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The Whore Next Door: Food Dom 

Wednesday, Jul 13 2016
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"Just a scoop of creamed potatoes, a slice of butter ... four peas," James Spader's cautiously sadistic voice instructs a mousey Maggie Gyllenhaal over the phone as she prepares for dinner with her family. "And all the ice cream you care to eat."

Later, Gyllenhaal's character locks herself in a bathroom stall at work, shoves her hands down her dress uttering, "Four ... peas!" through pursed lips as she hungrily brings herself to climax.

Long before 50 Shades of Grey became an entire generation's first taste of BDSM romance, the 2002 indie dramedy Secretary was one of the first times I saw the kink lifestyle portrayed on film.

Spader — also named Grey — is a tortured lawyer who hires hot mess Gyllenhaal and molds her through strict training and protocols into his ideal submissive-slash-secretary.

The development of their relationship showcases spanking, service, and even a little pony play, but the kink that captured my heart was the control Spader's character exercised over his submissive during meal time.

I, along with so many other women, have a complicated relationship with food.

I was always a little chubby.

My mother, who told me she was put on her first diet at age 12, vowed to protect me as much as possible from the systematic body hatred so ingrained in the lives of women from the industrialized world.

But, of course, that was impossible. The way she talked about her own body, as well as the food she ate, served as a blueprint for how I would come to think about food and, subsequently, myself.

Meanwhile, my grandmother — who grew up during the Great Depression in a migrant farming family for whom food was occasionally scarce — saw it primarily as a way to express love and safety and filled my childhood with Southern comforts: fried okra, peanut butter pie, and peach cobbler.

Entertainment media shows a strong preference toward slender people and is quick to mock and degrade larger folks. I learned quickly that girls like me were treated differently than our skinny peers, and the size and shape of a woman's body is expected to correlate to her self-worth.

Thinking I'd be facing a losing battle by trying to keep up with the cult of thin, I focused my attention on cultivating my charm, blowjob skills, and nerd trivia, instead of agonizing over my body.

It wasn't until I had a boyfriend tell me he was worried about what his friends would think about him "dating a fat girl" that I decided to try to lose weight in earnest for the first time.

I signed up for My Fitness Pal, joined an expensive gym, and stopped consuming alcohol and sugar, abstaining even from fruit.

I found that the meticulous discipline I exerted in order to achieve that milestone was more intense and rigorous than any kink I had played with to date.

It was insanely difficult, but after about a year I lost close to 40 pounds. I was hoping my boyfriend's anxiety about my body shape would at least translate into a kinky, Spader-like obsession with everything that went into my face hole, and losing weight would be a long-term edgy scene — but no luck. He eventually left, citing that he liked me better when I was chubbier.

Secretary's iconic "four peas" scene had been in my spank bank for years at that point, but it was only after my weight loss journey that I truly realized food domination had become one of the cornerstones of my sexuality.

Food can sustain and destroy a body. It is both a necessity and luxury.

The power I felt from facing my fears and my baggage around food, and physically transforming my body, filled me with a sense of pride and confidence bigger than any heartbreak.

Understanding that my relationship to food, as with my relationship to sex, is a charged one — and choosing to engage, rather than hide from it — has felt like breaking out of the matrix.

It's not about being slender or thick, toned or tubby — it's about being the CEO of one's body, knowing and taking responsibility for everything that goes into it, and crafting what it looks like based on your heart's desire, not what society dictates.

I realized I didn't need some bumbling Spader wannabe to tell me how many peas to put into my mouth at dinner — controlling what someone puts into their body is incredibly intimate, and giving up that control and/or consensually taking it from someone else can feel as edgy as playing with breath, blood, and fire. When I direct that attention and care toward myself, it is not indulgence or neuroses; it is, as Audre Lorde says, an act of political warfare.

About The Author

Siouxsie Q

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