Objectification

Over the past several weeks I have been following a discussion by a number of blogger on the topic of objectification.

I know I run the risk of covering ground that has previously been discussed to death, but I do feel the need to have my say, from my particular point of view.

First off I must be clear that I was in a very long-term D/s relationship and had a submissive, but that is no longer the case, so what I have to say is predicated on that relationship and, on my knowledge of the BDSM community both online and live,   formal seminars and hands-on workshops, together with extensive reading, and research.

I will attempt to encapsulate the main points of both schools of thought.

The arguments that I have been following are thus:

The first one is of the willing embracing of one’s inner object or role.  Once the inner object is embraced, there is a releasing of their personality to acquire a new one, usually one that is an object, a cunt, a sex object, or as one of the proponents of this argument suggest, their “inner dolly.”

The participants of this kink  claim they feel liberated and freed when they don this persona, but in blogs I have read expounding the virtues of this kink, it seems the writers wish to be in this persona for an extended period of time and as often as possible.

The other school of thought that engaged in this debate riled against objectification of the individual, asserting that it was detrimental to the individual psyche and destructive. They argue that to objectify a person is demeaning, dehumanizing, and fundamentally wrong.

As you strip the person of power, and identity, the impact of this can be devastating to the person’s emotional and psychological well being.

Both schools of thought are right and wrong.

Among the various forms of objectification, are those people whose kink is to be an inanimate object (i.e., tables or lamps or a foot stool).

This form of objectification is a form of meditation for those people, the willing loss of self, a quieting of the mind, very similar to people who find flogging meditative, or find bondage meditative; however, like any type of meditation, it is for a specific duration of time.

Now as for the objectification of turning a person into a object (i.e., body parts or unthinking dolls, a cunt, or fuck hole), this type of fetish is arousing and often involves the eroticization of a body part, heightening the enjoyment.  It does, however only tap into a facet of that person!!

The first form of objectification - that of the willing loss of self can be liberating, freeing, and a means to embrace one’s quiet core, as in meditation. but it is only within the limited context of the scene, and, like meditation, has a beginning middle and end.

If one attempts to extend this form of objectification beyond the preset parameters of the scene, then for both participants in the  D/s relationship, it can be dangerous. For the person who strives to always remain the object is doomed to fail, and in the process to wreck damage upon the D./s relationship. One cannot be a object all the time; no matter how hard one strives, one will always remain more than an object.  For the submissive there is only failure after failure in their attempt to remain the object that their Dom wishes them to be.

For the Dominant, there is disappointment after disappointment because they are asking the impossible. Eventually the strain will seriously impact the relationship, if not end it.

The other interpretation of objectification is self-evident; people are more than just body parts, more than just a certain role.  Whether the Dominant wants to admit it or not, a submissive is more than just a body part or an action or a thought. A submissive is more than a submissive, they are people with various roles and skills and abilities.

To see anyone as one-dimensional, as an object or as a certain role ONLY is wrong and misleading. To do so is to deny the realities of the world you live in.

To continually do so the dominant is doomed to disappointment, and to persist after disappointment and evidence that implies otherwise, the dominant is either learning disabled or just an idiot, who refuses to deal with reality.

To eroticize a body part or a role or a facet of the submissive’s  personality is wonderful and can heighten the mutual experience , but  that eroticized  facet already exists within the personality. and there has to be mutual synergy developed between the Dominant and submissive. The relationship must be mutually gratifying, or else the relationship is doomed to end, if one of the parties’ needs and desires are not being met.

That eroticized aspect of the personality is only an aspect, a facet of an integrated personality.  To bring it out and have it as a focus is fine, but you have to realize that it is only a facet of a whole, and as such will be reintegrated into the whole when the play is over.

Just like a Dom who taps into his stern ‘yes sir’ side, he can only maintain this persona for the duration of the scene. It would be impossible for him or her to continue this persona into and throughout his life.   One cannot expect the people with whom he or she works to call them sir or master, nor can he or she expect the gas attendant to kneel and address them according to strict protocol!

Reality bites into the persona and eventually crumbles it.

We are only capable of suppressing our personalities for a limited time; the demands of reality, time and space and the flow of experiences eventually solicits from us other actions, other aspects of our multi-faceted personalities. and it is through this interplay with experience that we become complex multifaceted individuals, rather than one dimensional cartoon characters.

For the person who wants to be the doll, or a fuck hole, it is freeing because for a brief moment, there is the liberation from cares, worries, history, thinking, decision making, freedom from all of that; the freedom for a few moments to transcend their reality, a freedom to escape into the placid center of themselves. As a form of meditation it can be liberating, because all the stresses of that person’s life are submerged and for a brief moment the individual is free from the rest of themselves. The interval, however, is of short duration, for that scene, that moment; not indefinitely, which form of objectification is only “common” on the Internet!

In reality there are just far too many demands on a person to remain “in character”, or to be just an object.  The pressures of dealing with reality will soon force the person out of their one dimensional persona.

No matter how hard they try, reality will force them out of that role. It is impossible to interact with all you come in contact with as say just a doll, the pressure to function in a multidimensional world will force the one dimensional character to assume other facets of their real self.  So the sexual objectification can only be temporary, and specific to a scene. When one attempts to carry it further, it will soon collapse, as it does in the world, that is why stereotypes and objectification eventually breaks down.

Now the reason all the Dominants just love this type of objectification, is that it is easy, there is a minimum of work involve, there is no mastering involved; the relationship is only one dimensional  shallow and empty of any meaningful interaction..

When you have stripped a person into an object (i.e. a doll), you don't have to take the person into consideration, you don’t have to fear that they will evaluate or make judgments and they won’t think so they won’t question . they won’t challenge, and they won’t defy the Dominant’s power.  There is a surrender that, for the Dominant, is nice and safe.

If a Dominant is uncertain of his powers or abilities an objectified doll is safe to deal with.

The Dominant only has to relate on one level , there is no thinking or evaluating or assessing to be done, the interaction is flat and one dimensional. so there is nothing.  It is safe and comfortable, requires no creativity or insight, only compliance.  It also lacks skill, or imagination, or true power to interact in a shallow one-dimensional relationship on a long-term basis.

To reiterate, this form of relationship can only be successful in a scene. In fact in a scene, it can be very powerful and exceedingly erotic and fulfilling, but like all scenes they must and do come to an end, to do otherwise, to attempt to turn it into a 24/7 relationship is to doomed it to failure.   Too many factors would interfere with the interaction and the illusion would crumble very quickly, when exposed to the light of day.

Although I know a lot of those in Cyber Land dream of such things, it cannot be done!! The demands of the world will erode it to oblivion in a short time..

The Cruelest Stroke

I stand on the
edge of the abyss
and reached into its
darkness, searching
for your submission.

I know that you have fallen
you have tumbled into
the void and into
the prison of your flesh

you have locked away
your bondage, you have
imprisoned your desire.

the scars were too much
to bare, the hurt was
overwhelming,
and from my hand
the cruelest blow of all,
the wound that burnt you to the core
that turned your submission
to ash was no blow at all

the hurt that drove you
from the world, that
collapsed your spirit
was no hurt at all.

now I stand on the edge
of the abyss and the
darkness drinks from
my eyes.

I watched as you collapsed
to your knees,
my heart sank into the pit,

and the cruelest stroke
was no stroke at all

and now that you are hidden
now that the darkness
has swaddled you,
I step to the edge of the abyss
and prepare to leap.

now that you’re in your
shell, removed from the
loving ache, the darkness
whispers to your wounds.

but I stand on
the edgy of the abyss
and prepare to leap

the darkness has
swallowed you
the darkness has eaten
every morsel

and in my despair
I reach into the abyss
beyond hope I travel
beyond what I am

you have hidden your
submission, camouflaged as pride
brutally stuffed it
into the dark
you have strangled your
desire with a twisted ligature
of despair
you have starved your need
you have suppressed
your appetite,
and throttled
who you are.

you have climbed into your
fortress of flesh
you have leapt into
your private abyss

and I , I in despair
stand on the brink
and try to reach
into your abyss
I stand on the brink
and slowly sink into
my own darkness
into the grief
of the abyss

and realise that
and the cruelest stroke
was no stroke at all.

Tir-Na-Nog

as the tongues of darkness lick at me
i struggle
with the sticky tendrils
of this worlds web,

and you in shadows still,
fearing your imaginings,
erecting false walls and secret doors, in the land of promise

and still you tremble at the patterns, but still walk
the labyrinth while you deny the paces of your feet,
but i, clearly see your feet,
and i shake my head,
to dislodge the shadows
and your false light

allowing you false comfort, of my false belief,
and you deny yourself to me,.daughter of the god of the sea
yet speak your name daily to those in the other world
and i grow sad knowing the tragedy of this promised land

and i grow resigned to the grief
all of my making,
so i travel the tides, ride the aqua surge,
weep my loss,
weep your fear of self, weep your dread of future past.

and you tremble then fall deep
within,
and travel the distance of stars
from me!

and i stand in the cold, waiting for faith to return,
knowing home means death

waiting for faith to renew
knowing but unable to penetrate the
vastness of your absent flesh.

and the darkness you dance in,
desperate and despairing ,
your longing, never given voice to flesh,
yet a specter posses more of you.

time flows and drains me
as i slumber through
your changes,
and i long for the loss
of knowledge,
i long for the loss of history,
and know that tides are immune from the
diseases of man,
are free of the agony of history,

and the tug of the moon, embraces only the sea, and the silver of the moon
is blind to fish in the sea and ghosts of the land,
deaf to the
terror of the flesh.

and this night drags on, 300 years
and i question the comfort of your eyes,
and the brightness of your skin.


Oisin  reaches and niamh is gone, and you are there,
and my eyes tumble into the the rage of legend and
myth.

and my eyes grow cold, and brim with sorrow
and  the despair of secrets.
i dismount
and my feet touch the earth, my world unravels
and i weep knowing that all has past, all is gone,
and Oisin's days near there end.

The Crazy Box

i have slowly tried to
crawl out of the crazy box
despite you with your tawdry deception
that you stretched into the folds of a year,
into the dark creases
of today and always,
it is constant, it permeated the air,
your day, your thoughts,
it muffles my eyes,
and all day the clatter of your fingers speak,
but not to me.



every morsel of your self, every taste, very sip,
willingly offered,
while i double over famished, and gasp for a cool
draft of your time.
unbeknownst to i, chunks of thought
mouthfuls of ardor
ferreted from me, offered in
secrecy and silence while i ,
i'm folded neatly into the crazy box.



constant whimsy becomes you,
as you grow blind to what is near
your eyes, lost in their winter
dismissing the details, and confusing the colors
and safely tuck me away
and stuff the unsightly frayed ends
into the the crazy box, then with hands filled with
justification snap the
lid shut.


yet if i was the one,
if i was the magician,
a master of illusions
appearing and disappearing in electric puffs of smoke
and with my magic spun fables, and
hypnotized your eyes,
would you be the inhabitant
of the lovely crazy box?
would you pierce the sorcery,
and expose the sleight of hand?



would you call me witch?
would you grow skeptical,
and embrace the thick velvet
smoke of doubt?
would you find fault in my simple magic?



if i was a wizard,
and used my powers to beguile,
if i was a hypnotist and used my eyes
to lead you astray,

how would you taste my fall from grace?



but because of you, because of your powers
i will not call the inquisition,
nor strip away your elaborate incantations and spells
because i am in the crazy box
where you placed me.



for a brief moment there is a trading of places,
but it is only i, that
trades eyes,
but you, you hold tight to your spells,
and all i ever hear are your mumbled
incantations weaving your demonology around me,
and binding me in the the crazy box.



and i am in the crazy box, locked and secured
where your powers have banished me,

but, i know, i know

i know the world beyond the magic
beneath the illusions

and i grieve
because you will never see the shoddy frayed ends of
your tawdry magic.
for i am locked forever
in this lovely crazy box
and you will never set me free,

ALWAYS

always when i'm
in the forest of your
eyes,
i'm never lost, only
traveling the deep green
to the horizon
of your sight.

and always, when the ocean
of your body, takes me,
I flout out on the
lulling waves of your
tide, that soothes and returns me
refreshed and new,

when the air and sky of
your hands enfold me
and drew me from earth,
to flight, my heart flutters,
in the worm thermals
of your palm and fingers.
that lift me higher into
the thin air, and embraces
me, holding me aloft
in your passions.

I am a voyager, and you
are the vastness of the
new world,
and the forests, and earth
and sky and seas
that you are
sustains me,
and I travel towards the
endless horizon that
is you.

and I in my wondering
am nourished by the worm
bread of your flesh,
and quenched by the
close beating of your
heart.
you are my sustenance,
the soft red earth of your body
fertilized
with the nourishing
flowing of your
streams, and rivers, and tributaries,
running longingly to your sea.
your waters holding me,
pulling me throw the
thousand voyages of your
body and eyes.,
and yet,
you remain, virgin wilderness,
largely unexplored, uncharted,
and your horizons,
and starry sky
will sustain me


and I will spend my days
traveling the rivers and sea,
and air, of your being,
until my hands, and eyes,
and body
have mapped and charted
every forest, every stream every
river and tide, of the shrouded
wilderness of your body,
to the endless horizon
of your being….
till the end of my days.

I Cannot Have You

I cannot have you through the silt of
history, your soft skin drifting with the tug of tides,

and the sky folds black and in the creased darkness
my longing hands find only warm empty air; they flutter and glide in
the silence of the night, till they tumble into there
private history,

touching phantoms that breathe and leak a bitter
brine sea. and you no longer traveling the line between history
and the sea.

my longing grows thin and transparent
as the air throbs with your absence

and the ghost of my eyes tear the fabric of night
and places you there. my hands swim the darkness
waiting for the memory of skin, waiting for the revolving of
the wheel.

to bring it back around, so that my empty hands
can hold your warmth and the history that your
body whispers,

But I cannot have you.



-----------------------------------

In the syrup of the sun
My eyes warm and stinging
Grow tired of the excursions
The smooth fugue of other voices
Slick trout in an anxious stream
The surface tension only broken
When my eyes drift with the
Current and capture the white of
Crested waves.

In the sticky sun, currents of
Water and shadows, I search
Myself, eyes rolled inward
Into the gray creases and white
Explosions that flow and jump
Under the surface tension
Of aging wrinkled skin


My eyes fall down into
The dust that drifts from
Air, a soft folding desert
Edges and ends smoothed over
blanketed and streaked out,
I forget the twisting of
Clocks and little hands
That grasp and claw gently
Tearing bits of me pulling at the
Dust and letters that capture my name.


The bareness of snow drifts
Undulate into the twirl of
Worlds, and I monochromatic
Reminds me that eyes and
Sight clash, and which is to be
The lure and which to be the snare,
As I unravel in the blister of
Sun.


Through my new squint into
The shine and bright the
squeeze and sting is tolerated
With the new warmth and heated
Shaft.


I still skim along the tension surface
Of the cloying air moving from and to
With no voice to tremble the blue
The steps down the flow that cascades
And falls, barriers from the spawn

The curves and roles green and
Brown, dappled in the drip of
Light, the slake of shadows traps
The eye, and I linger in the current
Treading air and stream as my eyes
Surround the white bubble and froth
That captures, and I wonder the snaps of
Pupils and shut of lids.


The salmon leap, thrash then splash
And spasm in there desperate drive
Breaking water and clime the rushing
Changing stability
Leap after leap to the sluggish
Calm to empty then fade from
Gold to pail and the blinking out.

And I return to spawn the light
To dark to fill the row
And I turn surrounded by the
Flow the ripples and foam slips
By, the current pulls grasps
Loosening my hold on the pebbled
Bottom

The swim and tumble in
Floundering and frantic till
the ticking down and the paling
of eyes and the sticky light
oozes finally out, the rough tumbles
down and I still gaze with shattered
eyes into the swaddling dark
of the least explored, those damp
caves filled with the echoing drip
of desperate stalactites slowly growing
Invisible.

This is the time of water, a day
Of erosion peeling the slicing
Edge, dulling the sharp, piercing
To a dull blunt blade,
And I pendulum down through the
Dark secrets of my self falling beyond
The rivers and lakes running away
Leaking out till my eyes grow
Dry and pail, knowing that I cannot have you

----------------------------------------


My hands long for the warmth of touch.
They hunger for more than sleep in the comfort
Of cloth.

More than the labor of creation, they long to discover
The vast unknown territory of your body.

My hands long to see more than chores and scraping labor
They hunger for the spices of cloves and nutmeg , they dream
Of breathing in the dust of the vanilla of your desire.

My hands long to taste more than prayers and books,
They want to run there lips and tongue down the lines and
Curves of your rolling tenderness and to sup the liquid of your lust

My hands long to taste more than necessity and commitment
They ache and throb for the cool gulp of your hips and the warm
Sting of your thighs

My hands need to consume more than days and distances,
They yearn for the sea of your body to drown themselves in the depth
Of your endless embrace.

My hands long for more than the earth and loam of this world
They dream of he ghosts of thunder that slumbers in your breasts,
They long for the fires that burn and the coals that smolder
In the palms of your hands, but in there longing they know they cannot have you.


--------------------------------------

what is this a sea without shore? no whispering rocks
or lamenting sand to roll and slide along the lip and tongue of water

no legs to open in welcome to find solace in the
wet heat of ocean tides; the sea surges in your hands
fingers knobby thin and bony,

and of strength and compassion that hold the
passion of planets and the light of million spiral stars

in the tips of your hands and you spill your change
into me and my lips blush with the dew of your desire

your hands the breezes that move my sea to rise and
surge and rise again to to drew new hips and lines.

the fruit of wine and eyes dark as desire and as
consuming as the silver phases of the moon.

drawing the sea to its suckling breath, to feed and travel the
the crests of waves and foam and sea and shoreline
the unifying of earth and water.

hips grinding lust and creation as the streak of white caps
glint there passing in the convulsive sea. rubbing stone to nothing
in your slow passing.

and your hands surround me and drew me to your mouth
and in the crucible of the sea your hands hold me until
the final emotion and the sea takes us.

and rubs us to nothing in the lustful grinding of the sea.
and when the tide rolls out, in the salt air the tang
whispers that i cannot have you.

October Country

on the cusp of possibility,
when the rage surges, and only my brittle bones poke through
and i fall limp in your guile, not knowing the face behind the silents

and with that denial i tumble into a painless sleep!!

and through the murk of history
through the shade of the past
from you the same patters,
the same secrets,the same silents.
from me the same dance, the same steps,

and my eyes grasp the smoke and shimmer,
my eyes embrace your mirage, your fear of me seeing,
the fear of me touching
digging into the silt of sorrow and despair,


and peeling away the scabs of time till the
simple ooze speaks the tongue of epiphany.

yet sound brings no light, i am still forbidden to see you.
only your shadows that lurk in the tight constraint of skin.


I gently roll the moment and waves of time, and open
to sallow the tight ball of salt,
the bitter taste that has stung the flesh with fire and putrid breathing.

and this purgatory of October
cuffs my motion through this Halloween country,
and the chill and upheaval lick and gnaws my knuckled fists.

as the bubble of history swells then bursts

and i freeze rooted in the fall of red and orange leaves,
rooted in the earthy aroma of decomposing leaves,
and the sharp tang of drowsy sleep that the earth lingers in

and i find myself with the scent of apples, and pumpkins
and my injured heart hammers with unwanted haunting,
unwanted epiphanies,
and my chest caves as it spasmodically gasps in this air.

and the tremble and vertigo floods the blood,
and again, i taste the salt, the bitter tang of my harvest, and i long for a never returning spring, a warmth sweet and filling
as the sea that i long for on this changeable October morning.

and i sigh, knowing that this salt, this sting of old new wounds, will subside, and slip below the surface.

yet the red and angry scars
remain, tattoos that no rub of time will erase.

and i will master the agonies, i will swallow the sorrow, and move from your time.

diminished, diminished by silents, diminished be illusion, of chunks of flesh lost diminished yet strengthened.
lessons masted, or at least tested.

but October mornings like this
the scent of change carries me beyond myself within my self.
and i taste the salt and breath in the earthy aroma of decay,
and impending slumber.

and i long for the salve for my slow healing wounds,
that a scant moment ago i thought
healed, and vanished

yet this October, this smell of Halloween has touched the hidden ache
that i am doomed to carry
and opened me wide to what i am, and to what i was , and will be.
that there is no change, only fear in your eyes and a unhappiness that taints your skin.

and the dark clouds of impending storms hold my eyes, as body trembles, fearing the fury and rage of the storms that i know will come.

but a deep calm pulls me inward and i know and understand that storms are only storms.

and i can and will endure them, that they in themselves cannot overwhelm me. and alone i will embrace them for what they are, and alone will emerge from this haunted time, this time of ghosts and demons
this time of monsters and ghouls, knowing that they are only costumes specters insubstantial, only costumes meant to scare and frighten.

I will pass through the vial of this Halloween and see the ghosts and monsters for what they are,
and i will travel this haunted land, this season of change i will endure the upheaval and storms of this October.


and in the rub of time reach the equinox and find a moment of renewal