Me putting my foot down with this joker. He's sure not putting up much of a fight...
One of my favourite cartoons of all time is Popeye, especially the old black and white ones from the 50s and the early colour ones from the 60s. Naturally, Bluto (or Brutus as he was once known) is a huge role model for me (or at least for my erotic persona). He was a big, muscular grown-up bully who routinely beat the daylights out of Popeye to gain his objective, which was Olive Oyl, more of than not. A typical cartoon would set up with Bluto intercepting Popeye on the way to call on Olive by starting a fight with him or, even better, sneak attacking him in some horrendously violent way. He’d be waiting on top of Olive’s house and would wait for Popeye to ring the doorbell, then jump down onto Popeye’s head with both feet, driving Popeye right into the ground and, standing on Popeye’s head, would greet Olive as the she opened the door.
Bluto often used his feet to lay heavy damage on Popeye. It was Bluto whom I first saw committing absurd acts like jumping with both feet on Popeye’s head, kicking his prone face with all his might and sending Popeye through some goal posts, et cetera.
I used to be quietly turned on by watching these violent scenes as a child. From an early age I took a great interest in schoolyard fights when one boy greatly overmatched another and would bloody him some before the teachers could arrive to break things up. I still remember a kid named Jason (a medium-sized boy, but very mean) fight Kenny, a big, spastic misfit, and punch him enough time that Kenny curled up in a ball to protect himself. After trying to wrestle Kenny out of the turtle position without success, he changed tactics.
He walked up to Kenny, stood over him, and stepped on the side of Kenny’s head with his shoe and pressed down on it. Kenny freaked out and started to get up from the ground onto one knee. Jason didn’t hesitate. He kicked Kenny right in the nose as hard as he could. You could hear the thud the toe of his shoe made on Kenny’s face. Next thing I knew, Kenny leaned over and blood began to pour from his nose and spatter the asphalt. Kenny started to make this wild shrill wailing sound, and the fool didn’t even put his hands over his nose to slow the bleeding–just let it pour out of his nose as a ring of children looked away in horror or shock.
I watched Jason take just a step back. The humour had left his face. He knew the spectacle would bring a teacher soon and see him in heaps of trouble. But I knew Jason would be making jokes and telling stories about it all the next day. Jason wasn’t sorry. He was delighted. He’d not only beaten up another boy, but he’d been able to take his time with an already beaten boy and think up what kind of degrading act of violence he could inflict on the boy to see to it that no one would forget the spectacle of the deed or the sight of Kenny’s pain, blood, and horror at his injury.
This was the kind of sadism which, in sexual fantasy, I admired, lusted after, and constantly reworked in my head.
And then came pro-wrestling, in the glorious 80s. This was the era of the squash match, when jobbers with tacky names, outfits, and appearances would wrestle brand name wrestlers and be beaten soundly by them. When the brand name wrestler was a heel, or bad guy type, he was invariably a bully, who spend the match dominating the other wrestler completely, generally using vicious cheating tactics and dishing out humiliating holds long after the point when he could have won the match.
This became the next big visual and dynamic source for my imagination. I’d watch wrestlers stomping each other repeatedly, grind the bottom’s of their boots on the other wrestlers forehead, step on their prone throat. It was all delicious.
Me getting comfortable on this jobber's chest. Don't know what I feel like doing with him yet, but it'll come to me!
I’ve since nurtured and evolved my bullying themes and fantasies in various genres, from superheroes to pornography. But I’ve always taken a special delight in using my feet to add insult to injury. Something about using your foot on someone expressed so many things. I’m unbeatable. I don’t have to try hard to utterly dominate you. I can afford to keep my hands free while I beat on you with my feet. I can ignore the usual rules of the competition and just stand on you while your down to make my point: I can manhandle you at will. And my favourite point that using my feet makes: I can treat you like dirt by putting the lowliest part of my body right in your face, and you won’t be able to stop me!
I’ll aways remember the words O’Brian, the party member and thought cop of The Party in Orwell’s 1984, said to Winston, the helpless hero. To paraphrase very loosely, he said, “Suffering is mandatory. Otherwise, how would you know you were exercising power over someone? What you are ordering them to do might be their secret wish. Only by making someone suffer are you sure you are controlling them, because they must be undergoing something or doing something against their will.”
That’s the secret of suffering. And it’s one of reasons why pain and violence have always been so seductive to me. It’s really a power trip to be able to step on someone’s face, leave your foot there long enough for a man to realize you’re degrading him by using his face to step on, and then push down hard on that man’s face to keep him wriggling in a horribly humiliating position.
Actually, I've always been fond of going one step further than merely holding a man's head pinned to the ground with my foot; I love to actually stand on his face with both feet! That turns my opponent into a conquered piece of ground, not even worth talking to or looking in the eye as I wrestle him.
So, that’s whyI love violence, wrestling, and why I love to use my feet for both! But there’s more to add to this verdant topic … Different uses of my feet say different things to an opponent–especially a male one. I’ll be focussing on this in part two.
Love to all, Doms and doormats,