Tied 'N' Teased, May 2003, Issue 45

Can we ever unveil the mystery of fetishism? In some ways I wonder if we should ever want to. That mystery is part of what I like about it. However, there is pure fascination in making such an enquiry. Why does my heart pound when I see a man kneeling before me, collared and shackled in chains, as he lowers his eyes to show he’s overwhelmed by my power, and when I stare into his face his begging eyes beseech me to take him and stop causing him pain, and yet a part of him yearns to take more? In fact, I am excited whenever a power exchange such as this occurs. Even the look of the clothes that symbolise the authority figures that control such a power exchange, arouses me.

Where do these feelings come from? How did I get to be a Sadistic Lifestyle Domina who revels in wearing clothes that declare her status? Am I genetically predetermined to abuse and humiliate males, and to prefer to appear decked out in full leather regalia, the objectification of uncompromising, sensual cruelty? Or have there been events occurring in my early life that subconsciously triggered a switch somewhere in the seat of my soul that from then on caused me to be so moved by such behaviour? My wardrobe of bizarre and provocative leather, PVC and latex clothing as well as silk, satins and business suits is vast and diverse; I am most annoyed when it can’t be lovingly cared for and maintained as immaculate and to smell and look as if brand new. I cannot bear my footwear to be anything other than buffed to a high shine. The strict and complete control of a minion, a slave, to have him perform those dreary tasks for me, and to do them well, is itself part of the pleasure I have in maintaining my wonderful and extensive collection of clothes, shoes and boots. Am I guilty of abnormality that I don’t feel the same arousal simply by holding hands, side by side in a mutual exchange that is the ideal of the vanilla relationship? Do I even care anymore? No, because no one has the right to choose whom I love and how I lust, and then deny me expression of those drives. I understand that whipping someone may not look loving to some, just as a cuddly massage from an unfettered, un-collared and un-bruised partner, doesn’t look much like loving in any erotic and passionate sense to me. It depends on ones taste; that may be yours but leave me to mine. Maybe a tightly laced corset couldn’t really be described as comfortable but to me it feels like an erotic embrace, a feeling that has no association with discomfort, but instead accentuates my curves and asserts my feminine power.

All those psychoanalytic explanations of fetishism which pathologise it do not ring true to one for whom these symbols and situations have an innate and deeper meaning. Such depth of feeling cannot surely be acquired simply through associations with others occurring in early life. No, instead such passion appears ingrained, present from the very start, waiting for it’s inevitable and complete expression in life. Such psychoanalytic explanations that sees my desire as problematic is way off the mark. Those theories appear as a remnant of history belonging to an age of censorship and ignorance.

Fetishes aren’t simply connected to a sexual meaning. They are about something even deeper: life. Obviously, there is nothing morelively and vital than sexuality but when I see or experience something I am fetishistically inclined towards, I feel sexual energy, of course. But there is more. I experience the joy of life, a joy that truly makes it worth living. Something that makes me happy, although it may mean nothing to the majority of others. Oh but what joy when I do finally find one who appreciates these things as well! Who swoons at an immaculately cut suit, worn with a pill box veiled hat, matching handbag and gloves, fully fashioned nylons, corset and high heeled shoes, or alternatively a figure-hugging rubber cat suit and thigh-high high-heeled boots? Diverse looks, yes, but the symbolism is the same - power. I have it, and will use it unforgivingly, mercilessly and skilfully and attain a higher plane of happiness in the process.

The word “fetish” can have negative connotations. Marx quite rightly wrote about the fetishistic character of goods, calling it commodity fetishism when they become an end in themselves and when only available to the few at the expense of the many-although overlooking that these goods are in most cases vital. Fetishes have been appreciated throughout ancient history, such as in various religions to represent or act as a substitute for various deities. Is this an entirely separate meaning of the word to that which moves me? Maybe not, perhaps such religious fetishism is not unlike the symbols I use to represent my status as a Goddess to those that worship me. A fetish is an addition, not a substitute to my sexual attraction. I have no problem in a male adoring my long leather opera gloves or thigh high, 6 inch heeled boots because I love these items too, and in them feel more fully myself then I ever do when I am naked. They express something of the truth of me and of my world.

For most people, sexual satisfaction is derived entirely from the sexual act. Not for me. My sexuality is more complicated, more diverse and rich and also more intense. Instead, for me, sexuality is intimately related to those varied and wonderful fetishitic symbols and images. I have a slave arched over my well built thighs, awaiting a spanking. My beautiful hands, clad in long, soft black leather opera gloves spank his upturned cherubic bottom. He strains to keep in position over my lap. He can feel the sensuous texture of my seamed nylons. He attempts glimpses of my body which urges him to try his best to provide a decent level of acceptable worship and complete compliance, this in turn, of course, makes me want to flog him yet harder with my hand crafted whip. I enjoy his intense stare of longing at my full, almost exposed bustline, filled to bursting over my carefully laced corset, inspiring his dreams. He is teased by the splendour of my long powerfully built legs and feet which love worship, whether encased in boots, shoes or brazenly exposing red lacquered toes in sandals with six inch heels, just poised to smother his vulnerable, naked and prostrate form.

Fetishes need not be concrete. Intelligence I find exciting. I am the intellectual diva who delights in sparring bouts of intellectual gamesmanship with males. I have a penchant for scholarly men, outwardly superior, and have them serve as my most abject servants and personal slaves. It delights me also to reject men of towering intellect if that does not come alongside the necessary serious devotion that I demand. To discard them, lift them up and throw them down.

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