But enough of me, me, me - let's give the boys a chance!

Mr J.R .of Dublin writes:
Are you begging for a lashing?

"Her capacity for physical pleasure finally catches up with the vagaries of her imagination, no matter how smutty or bizarre. She's spent three decades learning how to use her best assets, and now she's refined her techniques to a 't'. This is where I find myself today. "

No now woman could be honest enough to admit that the three decades spent pruning the art of pleasure, should under normal circumstances be sufficient to capture and retain a man in his prime. Yet sadly the focus on the modern woman has presented mankind with a dilema. Does he go for young & nubile or does he go for old and dirty. Sadly a tired steak in the window of FX Buckley's at 5.55pm on a Saturday afternoon isn't appealing - no matter how peppery the sauce!

Fluffy:
Oooh Mr J.R., you naughty boy - in fact, on reflection, that is probably exactly what you are. In addition to your obvious need for a grammar and spelling primer, no red- blooded gentleman would speak to a lady that way. Although matters of the heart, and flesh, are of course strictly a matter for one's own palette, and there's no accounting for tastes, I suspect you are the kind of diner who can't tell the difference between sparkling Lambrusco and an altogether finer vintage. I guess I'll just have to take you with a pinch of salt, young Sir!

P.S. Lashing, maybe! You obviously haven't read the column above, or you'd realise that this is one of Fluffy's favourite pastimes. Or maybe you're the one who'd secretly like to be tied up, stripped and whipped till you beg for mercy, you naughty little worm!

On the other hand, I certainly approve of the nice Mr M.C.:
Mr M.C. writes:
Enjoyed the article but winced a bit at the "purple-veined yoghurt thrower dangling in the breeze" comment. In work so I can't check out the links but will do at home.

Keep up the good work, 'goin up with my purple-veined buddy to throw some of my own yoghurt!

Fluffy:
Yes Mr M.C., I've had this reaction before. The 'yoghurt thrower' phrase seems to provoke the same response in most folks (well, most respectable folks) as the sight of a customs official snapping on those latex gloves or Nurse Stern wielding a stout 'colonic irrigation' hose.

If I may explain - my friend and colleague, lap-dancer Bunny Brosnan, had a little wager with me, betting a fifty euro shopping spree in Dublin's one and only Miss Fantasia's that I couldn't insert The Face Magazine's 'top ten sex words' list into my column without being completely gratuitous.

I'd slid in nine of the ten no problem, and I wanted that vibrating Easter egg so badly! Well spotted, Mr M.C., and glad to see that you're getting into the spirit of things. I will certainly do what it takes to encourage more readers like you.

Yours, dressed as a dairymaid

Fluffy Dutton
23rd March 2004

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