The Hangman’s Fracture

The hangman’s fracture is a break of the second vertebra of the spinal column. It is so called as the British method of hanging, the long drop, aimed to kill swiftly and painlessly by breaking the neck at the second vertebra. There are stories of the hangman Albert Pierrepoint feeling the necks of his victims after taking their bodies down to check that he had done his job properly. It was part of the justification of the whole system that death was both quick and painless. This may be a myth.  Analysis of the remains of some 34 hanged criminals showed that the hangman’s fracture was present in only a minority of cases. In some there was no cervical fracture at all which suggests that these victims may have died by strangulation (a risk if the drop is too short) and this would not have been either instantaneous or painless. Yet in every case a doctor had written out a death certificate stating that the cause of death was the hangman’s fracture. This, in turn, suggests that the medical profession was complicit in a rotten and inhumane system.

This digression does link to the theme – bear with me! I heard recently that an elderly kinkster I met once or twice at events in the West Midlands had died during lockdown. Derek (not his Fet name and probably not his real name either) was in his mid 80s and I believe his death was peaceful. And we all hope for that don’t we?  Not Derek actually. For he had a most unusual fetish. He wanted to die by judicial hanging. He was, of course, old enough to have been hanged but presumably had scruples about committing the kind of offences that might have earned him a death sentence. Unsurprisingly he was unable to find anyone to cater for this fetish, so hanging never became more than a fantasy.

I am sure, too, that Derek was not alone in his death fetish. I know of kinksters whose homes are shrines to death, with skulls, human and animal, adorning their rooms. And many of us kinksters are drawn to darkness. We like to inflict, or receive, pain and suffering. I sometimes think that a submissive moving from agony to ecstasy (it is said that a hanged person experiences orgasm as their last sensation) and into the sweet oblivion of subspace is experiencing a kind of surrogate death.  And the return to life has to be managed as carefully as a resurrection, one reason why aftercare is so important.

So it is not surprising that those of us who crave darkness seek out cemeteries. I love to walk in old, abandoned cemeteries, where the headstones have been washed blank by a century or more of weather, and lean drunkenly, the flatbed graves that are opening up, as if there residents might rise again, I long to take a willing submissive, strip him, flog him with nettles I have picked from an overgrown tomb, to make him lean against a stone, to take my whip on his back, my cane on his bottom, to suffer the extremes of pain, and the pleasure that flows from it, there in the last resting place of hundreds of human beings who learned his pain and pleasure resolve their tension in oblivion.

It is in cemeteries that I feel most alive, because I must, we all must, confront death in order to live. to love. It is mortality that gives our kinks sense. The fetish for death is a fetish for life.

Hanged criminals were not buried in cemeteries. They were interred in lime filled coffins in the prison yard, in unmarked graves that denied death as much as they denied life. Derek would never have wanted that, I am sure.

A post for Kink of the Week. Click on the lips to see what other writers have to say on the subject of cemeteries and graveyards

The Latex Skirt

This is a kind of love poem I wrote to the lovely swishy floral latex skirt I bought last year at the Birmingham Bizarre Bazaar from the wonderful mega talented Rebecca of Yummy Gummy Latex to who it is dedicated.

You read me like a book.

A cliché, I know, but true.

Remember the time you whipped

A skirt off the rack, a new design,

Held it up before me, smiling,

Like teasing a puppy with a rubber bone

Or selecting the fly with which

You would reel me in?

There I stood,

Falling in love with the skirt,

Aching to please.

 

I put it on. The weighty swish

Swelled into waves of desire

For the beauty you had, I hoped,

Designed for me, to make me gorgeous.

I foraged greedily for my purse, like

Paying for the first date with my latex love.

You read me like a book.

I write you as a poem.

 

Of Hot Tubs and Body Love

I guess we all suffer varying degrees of body shame. This is probably even more of a problem for trans people than for others. I mean we are all, according to a certain narrative, supposed to suffer from body dysmorphia and   believe that we are trapped I the wrong body. I have talked before about why this narrative is deeply problematic but whilst I can feel happy in my body as such there is still the matter of showing my body to people other than sexual partners. And this is all to do with having a body that in certain important respects doesn’t correspond to my identified gender.

Yet I am active in scenes like the fet scene, the swinging scene and also the very much interconnected sex blogging scene where being naked in front of people is actually no big deal. And  the swingers clubs I go to  have jacuzzis because, getting into a bath with a load of other people is part of what it’s about. So if I was not going to get my kit off at some point I was going to miss out.   Smutathon has brought this to a head because the plan was to rent a house for the weekend with an outdoor hot tub. This was the big attraction of the house and something I could not miss out on. Would I  be able to overcome my hesitation and enjoy this with the others?

Well the answer is yes. I broke the barrier last weekend at a fet event at a swingers club in the Midlands. I went along feeling tired and run down. It was a hot day too and really I felt I had no energy. The plan was to sit and chill with a few ice cold soft drinks. But I wasn’t on my own, I went with my submissive male partner and I had to take his needs into account. So we sat and chilled foe a bit before going upstairs for some very satisfying sex.  After the buffet was served we had a little CP play on the lawn where the spanking bench had been set up for us to take advantage of the sunshine. After that my partner wanted to go to the Jacuzzi as he usually does when we visit this club.  I had always resisted persuasion before but this time, well, it was a hot day and that Jacuzzi suddenly seemed rather enticing. So I threw away my inhibitions and went in. I loved it. I suppose I should have expected that no-one would give me a second glance. or that no one would engage with me any differently when they saw me with my clothes on again. No oe there really gave a damn what I looked like. So, I thought. Why should I?

And so to the Smutathon weekend. I had an hour in the outdoor hot tub last night under the stars. I also had half an hour this afternoon between blog posts. It was fun. I am so glad I took the plunge, , you know, not the one into warm bubbling water,

 

Strange Objects of Desire

A male friend one confided in me that he hates the summer. He loves the autumn, the misty chilly mornings, the falling leaves. I asked him why.

Simple’ he replied. ‘The ladies get their boots out and there is nothing, but nothing sexier than a woman in boots.’

He particularly enjoys his moments of silent adoration on the bus to work.

And it’s not only the men. I’m not a drama queen but I do occasionally tread the boards in amateur theatre. A year or two back one of my friends joined us and after rehearsing in her usual attire of jeans and sweatshirt (after a career as an air hostess she sacrificed glamour for the demands of raising three children)  changed into her costume ahead of the first dress rehearsal, a little black dress and red heeled boots. She walked confidently onto the stage to audible gasps from the women as well as the men. She was no longer a harassed wife and mother – she had become after a simple costume change a woman, a woman with unfathomable erotic depths. That was the thinking I am sure. It was certainly mine.

If the boot is a fetish object it makes the woman wearing boots into an object of desire but one who exercises power. She is strong. She is confident in her sexuality. She is attainable or is she? You suspect she may not be after all. At this point the second aspect kicks in; the stirrings of submissiveness that are latent in many men. Boots open doors you know. I found this out the first time I wore boots to a new job. There were a couple of men who suddenly wanted to carry files for me, make my tea, and, yes, open doors. They may have been kinky but I bet that, even if they didn’t see themselves in that way, they felt a frisson. On one occasion as I sat in a coffee shop with my partner a tall blonde woman walked in, dressed in trousers and over the knee beige boots. She was beautiful, her style was immaculate and I could not take my eyes off her, particularly the boots. My partner leaned over to me and whispered,

‘I can imagine myself kneeling before her and asking to worship those boots.’

Fetish lite then; after all not every man has the courage to come face to face with a real life thigh booted domina. In domination however is much truth about the human condition. The domina writes large what is latent in many women and confronts the men who serve her with truths about themselves that for other men remain veiled but guessed at. The boot is a partial lifting of the veil.

Yet in real life the booted woman is a paradox. She is the one men desire to conquer but fear they cannot. For the woman wearing boots the signal is similarly ambivalent. We are Amazons, we want to conquer, and yet , in our strength, we want to submit, to open ourselves to penetration.

The boot is strength, it is power – it demands submission but is itself a sign of submission. This is its fascination. The boot is not a ‘Fuck Me Shoe’ it is a ‘Fuck Me on my Terms Shoe’ We should want it no other way.

And here is a pair of totally awesome vintage boots. The thought of wearing these or, for the men, worshipping them, should send a tingle through anyone’s loins. It does mine.

retroboots