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Daily picture archive 24 June - 6 July
Hello, Spaceman
Today I’ve discovered a new sort of bondage: being locked into the cradle of a roller-coaster, the sort that hangs you horisontally beneath a railing and sends you spinning in loops, like a human stunt plane.
The reason I went on it today was Richard Branson’s unveiling of Virgin Galactic and its program for space tourism. I don’t think I’m going to space any time soon, as much as I’d like to… but the roller-coaster was the nearest thing. I honestly didn’t think of its bondage potential to start with.
However, when a strapping young man gave me a hand up into the cradle, maneuvered my neck into a leather brace, shifted my feet into the correct position, locked the thick metal bars behind me - why, I could think of nothing else but being completely in his power. Well, his, and the great machine’s that he was about to launch.
All that was missing was a good flogging, once I was so conveniently immobilised. I was sentenced to several minutes of being thrown around in the air, instead. I wonder how many people who go on this ride imagine they’ve been sent there for punishment?
EDITED: The picture, as requested. No, I don’t look like I’m about to get punished. On the other hand, it could be the grimace of pain.
Why I haven’t blogged about the Mosley case
My frequent readers may have noticed that ever since the Mosley scandal broke out several months ago, I’ve chosen not to write about it, other than a few comments here and there.
The reason behind this is very personal and, perhaps, not a great excuse in the eyes of those of you who’ve written to me to demand that I state a public opinion. I’ve stayed silent because the whole affair has left me numb with anger. Not the helpful sort of anger, which pushes you to fight injustices, steal from the rich and keep it to yourself etc, but the soggy smog of disappointment: blinding, crushing and ultimately useless.
Enough metaphors, though: let me explain.
I entered the scene very young, and did all of my mental growing up as a part of what’s always felt to me like a benevolent, friendly world of kinky humans. The most important aspect of our existence in the scene was trust: without it, the kink is nothing.
In the small corner of the scene where we models and pro-spankees live and interact with the people who like to engage our services, the emphasis on discretion and honour is arguably even greater than in the scene at large. Not only are we handing each other the power over our physical shells, but we are dealing with other people’s financial, professional and personal well-being.
It’s important to take care, of course: the world isn’t kind to the naive. That said, while being reasonably careful about whom I invite into my life, I have built rewarding relationships with my fellow professionals and non-pro friends. The scene was a good place to be a young kinkster and a model.
This is why it was such a blow to me that the betrayal of my colleagues (and Max, their client) came not from a mustachioed spy creeping into a dodgy spanking party, but a woman they considered one of their own. This alone was hard to take in, and I still struggle to understand what has to go through the mind of a woman who throws away all relationships, connections and friendships in the scene, gleefully pushing five people off the cliff.
And this wasn’t all, because the betrayals kept coming. Somebody set the Mail on Lucy & Paul, who had no more to do with the case than being prominent figures in the spanking scene, and convenient for the hacks to blackmail. Another somebody (or several of them) filled in the biographic details of the girls involved to the papers, in enough detail that the helpful alphabetical masquarade and the shading of faces in print looks like mockery. My safe, benevolent scene looks to be full of the sort of individuals who will spill other people’s intimate secrets without a backward glance.
I couldn’t begin to equate my distress to the daily anguish suffered by the girls and Max. I’m safe and well here behind my computer screeen. And yet, the profound disappointment in my scene is looking to haunt me for a long time. I don’t see being able to walk into a spanking party without guessing who is going to betray everybody present - and I foresee people treating me with the same mistrust, for wasn’t it a spanking model who sold out to the papers in the first place?
Max Mosley won the case, and that’s a positive thing for us in the scene, but the damage has been done. Paul Kennedy has held on to his honour, but not his job - and yet, traitors keep the money, papers get sold no matter with what poison they soak their pages.
My capacity for trust, the base upon which I’d built my scene identity, is crack’d from side to side. It will take more than a favourable judicial decision to fix it. I’m self-healing as much as I know how. I guess, forcing myself to write about my issues here is part of the process. I know that otherwise, I’m no good as a writer - and particularly not as a friend.
Goodnight, my kind, benevolent scene. I remain always yours - Adele Haze, a “prostitute” and a deviant consumer of tea.
