Mistress K and Pet at Deviant Display have inspired me to do something I think I’ve sort of always wanted to do: Play dress up. It sounds like something simple, but, for me it’s a little bit of a revelation, and it’s changing the way I think about sex, porn, body image, and what I do here on my blog.
I’ve always played with my looks. I’ve been fat. Pretty damned fat. I’ve been thin…like fashion-model thin. I’ve had huge, curly perms, and I’ve had short butch hair and everything in between. I wear glasses, but I also wear contacts. My clothes are always changing; my style never solidifies for long. And, of course, now there’s bodybuilding. I love to change the way I look. Sometimes it’s playful, but too often it’s been anything but.
I’ve written before about my ambivalence toward my body. I know, it’s an old story; but it’s my story, too. I was tall for a Japanese girl, taller than all the men in my family. I had big shoulders and long arms and powerful legs and absurd square cheekbones and a lantern jaw. In Tokyo, women were supposed to be petite and soft. I was never either; thin was the best I could hope for. I could tell myself that if only I were a little thinner, I would feel right. And I got there. A little thinner. A lot thinner. Exceedingly thin.
The journey felt good. The discipline. But the results were never enough. Being thinner didn’t…fix things. My face was still big and square. I was still too tall. But now I felt like Aeon Flux, and not in a good way—that is, without the boobs. All big bony shoulders and angles and brittle and awkward. I was smaller, but I had no shape. Nothing identified me to myself as a woman. Guys didn’t seem to mind, so I was almost OK with it. Almost. Then one day my reflection in a mirror caught me off guard: all I could see were enormous cheekbones over hollowed-out cheeks and I thought, my god, I look like one of those South American mummies. A horror show. Was that what the guys who liked me were into?
If I hadn’t met Kraka around that time, I suspect I’d be quite ill now; anorexic with osteoporosis, probably. But the timing was right, and I liked that he wanted to feed me up. Meeting an American and moving to America, however, meant I went the all the way the other way for a while: from being obsessed with diet I became obsessed with food. I became a total foodie, even traveled to Italy on an eating and drinking tour. I learned to cook—very well—and ate and ate and ate. From anorexia, I was moving toward diabetes. I’d traded denial for indulgence. I could eat a pound of gnocchi, a pint of haagen-daz and drink a couple of bottles of wine, all in one night.
I never got as fat as I should have, but, still, my body was…lush. I was rounded and soft and I had tits. Serious tits, for me. I loved them. Kraka loved them. We loved them together. Often. And I loved that complete rejection of the discipline of starvation. Yet I didn’t truly feel at ease that way, either. Abandoning the structure of my diet felt like giving up. I looked sexier, but I didn’t feel good, and I was starting to gain size in a way that didn’t feel or look sexy to me. Everyone’s entitled to their opinions about their own ideal or actual size or shape, but, to me, in my own personal skin, feeling Jayne Mansfield is what it means to be curvy. When I get beyond that, I just feel fat. Obese. Unwell. Sad. That’s where I was headed. There and beyond.
About then (perhaps not coincidentally) Kraka went on a mild fitness kick. I, of course, am the one who’s now consumed by the idea. Are you sensing my personality type here? Yes. Addictive. Bodybuilding is the perfect medium for me to express my body issues. It’s got the discipline I need in order to feel like I am punishing my weird, uncooperative body—mastering it, reshaping it. And yet I eat, like crazy; but very differently. I’m relearning how to cook and getting damned good at it, too. Again. I’m on a path again, a new path, one that I think can only lead to better and better places, for a change. Even what I saw as my defects—my size, my strength, my height—these things are advantages, now. I’m learning to embrace them.
But it’s a damned long path. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never get there. Sometimes I want to just sit give up and gorge until I am soft and curvy and relaxed. Sometimes I want to starve myself back to skinniness even at the cost of my hard-earned muscle. Those are both goals I know I could reach. Sometimes I need a shortcut. Sometimes I need to feel sexy now, feel different now, feel transformed now. But I never knew how to do that without completely losing myself in some new quest, with some new kind of mortification of the flesh.
And that’s where Mistress K and Pet (and alter-ego Pony Gurl) come in. The best discovery I’ve made since I discovered Asian women bodybuilders on the old Steel Butterflies website is finding K and Pet and their amazing, sexy blog. The pictures are hot and the stories are hot. But there are endless sites full of hot pictures and stories. What makes Deviant Display so special to me, so much hotter than any pro site I’ve ever been to? The fact that Mistress K and Pet (and PG) are real people with real jobs who live in the real world and who go home at the end of the each day and take off the everyday and put on fucking hot clothes and fucking hot roles and fuck the living shit out of each other in a hundred different and creative ways.
Sure, they have their preferred roles. Mistress K really is a domme, and Pet really is a sub. But they are not trapped in those roles. Mistress K can also submit, Mistress K can top from the bottom, Mistress K can be whatever the hell she wants to be and yet never surrender who she is for one minute. Pet is, if anything, is even more chameleon-like for me, oscillating between obedience and bratty wild girl as it pleases him.
Mistress K and Pet seem able to effortlessly surrender to the roles they choose for themselves and each other and embrace them and enjoy them, but only for as long as it suits them, for as long it’s enjoyable, for as long as the feeling strikes them. It finally occurred to me what that is. That’s fun. That’s playing. I have never in my life viewed sex a game. A journey: sure; a lifestyle: yes. But not games. Not fun. I read so many of their stories, though, that I finally started to get it. When Kraka buys me cuffs and collars, he’s not trying to make me his slave, he’s giving me a chance to try out a role, for as long as it suits me—whether that’s forever or just until we’re both tired and sweaty and happy.
I’m looking at things in a different way lately. Secret Magazine and Skin Two and my collected Bizarre? Maybe they’re not just the anthropological texts I used to try and decode; maybe they’re a source of ideas. I could try that. I could wear that. That might be fun—or not. But I could find out! Anyone who’s read this blog knows that I’ve tried a lot of things, but only after great deliberation and consideration of what this new thing would mean to me, what I would become if I did it, if it was something that I could throw myself into with the same obsessiveness as bodybuilding, as complete gluttony, as starvation.
I’ve loved making porn, but I’ve struggled on and off with what it means to me to be “in porn,” analyzing it endlessly, until I had a sort of porn meltdown. But as I read more of Deviant Display and explored FetLife, I realized, maybe I’m just taking it too seriously. Maybe I should just relax a little. Maybe it just means that I want to play dress up for the day, that I want to roleplay, and that the role of the day just happens to be porn star. After all, the title of my blog was always supposed to be a bit tongue in cheek, right? Maybe whatever new things I try (within reason) are all just transitory sensations without any more meaning than I want them to have. Maybe I could just experiment and enjoy. Maybe I could play.
Next: I shop for a latex mask and end up buying a lifestyle.