Schoolgirl spanking stories and sexual politics 12

Posted on September 3, 2014 by jaime

I had a French maid once. I mean, there was a maid who cleaned the apartment I was staying in, in Paris. The really surprising thing was that she wasn’t required to wear a little black dress with a dinky white apron, and totter about in ankle-breaking heels with a feather duster, saying, “Oo la la.”

Actually she was a reasonably attractive woman who wore flat sensible shoes, with a blue industrial smock and hairnet. She carried a bucket of cleaning stuff and a vacuum cleaner.

First point is: real women aren’t and shouldn’t be obliged by their employers to live up to a sexual stereotype.

Second point is: Fifi the French maid is a fun stereotype – or archetype, if you’re feeling grand – and long may she continue to make woebegone faces when Sir Stephen announces, over and over, forever, “Fifi, je te donnerais une grande fessée.” The stereotype will survive, and people will have fun and orgasms with it, even if real French maids don’t dress that way any more.

Fifi may once have had sisters in the real world, but now she doesn’t. But changes in the real world don’t affect the survival of sexual fantasy figures.

Similarly, it’s long past time to abolish school uniforms. A girl shouldn’t have to wear a flappy pleated skirt and the rest of the outfit as the price of getting an education. The standard school uniforms for both sexes were designed, I suspect, to emphasise powerlessness and the lack of adult status, and therefore to make school students more tractable in classroom settings.

When schools decided to put girls into a short, flappy costume designed to emphasise powerlessness, it’s not really surprising that that costume attracted a certain amount of sexual attention. But there’s no reason why actual girls who go to school should be made to wear the thing.

There’s evidence that you get better young adult behaviour out of school students if you let them dress like young adults.

It’s not only girls: boys shouldn’t have to wear grey serge shorts, either, but the boy uniforms are just ugly, rather than being a sexual fetish costume. Yeah, I know that there are people who have a bit of a thing for dressing their lovers, of either sex, in male school uniforms, and I salute their gender-fucking imagination. But it’s less common, so it hasn’t become a sexual stereotype.

But the girl school uniform is a sexual fetish costume, and parents and school governors know it. So they need to stop forcing girls to wear it if they don’t want to.

Schoolgirl spanking stories and sexual politics 11

Posted on September 2, 2014 by jaime

The first rule of sexual politics is that sexual stuff shouldn’t involve non-consenting parties. And especially it shouldn’t involve powerless parties who haven’t consented.

Yeah, that’s cool. There’s no denying that’s cool. But not in front of the actual girls who go to school, ok?

So the public sexualisation of schoolgirls is crap. Being an adolescent is hard enough without being marked publicly, by adults, as “naughty”, “sexy” and “hot”, and so on. Actual schoolgirls should be able to get through their day, and be miserable in their own way, without being dragged into sexual stuff that adults do with each other.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the strict teacher/naughty schoolgirl scenario.

That’s why I spent 21 posts telling the story of one roleplay game, early in my bdsm career, that taught me more about bdsm than I’d learned before. More than I’d learned in one evening before, anyway. It’s hot, and it does allow exploration of darker bdsm themes in the middle of what seems to be a silly, light-hearted game.

But the wider cultural fetishisation of schoolgirls is a bit unkind to actual girls who go to school. I don’t think “there oughta be a law” outlawing public display of hot adult women wearing school uniform. Laws like that always have more stupid effects than positive ones.

It’s just that as ethical people, perverts and sluts, we should certainly keep it well away from real, actual girls who are going through (1) adolescence, which is hard, and (2) school, which by and large sucks.

“Please, Captain, not in front of the Klingons.”

Schoolgirl spanking stories and sexual politics 10

Posted on September 1, 2014 by jaime

It’s a cold morning. Vicious wind and sheets of rain. There’s a group of schoolgirls in pleated school uniform skirts, waiting for the bus. They’re stamping and rubbing their hands. They’re freezing. A pleated skirt and a blazer over a cotton shirt aren’t nearly enough to keep the cold out.

But the Christian school they go to has a uniform and they have to wear it. They’re not allowed to wear sensible clothes for the weather conditions.

Just behind their bus shelter there’s a strip joint. It closed for the night about four hours ago, a little after three in the morning. But there are enormous paintings on the front of the building to show the punters and pedestrians what you get for your entrance fee, or membership.

So there’s a woman in a nurse’s uniform, leaning forward to show off the considerable heft of her breasts. Because, you know, nurses.

Beside her there’s an equally huge painting of a schoolgirl with an even more improbable body. She’s bending forward to present her arse to the street so the wind can blow her little pleated skirt up and show off her little white knickers, and she’s turning round to gaze at the rosy spectacle of her own arse, giving the viewer a red-lip-sticked O of surprise and a vista of her improbable breasts.

To flash both her ass and her tits that way, she’d have to have her spine made out of the same stuff as Linda Blair’s neck in The Exorcist. If she wasn’t a painting she’d be in traction for years, poor thing.

The real schoolgirls in front of that image never look behind them. That image and the word “Schoolgirls!” has been there for years. There’ve been schoolgirls waiting at that bus-stop in front of that sign for years. It probably feels like they’ve been waiting for that morning’s bus for years. The sign’s always been there.

But they don’t look at it. It’s there.

Jimmy Edwards: “Whack-O”, and “Bottoms Up”

Posted on August 13, 2014 by jaime

That last post includes a picture of a grotesque whiskery “schoolmaster” flexing a cane. I mentioned that I thought it was an English music-hall comedian called Jimmy Edwards.

I got the era wrong: apparently he was on British tv in the late 1950s as a corrupt and sadistic headmaster in a series called “Whack-O.” That was a comedy, which is pretty extraordinary.

You could produce a series about that these days, but it’d be about the soul-destroying damage he caused, and the slow process by which the justice system caught up with him. It would end on a bleak note, with the damaged children watching him being pushed into a van, and some hint of the things that had happened to him that ruined his own soul. “Comedy? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

So “Whack-O” will never be re-made. Some things change for the better.

But … he also made a film, called “Bottoms Up!”, apparently a spin-off from the tv show.

I don’t know anything about the film, except that it would have had more sexual jokes – and women – in it than the tv series.

But I do like the poster.

A Dubrovnik whore as a metaphor for Balkan politics 2

Posted on July 25, 2014 by jaime

So a sex worker walks into a bar in Dubrovnik. It’s after mid-night. She’s tired – everything about her body language says she’s tired, though she does the slut walk with real conviction. She’s pretty, in the classic short black skirt that shows her stocking tops. She needs, or at least wants, one more customer for the night.

There were three men in the bar, not counting the bar staff. I was one of them, and she pretty much ignored me because I was eating. I’d been dragged out on a fishing trip, and I went for the sailing, but I don’t actually like fish. So I was starving when I finally got back. But a man having dinner is not a good bet for a quick pick-up. I was going to want to finish my goulash.

Or maybe she just has standards. Anyway, she decided in a second’s glance that I wasn’t going to be a customer. She was right.

That left two guys. They were young, they were fit, and they had haircuts that made me think they were possibly in the military. Or just some kind of gang. Anyway, they noticed the woman, and that she was selling sex, and they were both interested.

At that point there could easily have been a mostly happy ending. The first one to whip out a credit card or a wodge of cash, and smile at the woman, would get to take her to his room, or to her place if the Hotel Imperial made it hard to take sex workers into your room.

The second guy would miss out, unless they liked two guys/one woman threesomes, but he could ask her if she had a friend and colleague, or just stay up a little later and wave her over when she was leaving.

But instead things got competitive, politely at first. One guy waved at the other guy, meaning, “You go, because I renounce my claim in a grand gesture of generosity.”

Now that would mean that the man who was waved at would get the girl, but that he would owe the other fellow, and be revealed as a less grand and generous man. So he waved back, meaning, “No, you go.”

They kept this going for a while. Then the girl got bored, so she sat between them, giving them a show of leg to remind them that there are better things they could be doing with their time. She got half out of her chair to kiss one guy’s cheek while wiggling her ass at the other, and then turned and kissed the other guy’s cheek.

So the argument resumed, but now there were no more shows of generosity. They both wanted the girl. They shouted at each other, saying presumably insulting and threatening things in Croation or Bosnian or Serbian. Then one of them pushed the other. The other guy pushed back. Then they started throwing punches.

The woman got up and distracted them by leaning forward so they could stare down her blouse. The fight stopped. She made some suggestion, which was also in a language I didn’t understand, but it was probably sensible. (Maybe, “Gentlemen, I’m flattered. I can take you both, at once or serially. If it’s to be serially, why don’t you decide who goes first by flipping a coin?”)

Anyway, things calmed down a little, because the men sat down, glaring at each other, and they only exchanged insults at a lowish shout. The whore waited patiently.

The guys wound each other up and they stood up again. Once more, they started pushing and throwing punches. At that point the sex worker, who’d wasted over an hour of her time with these two, pulled out her phone and called a taxi.

She left. But the two guys didn’t even notice. They were still fighting.

I finished my goulash and ordered a rakija, a really good one that’s based on distilled mistletoe. It was nearly two in the morning, now. The bar staff didn’t interrupt the fight, and I couldn’t blame them. It’s like breaking up a dog-fight; the human is likely to get bitten. Anyway, the guys were assholes, and I don’t think anyone else in that room minded if they hurt or injured each other.

They were still going twenty minutes later. That was my cut-off point. It had been comedy, but I was getting tired and bored. I went to bed.

No-one of the three got what they wanted. The girl got no money, and wasted over an hour of after midnight time when she plainly needed the sleep. Neither guy got laid. But at least they’d wake up in the morning with lots of new bruises.

That’s another one of those parable things.

A Dubrovnik whore as a metaphor for Balkan politics 1

Posted on July 24, 2014 by jaime

I was in Sarajevo on the 100th anniversary of the assassination of the Arch-Duke Franz Ferdinand. It’s a disconcerting experience, going past rakija bars at 8 in the morning, and listening to fat men in in their forties, in faded cammo gear, croaking out nationalist songs. That’s because you know that when they were singing those songs just 20 years ago, they were raping and torturing women and murdering men they’d put in cages so they couldn’t fight.

I spent much of the night talking with a woman about what it was like being a little girl in Sarajevo, with Serbs lobbing mortars at you and pouring sniper fire onto your school, when you’re five years old. Apparently it’s not scary at the time. It’s only when you’ve finished running, and you’re safely behind stone or out of range, that you start to feel the fear.

Kids shouldn’t know that sort of thing about fear. No-one should. But she told me this without any anger, which is one of the more amazing things about humanity.

Anyway, the next night I was in Dubrovnik, in Croatia. A little after midnight I was on the terrace bar at the Hotel Imperial, looking down over the Adriatic and the old city. The old city of Dubrovnik is a walled Medieval town (see my picture to the left of this text). It’s been very skilfully restored after the Serbs – again – pounded it with shelling for three years.

There was a working girl there, in her mid-twenties, pretty and mostly well dressed. The way her skirt didn’t come down far enough to cover her stocking tops was part of her badge of office, as was her bag, and the walk. She was extremely good-looking, and by local standards I’m sure her rates were high.

I’m not a potential customer for sex workers, but not because I disapprove of selling sex. I disapprove of the mistreatment of sex workers, which happens most and worst in countries where prostitution is illegal. But in countries where prostitution is legal, and working girls and boys can organise, buy or rent their own premises, and hire their own security, and don’t have to pay off the police and organised crime, I don’t have any ethical objection. It’s about decent working conditions.

But I can’t imagine having sex with someone who doesn’t know me, and I have no reason to think she particularly, let alone passionately, wants to have sex with me. The idea of a woman putting up with sex with me is completely cock-crinkling. If she’d just as soon not be there then I’d just as soon not be there either, no matter how pretty she might be.

Anyway, I’ll tell the rest of this story tomorrow.

Joseph Ratzinger

Posted on February 11, 2013 by jaime

I’ll write something lighter shortly. But for now there’s only time to say good riddance to an evil man. And to expect that the next one will be just as bad.

UPDATE: Another fascist. Not actually a surprise.

Sacramentalized sodomy

Posted on November 11, 2012 by jaime

One of the pleasures of watching the US election was watching the hacks pretending it was going to be close, and the Romney cheerleaders trying to convince themselves their man was going to win. I’m as excited by Obama as I’d be by any moderately competent centre-right politician who isn’t actually insane. That is, I’m glad he beat Romney, but beyond that it’s business as usual.

However, since then there’s been the meltdown from the religious right, who feel disappointed by the lack of respect they got at the ballot box. Now that has been exciting. My favourite dummy-spit is from a guy called George Weigel, in the National Review. It’s wonderfully sexual and self-revealing.

Those who booed God, celebrated an unfettered abortion license, canonized Sandra Fluke, and sacramentalized sodomy at the Democratic National Convention have been emboldened to advance the cause of lifestyle libertinism through coercive state power.

I like Weigel’s leap from typing “sacramentalized sodomy” to thinking of “lifestyle libertinism” being forced on him through “coercive state power”. He’s got his eyes shut and he’s waiting.

It looks like a suppressed gay thing, though that’s a cliche, of course. I suppose it’s just something that springs to mind whenever homophobic Christian Republicans say something more than usually weird. But the bit about him being coerced into libertinage by the state (perhaps by guys in sharp black uniforms?) should be pinging the radars of gay doms in particular.