Imagine it is 1955. You are a housewife somewhere in the Chicagoland area. You have an ordinary life, a husband and a child. But you are unsure, about so many things. Life is not entirely satisfying to you. You’re an inneffienct homemaker. You have peculiar notions. And then there is your husband….
He is a good husband, in a way. But there are things you find difficult about him. There are things he needs that you are not sure you can satisfy. You want to, because you love him, and you want him to love you. But he asks a lot and does not always give back in kind.
Your husband wants to spank you. He wants you to pretend to be his little girl. His desires are exacting and detailed. You do it. Maybe you get some pleasure from the activities themselves. Maybe you don’t. In the end, it is not about you, it is about him. And this is 1955, so you are alone. There are women in the pictures your husband collects. But if these women exist in your town, on your street, you have never met one. The only person you can talk to is your husband, and he is hardly always helpful.
In the end, the spanking isn’t enough. Your submission is not enough. He will be cruel. He will look at other women, your sister; you will be jealous. In the end, you will feel neither of you have gotten much out of life.
This is the story I see in The Fetishist, a collection of found pictures, clippings and letters concerning a mid-century spanking fetishist and his wife.It is an incomplete story, but the pieces seem to me unbearably sad.
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