I remember a man, who's long since passed away, who was timid and polite, verging on mousy and invisible. Demurring in any social interactions, always the beta male in drab khakis and plaids, he personified the song "Mr. Cellophane" from the musical Chicago:
"'Cause you can look right through me Walk right by me And never know I'm there..."
He stumbled into the kink scene, got a pervy girlfriend and somewhere along the way got into drag. Soon, Tracy emerged with long red tresses, long red nails and even longer legs that sashayed out from underneath impossibly short mini skirts. Tracy was the life of the party. She could say the most outrageous things, wink and giggle and get away with it. She seemed to thrive in the attention and reveled in the confused gaze of arousal from hetero men. She became an audacious femme dominant.
Tracy lived and sparkled only at night.
Mr. Cellophane carried on as usual in the day light hours.
But there seemed to be something a bit different about Mr. Cellophane as Tracy grew more confident. He seemed less willing to be the doormat and the yes man. He became tougher with other men while more sympathetic about women.
Eventually I lost touch with Tracy/Mr. Cellophane. Then one day I heard that he died. I never knew how his adventures panned out, but I'll always remember him for the period of time when his world opened up and he found a path to his own power -- at the top of a pair of stilettos.
In a hidden little corner of San Francisco, Tracy found a little of what mystics and dreamers seek -- a way to become another, to live beyond the bonds of expectations, find power out of powerlessness and sometimes powerlessness despite power.
These are but a part of the complex allure of role play.
At the simplest level, role play is a moment of merry-making and make-believe in the bedroom. It's the delight of childhood imagination swirled with the adult privilege of sexuality. Beyond this basic fact, the huge demand, prevalence, variety and level of detailed execution in sexual role play signals some deeper human need being fed. Far from being a modern fad, to play at being another in sex, solo or with others, has existed since antiquity. Whether playing a horse plowing a mare or donning the leathers of a femme fatale, it's been a necessary part of our pillow books and porn.
Role playing of any sort, whether sexual, gaming or historical reenactment, offers a momentary relief from the daily roles we are confined to. Far from being the essential self, the identity and behavior of our daily lives are as much a role, limiting at times but mostly functional in maintaining social order and generally adequate stability of identity. This is the "face" we put forth to the world.
Unfortunately for many people, living entirely within their "daily self" leaves much of their complexity under-expressed or buried, sometimes unrequited and unexcavated to the end of their days.
We've all felt the pangs of frustration. Each of us, in some ways, lives with the numbness to the little daily compromises of self-expression and continual self-censorship. How often do we explore the depth and crevasses of our character? Where in all our duties and responsibilities can we find the place that is our own to consider, much less explore our potential. To do such would be tantamount to an act of selfishness in the eyes of society. So we've carved out contained sections of life where such explorations are permitted, within externally enforced reason. Historical reenactments, Second Life and gaming cultures all provide outlets deemed appropriate by society where grown men and women can put on others' "skins". Of course any "excessive" interest in such things beyond occasional dabbling may have you labeled as immature or geekish, belying society's discomfort with overt expression of fluidity of identity.
Sex is another realm where role playing is permitted as it's conveniently relegated to behind closed doors, between coupled people and for limited time. Thus no one bats an eye at the woman with the Halloween naughty nurse costume or the guy with furry handcuffs in the dresser drawer.
Even then, there seem to be rules of acceptability. If the man wears the nurse dress or the woman dresses as a man, or should either dress as a beast, then they've crossed from the realm of cute to realm of strange and unacceptable. Perhaps it's unacceptable as it puts the framework of identity, and their own identity, into doubt for too many.
Beyond the need to stave off boredom in sex, role play serves a purpose - or it could not thrive despite the ridicule and shaming.
We seek in the roles we play a shape, a container that can hold in proxy the parts of our own personalities that go unexpressed in the "daily self". The role is a vessel. At times as flimsy as the cheap nurses outfit, or thoroughly detailed, researched, elaborated and lovingly constructed as Tracy. As a proxy vessel we can embrace or distance ourselves from it freely, protecting our "daily identity" from self-doubt or social criticism.
In a sense, some people become micro experts on their chosen vessels. Their expertise is purely on their own imagined object and may not have any resemblance what so ever to the actual person or being it represents. For example, a man may be entirely fascinated with one image of femininity, a narrow archetype of womanhood. That maybe of the "Town Slut" or the "Power Femme" or the "Little Girl", but each of them holds aspects of his personality that doesn't fit his "Mr. Daily Self." "She" becomes all the things that "he" is not free to enjoy. "She" may be pretty, flirty, emotional, sexual, chaste, efficient or chaotic. "She" may express, enjoy and own power and allure that "he" is not allowed to. "She" may also luxuriate in vulnerabilities that "he" may not feel allowed to. But does his image of "her" resemble that of actual womanhood? Not likely, as full-fledged womanhood is far more complex then a hollow vessel. It's akin to mistaking a snap shot of the shadow of the woman for the woman herself.
Problems arise when the person believes that their image and construction of their subject, the vessel which they know so well, to be truly representational of their original inspiration. If a man who finds power in dressing as his ideal Town Slut, to enable his own sensuality, comes to believe that his brand of feminine sexuality is the universally shared experience, that all women really want to be Town Sluts, he is just as sexist as any other misogynist. Worse still he may believe he understands the full female experience because he's learned some small aspect of culturally female behavior.
On the other hand, if the same man understands that what he enjoys is his own construction, that in reality s/he is an entirely unique creation with some over lapping experiences with some women, then he may come to understand and appreciate women for their complexity. At minimum he may appreciate the strength and vulnerability needed to create a conscious form of beauty and gender expression.
Thus "Tracy" is not the perfect rendition of womanhood, but rather the perfect rendition of Mr. Cellophane's unique vessel. Through this vessel the person emerges and animates, enjoying newly visible facets of them selves. This new discovery is heady and potent like elixir served from the gods of the subconscious. Some people are frightened of this intoxication while some seek to drown in it. Most people, however, drink what they need, enough to give strength and quench the parched soul and imagination.
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| Send letters, responses and questions to Midori at midori@fhp-inc.com. Midori is a globetrotting kinkster, who parties and teaches cool classes on fun sex and wild kink all over the world. Check out her latest book "Wild Side Sex: The Book of Kink" or go to her site at www.fhp-inc.com. |
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