Alright. This one might be slightly “heavy”. But I feel like it must be relevant to current trends.
Especially since I can’t seem to escape that “50 Shades of Grey” book turned movie lately. This little story’s got everyone’s panties in a twist – from the feminist bloggers who feel like free speech shouldn’t be a thing when it offends their ovaries to those who just like the idea of being blindfolded and bound and ridden around the office like a Clydesdale who doubles as a postman.
(Is “50 Shades” like “The Secretary”?)
So, I decided to give this “Don’t call it a rape fantasy” article a read today. First, I’ll concede that I can’t judge the aforementioned book itself (haven’t read it). But from what I’ve heard from the excerpts read by celebs, criticisms, and the book summary, the plot seems to align with the whole “rape fantasy” theme the article covered in its “glorification of sexual violence“. Which leaves some wondering: why would anyone get turned on by such a violent act? Especially ones that apparently involve kitchenware?
The answer may be as simple as: Illusion versus reality – and biology.
The biology of it is based in chick-kind’s narcissistic need to be validated by a “caring caveman”. I liked that term when I heard it because it does kinda define the biological desire tendencies: someone strong enough to have superman sex (because that means he can also defend the fort Norris style) but sweet enough to raise your cubs without eating them (because, duh – gotta propagate). As for the narcissism? My personal opinion is that (even for those of us who don’t want commitment) the biological stirrings remain: constant validation (even by forceful pursuit) means a partner’s interested enough to not go sniffing out poon from another tribe. (Maybe that’s why female animals play hard to get?) As it was explained nicely back in the 1700’s by Madame de Staël: “The desire of the man is for the woman… but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man.”
So, for fantasy indulgers who haven’t been through the real thing – I get it, I guess. You’re human.
Whatevz.
But what’s the difference between the idea and the reality? Is it harmful to entertain even the thought? I suppose it only is if you’re the sort to put yourself in a dumb situation – or downgrade the reality of it enough in your mind enough to not see it as a real danger. Because the second you lose control over your own person, it won’t be the same as you think. It’ll be sheer panic, probably pain, maybe murder, and likely some blood and bruises. The thing with fantasies about being ravaged is exactly in that word: fantasy. It’s like a quick movie you made up in your mind. You get to be the director, casting agent, and actor. Because it’s not reality. A real rape rarely happens when or how you’d want it to. It’s not like Channing Tatum shows up, ready to swing his dong around like a helicopter all sweaty in a stripper uniform after you’ve just stepped outta a candle-lit bath and you two spend the next fifteen minutes playing Pepe Le Pew chasing eachother around the dining room table.
In fact, that’s the nature of a violent act: someone wants to have power over a victim (that’s you!). So the victim doesn’t get to have control over the parameters like they do when they’re designing the daydream in their dome. They don’t even get issued an itinerary ahead of time – because homeboy’s gonna improvise. And you don’t even get to participate. You’re just the prop.
Like “Last Tango”‘s butt butter scene (above).
Or – if it’s someone you don’t know – maybe it’ll be when you’re coming off work, all marinating in your own day’s filth, and you have to take a dump (reality, right?) And then this trucker with a giant belly clocks you over the head. And next thing, you wake up in a wet alley, laying in a fetid pool of god knows what. And his muffin top is suffocating your rib cage as he dribbles sweat from his greasy forehead to yours, like some brutal sudoriferous baptism. And also he makes gross sex noises. And smells like body moss and onions. And part of you wants to let it go like Queen Elsa and just shit on him, but another part thinks “Ah, better not. He might get really mad. Or turned on. All over again.”
How sexy’s that for a rape fantasy?
The other element is the disparity between illusion-danger and actual-danger. However gross my above hypothetical sounds, it’s missing a key component: the very real possibility of a violent death happening during or after. Ever notice how the Hollywood-ified violation scenes are often made kinda sexy? Like, even back in the 50’s? Probably far earlier too?
(SeanConSyndrome: When a movie rapist’s not really seen as a rapist. Because of suave.)
It’s like they’re meant to induce arousal: “Pan to Alexander Skaarsgard slowly unbuttoning his shirt… now zoom in and linger the camera on his lustful eyes … and Kate Bosworth’s not really fighting him off…because… it’s not rape when it’s Vampire Eric. Or Sean Con.” Contrary to that Straw Dogs scene I just described, I think the one that really drove the non-consensual P in Va-G home for me was the “Bundy” flick. Despite being a Lifetime original movie (usually comically bad) and the actor looking nada like Ted, it was done surprisingly well. And the rape scenes, while not explicit, were terrifying in both their suggestive nature and the constant underlying theme of: this is real. This really happened. So – unlike the entertainment arousing scenes – this is what really can happen when someone stronger than you are is actually violating you.
A woman’s desire is to be desired. But a real rapist isn’t there to fulfill your need to be desired. He’s there to fulfill his. He’s indulging his darkness. While you have no clue what the depths of that is, you do know he’s seeing you as some non-sentient object. And that means you can probably assume the worst and go from there. A bloodlustful psychopath might morph into a frenzied shark after tearing open a fish like a piñata at the first sense of your fear. A scream. A cry. A beg for mercy. They live for the sounds of you dying like Gaga does applause.
From there, it could be your standard beating you until you’re drowning internally in your own blood through your nasal cavity – spending your last few life-moments issuing forced gurgling sanguine bubbles through your sinus cavity. (Inconvenient.) It could be bashing in your skull and then carrying on corpse coitus after while “Goodbye Horses” plays in the background. Or it could just be strangling you for no reason other than feeling like he’s god as he watches the light slowly leave your eyes. And tries to breathe it in.
If I seem King level macabre, good. That’s good. And I’m glad.
Because – despite whatever you’re dayreaming in the privacy of your mind – that’s the reality of it. Whatever you entertain during solo sexy time, or whatever little role-play you and your lover act out with safe words and ballgags and all – that’s something else altogether – no matter what you call it. And that’s fine. I’m not judging, either. Do what you do. In fact, unlike the author of the article, I don’t even care what you call it – “rape fantasy” or not. Those are just words. What matters is your understanding of the experience. You don’t need to feel bad about these shame-inducing biological urges to be desired going into mutant-daydream overdrive either. This whole rant’s just for your own edification. Because I feel like a lot of people are getting confused.
So go ahead. Enjoy your 50 Shades of Grey.
Just remember real life snatch snipers don’t give a shiz if your inner goddess is dancing or not.
In fact, if they could, they’d prob clock her with a tire iron too.
