What Was I Thinking? (18 March)

Images used for the posts published on this date 

in 2019, 2020, 2021, and 2023

 

 

 

 

Sometimes - especially those times when, like today, I can't think of anything else to write about -  it's convenient to be able to look back and see what one was thinking on the same date in years gone by ...

 

 

Onychophilia: Notes on Two Types of Nail Fetish

 

The first thing to note about this post published back in 2019, is that it is - with almost 5000 views - the most viewed post on Torpedo the Ark. 

 

I suspect that's primarily because the post was mentioned by Dr Mark Griffiths on his excellent blog devoted to addictive, obsessive, compulsive and/or extreme behaviours [1], although I like to think the post also warrants attention on its own merit. 

Starting with those fetish figures made by natives of the Congo region of Central Africa, I swiftly moved from wooden figures with rusty nails banged into them for the purposes of witchcraft on to the sharp, long fingernails of beautiful young women and argued that onychophilia deserves to be considered in its own right and not merely seen as a form of hand partialism. 

 

Somewhat controversially perhaps, I also suggested that those who love nails (like those who love hair) are essentially soft-core necrophiles, secretly aroused by death. 

 

The post finished with a discussion of a related (but distinct) fetish, amychophilia - the desire of a masochistic subject to be cruelly scratched by fingernails. 

 

 

The Bear Necessity: Reflections on the Case of Timothy Treadwell

Not all posts are as popular as the one on two types of nail fetish. 

 

This post, for example, from March 2020, didn't even get a hundred views - which arguably speaks to the fact that there far fewer vorarephiles in the world than there are onychophiles (or amongst my readership, at any rate).

But I found the case of Timothy Treadwell interesting; a failed actor turned gonzo naturalist who ended up being eaten by a brown bear - which, as I punned at the time, is a grisly way to meet your end, but not, I think, the most ignoble way to die. I'd certainly rather be killed by a tiger than run over by a car and I would refute the idea that this makes me a disturbed individual harbouring a bizarre death wish.

 

 

Talaria: On the Secularisation of Winged Footwear from Hermes to Jeremy Scott

This post, from 2021 has so far picked up over a thousand views, so that's not too bad. It opens with the Greek god Hermes and closes with the irreverent American fashion designer Jeremy Scott. 

 

Some might characterise this transition from ancient myth to modern pop culture, as going from the sublime to the ridiculous, but I've never been a great defender of the distinction between high and low culture and I rather like the idea that everyone is entitled to wear winged footwear, not just gods and heroes.

 

 

Arborcide in the U. K.

 

Finally, let me briefly defend the post published on March 18th of last year: I thought it was good then and I still think it's good now.

 

However, the number of views it's had - despite the reworked Jamie Reid artwork - suggests that there are precious few dendrophiles checking out the blog; a fact that suprises and disappoints, as I would say Torpedo the Ark is hugely pro-tree and I have repeatedly expressed my support for those writers who recognise that plants are just as philosophically interesting as animals (perhaps more so). 

 

Reforesting, rewilding, and depopulating the UK is pretty much my position: no more roads; no more houses, no more population increase - just natural regeneration of woodland, scrubland, grassland, and wetland all across the country and serious protection afforded to wildlife. Rupert Birkin was right, there's no nicer thought than that of a posthuman future ...       

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Dr Mark Griffiths is a Professor of Behavioural Addiction at Nottingham Trent University. To visit his blog and to read his take on the subject of onychophilia, click here. 

 

 

Chase Me - Catch Me - Kill Me - Eat Me!

 

The leopard will never lie down with the antelope. 

Whilst the leopard is leopard, he must fall on the antelope, to devour her. 

This is his being and his peace, in so far as he has any peace. 

And the peace of the antelope is to be devourable.

 

 

I. 

 

Those readers familiar with Luc Besson's sci-fi thriller Lucy (2014), starring Scarlett Johansson as a woman who gains superhuman powers - including massively enhanced cognitive abilities - thanks to a (fictional) nootropic (CPH4), will doubtless recall the terrifying opening scene at the hotel when she delivers a metal briefcase to Mr. Jang (a South Korean crime boss played by Choi Min-sik) containing bags of the designer drug in blue-powdered form.

 

As she waits nervously in the lobby, scenes of a cheetah stalking an antelope flash on the screen, indicating the mortal danger she is in. When she is brought before Jang by his henchmen, she desperately pleads for her life as images of the cheetah having caught its tender young prey, carries it away to be eaten [1]. 

As a visual metaphor, it's hardly subtle and is perhaps something of a cliché, combining elements of the lurid and the banal that remind one of the kind of pornography that appeals to those men who enjoy the thought of commiting acts of savage sexual violence against vulnerable-looking doe-eyed girls, or to those who desire to swallow others, or fantasise about being devoured by a large predator, red in tooth and claw. 

 

 

II. 

 

The scene also reminds me, however, of a memorable passage in D. H. Lawrence's essay 'The Reality of Peace', that I'd like to share with readers:

 

"Look at the doe of the fallow deer as she turns back her eyes in apprehension. What does she ask for, what is her helpless passion? Some unutterable thrill in her waits with unbearable acuteness for the leap of the mottled leopard. Not of the conjunction with the hart is she consummated, but of the exquisite laceration of fear, as the leopard springs upon her loins, and his claws strike in, and he dips his mouth in her. This is the white-hot pitch of her helpless desire. She cannot save herself. Her moment of frenzied fulfilment is the moment when she is torn and scattered beneath the paws of the leopard, like a quenched fire scattered into the darkness. Nothing can alter it. This is the extremity of her desire, this desire for the fearful fury of the brand upon her. She is balanced over at the extreme edge of submission, balanced against the bright beam of the leopard like a shadow against him." [2]  

 

For Lawrence, these two types of animal - predator and prey - exist by virtue of juxtaposition; to negate the being of one would be to negate the being of the other. Similarly, any ideal attempt to reconcile the cat and the rat, the wolf and the lamb, or the leopard and the antelope, "is only to bring about their nullification" [3].

 

That's arguably true, but what's interesting is how Lawrence eroticises his philosophy - and does so in a manner that many commentators also find porno-lurid and clichéd. 

 

Michael Black, for example, notes how, in the above passage, the deer is female and the leopard male and he wonders what this tells us about Lawrence's sexual politics. It is one thing, writes Black, "to contemplate predation as a fact of nature; it is another to elevate it to a mystic principle" [4] which eroticises violent death and being devoured. 

 

He has a point, but I suspect Black fails to appreciate just how perverse Lawrence's writing is. 

 

For despite Lawrence's sexual politics mostly oscillating between the romantic and the reactionary, his work also provides us with an explicit A-Z of paraphilias and fetishistic behaviours, obliging readers to think about subjects including: adultery, anal sex, autogynephilia, cross-dressing, dendrophilia, female orgasm, floraphilia, gang rape, garment fetishism, homosexuality, lesbianism, masturbation, naked wrestling, objectum-sexuality, podophilia, pornography, psychosexual infantalism, sadomasochism, and zoophilia. [5] 

 

It's neither shocking nor suprising, therefore, that Lawrence should also allow an element of vorarephilia to enter his text ...    

   

 

Notes

 

[1] This scene can be watched on YouTube thanks to Universal Pictures All-Access: click here. 

 

[2] D. H. Lawrence, 'The Reality of Peace', in Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine and Other Essays, ed. Michael Herbert, (Cambridge University Press, 1988), p. 50. 

 

[3] Ibid. 

      I discussed Lawrence's philosophy of anatgonistic opposition - or what he likes to call polarity - at greater length with reference to 'The Reality of Peace' in an earlier (related) post: click here.

 

[4] Michael Black, D. H. Lawrence: The Early Philosophical Works, (Cambridge University Press, 1992), p. 440. 

      

[5] I'm quoting from my post on Torpedo the Ark entitled 'D. H. Lawrence: Priest of Kink' (19 July 2018): click here. 

The Bear Necessity: Reflections on the Case of Timothy Treadwell

Promo image for Grizzly Man (2005)

I.

It's funny how life works out: one minute you're just an audition away from landing the role of Woody Boyd in one of TV's greatest sitcoms; the next you're being eaten by a brown bear ...

II.

Failed actor, self-confessed substance abuser, and gonzo naturalist, Timothy Treadwell, believed he possessed a unique bond with all creatures great and small, particularly bears, which, he insisted, were just harmless party animals. To prove it, he spent his summers in an Alaskan National Park getting chummy with grizzlies, whilst pissing off the park rangers who repeatedly warned him about the risks he was taking.

Warnings he blithely chose to ignore; refusing, for example, to carry a can of bear spray (just in case), or protect his campsite with a (non-lethal) electric fence. Both of these measures were dismissed as cruel and unnecessary, 'cos he loved his furry friends and they would never hurt him, he said.

Unfortunately, this proved to be a fatal conceit ... Something that Treadwell discovered when he and his girlfriend, Amie Huguenard, encountered a denizen of the woods out looking for a meal, rather than searching for human companionship.


III.

The tragic result of this encounter was documented in Werner Herzog's Grizzly Man (2005); a film which makes silent use of a six-minute audio recording in which the agonised screams of Tim and Amie can be heard as they meet their grisly end (excuse the pun). Whilst some vorarephiles might find that idea arousing, I suspect in reality there's nothing very erotic about having a large male bear chow down on you (as Leonardo DeCaprio will vouch). 

Interestingly, however, whilst praising Treadwell's astonishing video footage of bears, Herzog makes it clear in his narration that he repudiates Treadwell's Disneyfied view of nature and regards him as a disturbed individual harbouring a bizarre death wish. So, perhaps it was the end he longed for after all ...? 

If nothing else, it certainly makes one question why it was that Treadwell, who usually left the park at the end of the summer, chose in 2003 to stay until early October; a decision that placed him and Huguenard at far greater risk, as bears become more aggressive in the autumn as they desperately search for food prior to hibernation.

Herzog speculates that by staying later in the season Treadwell was almost deliberately inviting trouble. And he concludes:

"What haunts me, is that in all the faces of all the bears that Treadwell ever filmed, I discover no kinship, no understanding, no mercy. I see only the overwhelming indifference of nature. To me, there is no such thing as a secret world of the bears. And this blank stare speaks only of a half-bored interest in food."

Notes

For a lengthy essay discussing the case of Timothy Treadwell entitled 'Night of the Grizzly - A True Story of Love and Death in the Wilderness', visit: yellowstone-bearman.com

To learn more about Grizzly People, the grassroots organisation founded by Treadwell devoted to preserving bears and their natural environment, click here. 

See: Grizzly Man, dir. Werner Herzog, (Lions Gate Films, 2005): click here to watch the official trailer.

Jumping the Shark (With Reference to the Case of Maldoror)

Dr Louzou: Maldoror et le requin femelle (2008) 
obscur_echange.livejournal.com

I.

I don't know if the erotic fascination with sharks, or selachophilia as I imagine it's known, is recognised as a distinct subclass of zoophilia, but I'm guessing that it must be pretty rare to want to sexually engage a great white or hammerhead.*

Dolphins, I can see the attraction of and have, in fact, previously written here on delphinophilia. I am sympathetic also to those who, like Troy McClure, have a thing for fish and have posted too on the subject of icthyophilia.

But getting jiggy with Jaws seems to me to be taking things a bit too far - by which I mean moving into the realm of pure fantasy, not overstepping some kind of moral boundary. Indeed, the only case of a human-shark relationship that I know of is found in Lautréamont's great poetic novel Le Chants de Maldoror (1868-69).          

II.

The Songs of Maldoror is a queer gothic study of a misanthropic and misotheistic protagonist who, like a Sadean libertine, renounces conventional morality and devotes himself to a life of evil. Its transgressive, experimental, and often absurd style both anticipated and influenced Surrealism; Dalí was such a fan that he even illustrated an edition of the work.    

Each of the 60 chapters (or verses) can be read independently and in isolation, as there seems to be no narrative continuity or even any direct relationship between events. One strange episode simply follows another, as if in a dream or nightmare.

Having said that, there are certain common themes and recurrent images and there's also a noticeably large number of animals passing through the work, who seem to be admired by Maldoror for their nonhumanity and inhumanity.

One of these animals is the female shark with whom he copulates in this memorable, rather charming passage:

"They look into each other's eyes for some minutes, each astonished to find such ferocity in the other's eyes. They swim around keeping each other in sight, and each one saying to themselves: 'I have been mistaken; here is one more evil than I.' Then by common accord they glide towards one another underwater, the female shark using its fins, Maldoror cleaving the waves with his arms; and they hold their breath in deep veneration, each one wishing to gaze for the first time upon the other, his living portrait. When they are three yards apart they suddenly and spontaneously fall upon one another like two lovers and embrace with dignity and gratitude, clasping each other as tenderly as brother and sister. Carnal desire follows this demonstration of friendship. Two sinewy thighs press tightly against the monster's flesh [...] arms and fins are clasped around the beloved object, while their throats and breasts soon form one glaucous mass amidst the exhalations of the sea-weed [...] and rolling on top of one another down into the unknown deeps, they joined in a long, chaste and ghastly coupling!"

Whether, technically, it would be possible for a human male to sexually penetrate the body of a female shark, I don't know: a penis isn't quite the same as a clasper and a cloaca not quite as welcoming as a mammalian vagina. Still, you never know until you try I suppose: however, any would-be lovers should be warned - sharks play rough ... 

Notes

* There are probably significantly more people who fantasise about being attacked and eaten by a shark, but that's an entirely different kettle of fish; that is to say, whilst vorarephilia has an erotic element to it, it's not the same as wishing to fuck what used to be known by sailors as a sea dog. 

Le Comte de Lautréamont, Maldoror and Poems, trans. Paul Knight, (Penguin Books, 1978). The passage quoted is in Part II, Chapter 13, pp. 111-112.    

Notes on Nyotaimori and Associated Paraphilias

Nyotaimori by C. J. Manroe 

(aka fuzzyzombielove)

deviantart.com

Nyotaimori is the Japanese art of serving food from the cool, naked body of a young woman, said to have originated in Ishikawa during the period when the samurai formed a ruling warrior elite and the most graceful of women worked in geisha houses as professional entertainers and, it seems, part-time sushi platters.

This practice has not only continued within modern Japan, but spread to other parts of the world; i.e. it's become a debased commercial export, rather than part of a noble celebration. It's not something I've witnessed or participated in. Nor is it something I would wish to experience, as there are aspects of nyotaimori that makes me distinctly uncomfortable: for one thing, I'm not a great lover of soured rice and raw fish.

Nor do I have any desire to engage in eroticised food play, which is, in essence, what nyotaimori is; a fetishistic combination of pleasures designed to arouse more than just an appetite for a good meal. I'm aware of the long association between eating and sex, but, unlike George Costanza, sitophilia holds no great interest for me I'm afraid.

Nor, for that matter, does sexual cannibalism - and I'm assured by a friend who knows about this kind of thing, that the secret desire of those engaged in nibbling sashimi off of a nude girl's torso is to consume her flesh also. In fact, the food is merely a symbolic substitute and an alibi for those who have a bad conscience concerning their anthropophagic urges and dark vore fantasies.

I suppose the only element of (traditional) nyotaimori that does excite my curiosity is the forniphilic one; that is to say, the material objectification of the woman acting as a decorative centrepiece.

Although there is no bondage or gagging involved, the human salver is trained to remain perfectly still and completely silent at all times. The fact that her flesh is often chilled with ice-water before being placed on the table (in order to comply with food safety regulations), only adds to the impression that she's a lifeless object, like a corpse or statue.*

Obviously, there are many objections that might be raised from a feminist and humanist perspective to the objectification of women in this manner. But, if we accept the notion of free and informed consent, then I suppose a woman must be allowed to make herself useful as a piece of furniture or kitchen utensil, if she so chooses.

To claim, however, that it's empowering to do so, is disingenuous at best and often betrays the same false consciousness as the Muslim woman who insists she is liberated by taking up the veil.

*Although it would be stretching things to read either necrophilia or agalmatophilia into nyotaimori, it's interesting to note how paraphilia (like polytheism) always ends in slippage, as one distinct form of love gives way to a succession of others in a promiscuous process of association, until they slowly become indistinguishable and confused. It's very rare - and very difficult - to stay devoted to a single fetish; you begin by loving the foot, for example, but end by worshipping the shoe or stocking as you slide along a continuum of perverse pleasure.           

           

Suicide by Tiger (The Case of Sarah McClay)

Tipu's Tiger (Victoria and Albert Museum)

In the news at the moment is the case of zookeeper Sarah McClay, who was killed by one of the big cats in her care. 

Although the police have ruled it out, the suggestion was made (much to the anger of her family) that the young woman could have entered the animals' enclosure with the intention of ending her own life: suicide by tiger, as it has been described.

I have to say, this idea is one that greatly appeals to me: not so much in a fetishistic manner - though, for the record, I've nothing against those vorarephiles who are aroused by the thought of being eaten alive by wild animals - but simply as a method of taking one's leave from this world.

Better, surely, to die in the jaws of a magnificent beast, than beneath the steel wheels of a tube train. One might imagine that one is passing directly back into life (quite literally becoming-animal) and derive a real element of joy from that.