Where would ladies with rape-victim fantasies be without men with rape-perpetrator fantasies?” ~ Dan Savage

In light of the recent post by lewdandshrewd, and not-so-recent posts by manontheside and toughstuff, I would like to examine the issue of sexual fetishization from the perspective of Michel Foucault’s philosophy.

In one of his best-known passages, Foucault suggests that our sexual “natures” are not the expression of some internal, bio-psychological state (as they would be framed in much of modern sexological thought), but are instead the products of discourses – the prevailing cultural norms and ways of framing the world at a particular point in time. He uses the example of “the homosexual” to illustrate this point:

As defined by the ancient civil or canonical codes, sodomy was a category of forbidden acts; their perpetrator was nothing more than the juridical subject of them. The 19th Century homosexual became a personage, a past, a case history and a childhood, in addition to being a type of life, a life form, and a morphology, with an indiscreet anatomy and possibly mysterious physiology… The sodomite had been a temporary aberration; the homosexual was now a species. (Foucault, History of Sexuality Vol. 1: 43).

Thus, according to Foucault, “the homosexual” is not some trans-historical, essential, or “natural” identity, but the product of 19th century psychiatric-scientific discourse, which categorized people according to the various “aberrations” that they displayed. Before that discourse emerged, “he” was not considered a homosexual, but someone who did sodomy. This critique of our sexual “natures” enables an interesting ethical investigation of sexual fetishisms. If sexuality does not exist in some independent realm, “out there,” away from society, then won’t societal prejudices, biases and hatreds also be ever-present in sexuality? And won’t their dominant presence in sexuality reinforce these oppressions’ dominance in society-at-large? From that perspective, male-on-female rape fetishes (even when they occur in an adult-consensual context) become ethically questionable because we live in a patriarchal world in which violence towards women is prevalent, and in which women are often taught that violence towards them is acceptable. The same applies to fetishes/sexual desires that have racist, homophobic, classist or ableist overtones. Thus, when taken out of an essentialist context, and viewed as the product of prevailing discursive conditions, certain fetishes can become increasingly ethically questionable.

On the other hand, this kind of approach may create a dangerous precedent. Do we really want to initiate a moralistic witch-hunt against sexual desires that reflect societal prejudices? Are we really going to screen fetishes in order to ensure that they meet moral standards? Perhaps a better approach would be to realize that sexual fetishes, as much as they can reflect negative prevailing social conditions, are also excellent vehicles for challenging those conditions.

Indeed, Foucault’s thought about sexuality also included a significant championing of sexual fetishes as containing a strong liberationist potential. Foucault himself was an avid BDSMer and fisting enthusiast, and he spent years cruising San Francisco’s fetishy sex scene. As David Halperin points out in his book, Saint Foucault: Towards a Gay Hagiography, Foucault realized that subversive fetishy sexual practices had the power to challenge dominant cultural norms. Phallocentricity, for example, is a major expression of patriarchy that privileges the phallus in all sexual (and social) situations – thus; the goal of normative “heterosexual” sex is for there to be an ejaculation from the penis and the desire of the “receiving” partner may often be left unsatisfied. A sexual practice such as fisting (which was lauded by Foucault as being the only new sexual pleasure invented in modern times), however, had the power of removing the phallus from sexual intercourse, as pleasure was already derived from the use of the anal sphincters and did not have to necessarily begin with an erection or end with an ejaculation. Furthermore, according to Halperin at least, Foucault saw a possibility for an alliance between kinky gay men and feminists that would use BDSM to strip the phallus of its privilege. For example, the use of “cock-and-ball torture” has the ability reframe/reconstitute the penis as a site of sensitivity and weakness to be exploited, instead of a locus of social power and domination (as it is normatively perceived).

Overall, it is up to fetishists to channel and respect the emancipatory potential in their fetishes. I am not calling here for a kind of radical reformulation of all sexual fetishes – but rather for an increase in the social presence of those fetishes considered non-normative in order to broaden the sexual menu, so that those kinds of fetishes that reflect negative social conditions are no longer in the absolute majority, and thus, less able to perpetuate prejudices. For example – I frequent a message that claims to be “the ultimate” Internet site for a particular fetish. However, it is impossible not to notice the incredible privileging of Male-On-Female or Female-on-Female (M/F or F/F) activity over all other forms (F/M, M/M, queer/queer, SheMale etc…), and the amount of time and effort that is put into telling people that have non-normative fetishy desires to keep their fantasies away. Thus, the fetish, in this case, serves as a way of legitimating heterosexualized-male-perspective sex over other forms of sexuality – it reproduces and reinforces the heteronormativity already present in society. A refusal by those interested in the non-“heterosexualized” versions of this fetish to restrict their activity on this website would be a good step towards challenging the heteronormativity of the particular fetish community, and of society as a whole.

***For More Information***
Check out Michel Foucault’s History of Sexuality Vol. 1, it is an unforgettable read and a very useful toolbox for talking about sex/gender/sexuality… a real classic. David Halperin’s Saint Foucault: Towards A Gay Hagiography deals mostly with the potential of Foucault’s philosophy for gay male communities. The first essay, “The Queer Politics of Michel Foucault” is the one most worth reading.
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Sincerely,
ts
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Dana Rudolph joins us from Mombian:

Sherron Mills, founder and CEO of Pacific Reproductive Services (PRS) in California, is a trailblazer in helping lesbian couples and single mothers create their families. She’s been doing so for nearly a quarter century. Mills took a break from running PRS to speak with me about the past, present, and future of her work, and to offer advice for those considering parenthood themselves. I’m splitting the interview into two parts, because Mills was generous with her time. Stay tuned for Part II tomorrow.

In 1979, Sherron Mills was one of the founders of the noted women’s health clinic in San Francisco, the Lyon-Martin Clinic. She explains how this led to her involvement in reproductive services: “Several of us involved in getting that clinic going had always wanted children. We wanted to have a donor insemination program at Lyon-Martin, but our board of directors back then was a little wary of it and we never got it started there. I left there in 1983 and started working in a private practice and doing it on my own in that practice. I met a woman who agreed to be a donor recruiter for me. She recruited donors from San Francisco State University and that was how we got going.”

For the full interview, read part 1 and part 2 at Mombian.com. All writing is copyright Dana Rudolph under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 2.5 License. Reposted with permission."
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Today's beltcast is a discussion built from Fannie's post, ZOMG 100th Post!! aka eDating Do's and Don'ts. Outlawed moderates, and panelists include Fannie, Manontheside, and NforNeville. As always, you can listen to beltcasts from the beltcasts widget on the right pane of the blog.

Highlights include: discussion of various situations addressed by panelists in their recent posts, including the idea of dating HIV+, closeted, or married individuals, as well as other general questions about eDating. People interested in dating any of the panelists should tune in, as this is likely going to be more revealing than any gay.com profile you might stumble upon!

Sincerely,
ts
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Dear Fannie,

I’m a 35 year old lesbian, happily partnered living in a DC suburb in Maryland. I just heard about the recent court ruling in Maryland. My partner and I have been thinking about having children, and with this new court ruling… I’ve begun to think that moving to a more LGBT-friendly state may be worthwhile. I’m just not sure that I can live in a homophobic state that doesn’t believe that I’m a human being.

Mulling over Moving in Maryland

MMM,

I had been closely following the Maryland same-sex marriage case as it traveled up the Maryland State Court System. There was a lot of excitement and reason to hope when the lower court ruled in favor of the plaintiffs, and I understand your feelings of loss, disenfranchisement and betrayal.

While you and your partner have to make your own decision on what is best for your future plans as a couple and as parents, with regards to your choice of geographical locale, I would ask you to reconsider your judgment of Maryland as homophobic.

Let me put a few things into perspective: I currently reside in Virginia, Maryland’s not-so-friendly neighbor to the south. In Virginia, with the recent passing of the Virginia Marriage Amendment (which was so over-the-top that Texas thought they had gone too far) same-sex couples are not legally permitted to own property together, leave each other in their wills, adopt children together, share a joint-bank account, and even rent movies on their partner’s account. I’m not joking, some jackass in rural Virginia thought that lesbians renting movies together threatened the stability of heterosexual couples everywhere. Oh, and Virginia still insists on enforcing their anti-sodomy laws. That’s right, Virginia’s Attorney-General is defying the Supreme Court, just to spite the gays. It’s pretty clear: Virginia is NOT for all Lovers, just the monogamous heterosexual married lovers. And we all know how many of those there are now; Hey Larry Craig!

So, MMM, living in a state that allows joint-parent adoption, recognizes partners in wills, has a majority of jurisdictions that provide domestic partner benefits, and has a very powerful and effective gay and lesbian caucus in both state legislative bodies isn’t so bad. I’m not suggesting that queers need to settle for what measly rights we have been given, I just think that those of us who are fortunate enough not to live in a REAL homophobic state shouldn’t take lightly the rights and freedoms that their fellow queers living just over the Potomac River don’t enjoy.

It should also be noted that the judge who ruled against equal marriage rights wasn’t a complete dick-head. He thought that it was the Court’s place to interpret existing law, and included in his ruling that he in no way condemns or attempts to inhibit the legislature’s ability to change those laws regarding marriage. I think that’s fair, and frankly, I believe it’s through the legislature that those changes should be made. Right, Arnold?

When you have a state like Virginia where you have men and women in the legislature who honestly hate gay people and purposefully act to disenfranchise and oppress their queer constituency, the goal is to push queer Virginians out. By making the state so unlivable, they strive to give us no other option than to flee to friendlier waters, thereby further reducing queer political power in the state.

Obviously, I’m not suggesting that you and your partners should be martyrs for the cause. But if your attachments to your community and all of your Marylander friends are outweighed by a profound need to join the coercive cult of the marriage institution, then sure, move away to a gay paradise somewhere. But, also realize that there are plenty of people who are fleeing for the same reasons to places like Maryland. Maybe the Old Line State isn’t so bad after all.

++
fiercely,
fannie

send your questions to askfannie@belowthebelt.org
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We have long discussed the imbalance between male and female nudity in American film. Similarly (yet in an opposite vein), we have discussed the way women’s sexualities are rendered invisible, or at least outside their own control and purpose, in society and in film. And gender variant folk are relatively lucky to appear in film in any state of clothing. For sake of focus, however, I shall play mostly within a binary gender system for this entry.*

So, I’m not kidding when I express some excitement at the increasingly common vibrator jokes in comedy.

Sure, they’re poking fun—but this comedy only works because female pleasure is becoming valued, "female self pleasure" is consequently exiting the closet, and a male-proclaimed "natural" view of what sex should be is actually yielding (albeit slowly and through obliquely subversive means) to a more sex-positive "what works" approach. (Hell, in this Cultural Revolution, even straight men are being freed to enjoy a sex toys.) It’s also moving ever-so-slowly beyond the proprietary ownership of an American Pie style, pseudo-lesbian, beautiful young woman…to a place where even the old lady in Smokin’ Aces can have a dildo hanging out by the bathtub. Granted, we’ve a long way to go yet, in all the -isms, when this quick laugh occurs in context of literary absurdity. And female masturbation, much like lesbianism, is often co-opted personally and commercially for male pleasure. (But this is also yet one more power tool in the female arsenal, should she choose to own and use it.)

One can hardly imagine Gidget taking time away from her breast-building exercises to jerk off. We’re making headway. (yes, headway. Did you see what I did there?)

And it’s not just niche movies like Shortbus or Secretary that are looking at sex, and especially at women’s experiences of their own sexuality, differently. We also have suspense films like In the Cut, where girl-next-door Meg Ryan (of all the actors!) sheds her cute innocence to play a real person, one who lies on her belly and masturbates while thinking dirty thoughts. Mrowr.

Now, in addition to increasing the acceptability of cultural references to women's sexual pleasure, we really need to work on getting governmental and health care systems to value female sexual pleasure as highly as they do male sexual pleasure (see: the old debates on insurance and viagra). For that matter, we need to get comparable general care for women's bodies. My half-assed insurance won't even cover something as basic as an annual gynecological exam. (Yes, if it was ever in doubt, this genderqueer was born with a vagina.) Condoms aside, pharmaceutical companies don't bother to develop testes-based contraception when they can so easily continue placing much of this burden on the ones with the uteri. What about the massive expense that menstruation causes for roughly half the population? My Spanish friend wisely suggests the government pay for this is a general public health/sanitation service. (And again, what about the transgender patients?!)

But, we're out of space. On one last film tangent, I’m in my midtwenties, and I think it only just hit me that Johnny from Dirty Dancing ought to be a ‘mo, and Penny his hag. Maybe I just identified really strongly with idealistic, uncoordinated, determined, socially inept, loyal, sheltered, utterly without artifice Baby--therefore never questioned his interest in "big girls don't cry" Baby. More intriguingly, how did I never really question why the scenes where Penny and Baby dance together (with or without Johnny) were so erotic for me? I mean, at the end of the day, whatever, maybe Johnny’s cousin is the gay one.


*But while we’re on this tangent, check out 20 centímetros for an interesting foreign take on the transgender musical genre, nudity and sex both included.

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When I was five, I had plenty of dreams. As an immigrant inspired by the fully-assimilated American kids on the Disney Channel (who, along with my PBS friends, taught me English), I pictured myself as having the perfect American name: Richard. At that same wee age, I couldn’t wait to go to college. I remember distinctly tattooing “12” into my brain because I had only 12 grades left after kindergarten. Awed by my mom’s cool tiger sweatshirt (a bootleg from the swap meet), I even focused on a particular school: Princeton. After college, I would get married. I thought to myself that my cousin Marilyn might make a good wife; we always had fun while we were at her house. Together, we would have two kids and live in a two-story house, from which I would drive off daily to my dream job as the local TV weatherman…

Well lo and behold: things have changed. When I was five, I didn’t know that my desired name-change would result in a nickname of “Dick”—a tell-tale sign of homosexuality that I missed at the time. I visited Princeton ten years later and was so turned off by the pretentious campus tour guide that I refused to even apply. Incest was a word that only older people knew; marriage was a word that I only thought I knew. And when I was five, I didn’t know that being a weatherman would be just one of my careers. I’d have to make a career out of finding a mate, too. I never knew—and I’m still discovering—that growing up means not only finding a job that I love, but also making a job of finding love.

If you really wanted it to be, dating could be a full-time job. It demands the same leadership skills that other occupations entail: purposeful and strategic thinking, knowledge of the business’ rules and politics, and many over-time hours consuming much effort and energy. In the end, instead of being paid with a salary, you’d get paid in dividends of theoretical happiness.

Unfortunately, most of us aren’t financially-blessed enough to devote our full-time occupational life to the love hunt. After a long day at work, some people have the luxury of not having anything to do; sure, there a dinner dates with friends, errands to run, and favorite TV shows to catch, but other options for post-work activities include frequenting bars, clubs, churches, and other organized events to make a part-time job out of finding The One.

Others of us are, well, married to our jobs. If you work long or unpredictable hours or have an occupation that involves bringing work home, it’s easy to become a workaholic. I’ve been on this path of social devastation since high school. When I was in the eleventh grade, I slept about four hours a night juggling high school class projects with papers for requisite college classes I wanted to complete before actual college; I had agendas to create and copy for our high school’s biggest community service organization and materials I had to gather and create for class spirit rallies. I was a busy fellow, and that’s probably why I didn’t have a single dating experience until I went to college.

What eventually alleviated some of that crushing of social potential was a move to a residential college in Virginia where I learned to re-understand the role of work in my life: it was no longer a mode of academic and career-related productivity; it also provided a means to meet new people. The larger student population meant that the more I got involved with various organizations and classes, the more people I befriended, and the more people I could consider as dating potential. Though my primary drive in college was to deliver the highest level of work possible, I didn’t mind being temporarily distracted by side trips to those also interested in the work that interested me.

That said, though, work has always been an obstacle. The first guy I casually dated ended our blooming relationship after a month to concentrate on his thesis. When I took a June through August internship in Sacramento, my summer fling abruptly ended when I had to return to the hustle and bustle of collegiate life. The next summer, when I returned to Sacramento, my hours to date another man were severely limited by my responsibilities at work: I had about three or fours in the evening, four days a week, to find a compromise between our schedules; over the course of two months, we saw each other just a handful of times. Even in my senior year—at the height of my enjoyment of college achievement and friendships—my own involvement in leadership positions and intense research led to an absolutely barren year with regard to romance.

After working my ass off for those eight years of my life, you’d think I’d cut myself some slack in the work world. Not so: I’ve earned the privilege of being able to work even harder. I work about six days a week, sometimes up to 19 hours a day. I give myself sometimes a day or a day and a half each week to relax, time that I like to spend with the friends I know won’t be as fleeting as the next interesting guy I meet might be. The time to meet others: lacking. I’ve spent time in this blog blaming lots of things for my lack of luck with love; maybe I should really be blaming my choices.

When I was five, I had plenty of dreams. I knew that I had to work hard to achieve them—or at least to evaluate their actual worth and merit. Since then, I’ve accomplished a lot: I’ve received a college education I’m proud of, I have a job that I positively know is worthwhile, and yes, I’m even happy with my name. I foresee further success in my future; it is not out of reach for me to have kids and a two-story house. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I continue to work hard to get where I’m going. What’s missing from making my childhood dreams come true is that which I haven’t yet prioritized as work that needs to get done: the job of finding someone who helps me forget that I have work to do. If I can’t solve that problem strategically, then maybe I’m not as much of a goal-oriented organizational success as I think I am.
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missionary position joined us late this past week; he'll be exploring pockets of religion here and there for a little added discussion. More to come, as usual!

Sincerely,
ts
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Helen Boyd joins us from (en)Gender:

Recently I did a talk that one of my queer femme friends attended, and at some point during the talk I mentioned what a hard time I had with Betty’s femininity because it brought up my own issues with my own “failed” femininity. Afterwards, she asked, “Well don’t I drive you nuts, then?” or something like that.

& The funny thing is: no, she doesn’t. Aside from her being a nice person who takes people as they come (moreso even than most other open-minded folks I know), she’s a queer femme. & The girls who were the bane of my existence - and the women who still are - were almost always straight femmes. Because queer femmes are somehow different than their straight sisters. For starters, they flirt with me, & I can flirt with them, & even though everyone knows nothing is happening, there’s a script of sorts that jives with everyone involved. Queer femmes have met other women with my gender before, & a lot of the time, they’ve dated them too. Our genders are mutually complimentary, you might say. Butches seem occasonally puzzled by me, or they seem to understand me, or they accept me as some kind of liminal butch, but they certainly aren’t threatened. Gay men - femme and masculine - seem to get that I’m not a jerk. (Or, as a gay friend said when he met me, “Oh, so you’re hip?” - after which we didn’t really need to discuss anything about my gender or SO beyond that.)

But it’s straight feminine women I can’t seem to have an un-awkward conversation with; often I feel like they’re worried I’m going to hit on them, and/or that their boyfriend is going to like me better than them (because of that “one of the guys” thing). Sometimes I swear they’re worried about both simultaneously. Straight feminine women seem to have way more invested in a kind of combative, competitive relationship between women - you know, who is the prettiest, the most feminine, the most fashion sense, or who gets the most attention from boys. Mostly I feel like I’m being asked to a duel but I haven’t got a pistol & I don’t the rules and I don’t know who I challenged and certainly didn’t mean to. It’s really like being in a culture that I don’t know & I’m not familiar with, the way that sometimes, as a white person, another white person will say something racist to you as if assuming you agree, or as a straight person, having another straight person make a homophobic joke assuming you’ll think it’s funny, too. Straight women like to complain about “what a guy” their man is, & how they don’t understand them at all, especially how they don’t hear anything when they’re playing a computer game or the like. And when I’ve said something along the lines of, “yeah, well I tend to tune out when I’m playing The Sims,” I get stares all around as if they’ve discovered a traitor in their midst.

And I am, I guess, a gender traitor. I don’t have much in common with the people who are assumedly “my tribe” - other heterosexual women. I don’t know how to talk to them. I don’t know how to make them feel better about themselves, or reassure them that I really dress the way I do on purpose. But it hadn’t occurred to me that it wasn’t all feminine women I felt that way about until my friend asked me that question. Looking back, it’s often been queer femmes who have helped me think about femininity in ways that didn’t just piss me off.
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Dear readers, I have a habit I just can’t kick. It keeps me up at night, tossing and turning (pages). I do it in the bathtub, in bed, on the couch, even on the metro. The cashier looks at me like a freak, as I creep to the register, petite and shy, and hand over my magazine with nervous fingers. What does he think? He must think I’m a pervert! An old-fashioned, boobie-oggling pervert! He must picture it, my magazine and me, close and comfortable, reclining…

Ahem. Back to the topic at hand:

I, Alison B. Bee, am addicted to men’s magazines.

Ok, it’s probably not as weird as I think it is, but we’re not talking GQ or Men’s Health here, we’re talking good old bikinis-and-cars magazines, like Stuff and FHM. I don’t know what it is about them, but I just find them riveting, laugh-out-loud funny, and gorgeously composed, even in the trashiest of cases.

Ok, it’s probably not as weird as I think it is, but we’re not talking GQ or Men’s Health here, we’re talking good old bikinis-and-cars magazines, like Stuff and FHM. I don’t know what it is about them, but I just find them riveting, laugh-out-loud funny, and gorgeously composed, even in the trashiest of cases.
I know you’ve probably read gobs of denouncements of and admittances of guilty pleasures in trash culture, but the funny thing is that I never saw these mags as “trashy” or in any way different from the normal stuff sitting around in the bathroom. Sure, they show women in compromising positions and questionable bikinis (I question, is that even a bikini, or a misplaced shoelace?) but so do Vogue and Cosmo. Do these magazines even participate in what our culture deems as low brow, or are they caught in a middle ground: elevated by opulent consumer goods on every page but debased by wacky gender norms?

Frankly, I can’t claim to know the answer. But, I am intrigued by this idea of a certain type of ‘visual pleasure’ that is derived from looking, specifically at materials meant for the eyes of others. What can I say for sure about my Stuff addiction? It’s not based in sexual fantasy. So, this brings me back to the beginning; if I’m not thinking about screwing the girls in the bikinis (I save that for Rosario Dawson on the cover of Bust…) why am I so riveted? Is it because the trashy is turned into a taboo? Is it a competitive feminine instinct that drives me to compare myself to the models? Is it a hope that the knowledge contained therein might teach me more about men? While maybe it’s a little bit of all of these, I think by-and-large the logical solutions don’t completely fit.

The most comfortable answer I can come up with is the thrill of being included in a reading that’s not meant for me. It feels subversive (and fucking fun) to laugh along at jokes about Entourage or morning wood. It strokes a special part of me, and maybe other women, too; it’s the part that wasn’t included in the ‘guy talk’ but always felt most comfortable there. It’s the part that feels constrained by just getting one heavily gendered periodical. It’s the part that maybe, just a little, feels excited by cufflinks and perky nipples, no matter how little sense it makes. …that, and I love the smell of men’s cologne. Oh, fold-out samples, you harlot.

Wanna swap centerfolds? You can contact me at gee.alibee@gmail.com
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