Credit: Oddee.com
This is the second piece in a new series in which Ravishly editor Katie Tandy explores the psychology behind a fetish, and writer Jetta Rae DoubleCakes crafts a piece of erotic fiction that reveals how this manifests in a sexual encounter. Color Me Kinky refers to the hanky code, a system in which certain colors connote one's sexual interests and proclivities in public spaces. Last week we talked foot fetish (coral) and now we're diving into Mommy Play (mint green). Stay tuned for more sensational smut next week.
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While some of us have what feels like an inherently vagina- and penis-shriveling reaction to the word "Mommy" when bandied about while rolling around in the sheets, this is—hurray for diverse sexual interests!—not the case for thousands.
OK. First thing's first, there are a whole host of monikers that accompany Mommy Play, including paraphilic infantalism, autonepiophilia and adult baby syndrome. While Mommy Play manifests itself as a whole kinky kaleidoscope of activities and accouterments, which we'll explore in just a minute, fret you not; it basically boils down to age-play in which someone actively regresses to an infant-like state.
Usually it's sexual in nature, but often times, coming isn't part of the scenario. And in some cases, the whole thrust of the exchange is just to be tended to and nurtured; to feel safe and decidedly blissed out. Diaper-clad and mewling, there's nothing to worry about but your next feeding. There's no responsibility, just that sweet swishing sound of the wet cloth swaddling your legs and the gummy pleasure of the pacifier plunged between your lips.
Before diving into more of the psychology, I want to point out two oft-misunderstood elements of Mommy Play. Many believe that if one wants to be a child they just might want to be with a child, and this is simply not the case. Infantilism is whole other can of worms that rarely touches upon pedophilia. They fetishize being taken care of, being tenderly loved or cruelly spanked; they want the life of a baby, not to touch one themselves.
The second, which was my initial theory to be honest, is that this must have some latent incestuous elements. But that doesn't seem to be part and parcel of this paraphilia either. They want a Mommy, an archetypal Mommy, to come and wipe their bottom . . . not their actual Mommy.
The fetishes that infantilism does intersect with, however, are sado-masochism per all the potential spanking, bed-wetting, possible humiliation elements, as well as transvestism (where some cross-dress as the opposite sex—often called "sissy-baby syndrome") in addition to urophilia (loving urine), coprophilia (good old fashioned defecation) and lactophilia (bring on the breast milk.)
The first formal coining of this phenomenon was by—who else?—Freud, who dubbed it "psychosexual infantilism." But he used it to reference individuals who perhaps had not matured properly; i.e. their "instinctual libido" had not passed through the five stages—the oral, the anal, the phallic, the latent and the genital, tracing a child's evolution from infancy through adulthood—without encountering some unfortunate humiliation, frustration, suppression, etc. etc. etc. which halted their development into a fully functioning adult sex-beast.
These days, there are a host of different theories as to why certain people are drawn to this of kind role-playing, but like so many things in life—damn you God!—it largely remains a hotly contested mystery.
One prevailing notion is that people's "lovemaps" have gone awry. Sexologist John Money first used this term in 1980 in a paper entitled, Pairbonding and Limerence (which basically means an involuntary infatuation with someone).
Money defines a lovemap as "a developmental representation or template in the mind and in the brain depicting the idealized lover and the idealized program of sexual and erotic activity projected in imagery or actually engaged in with that lover."
Basically it's a two-fold dream-team that couples together the hottest sexual shit you can imagine with the hottest partner you can imagine. Money, and current psychologists, still wrestle with the notion that wanting to temporarily renounce one's adult agency in the world to be coddled like a baby—or coddle a grown-ass human as a baby—is an example of a lovemap that's no longer navigated by the Northern Star. Which is to say, it's a little off.
And of course, the debate still rages whether any of the "known" 549 kinds of paraphilias or "atypical sexual desires" should be considered an affliction or listed in diagnostic manuals, such as the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) or the International Classification of Diseases.
But alright already, enough of the science crap. Let's get to the good bits shall we?
In the world of infantilism you will see everything from soiled diapers (the material of which obviously range depending on your taste from cloth to disposable or rubber) to wet-nursing (sometimes simulated), crawling on the floor, being fed, being bathed, drinking from bottles, and of course being spanked and perhaps humiliated in the process.
There is a tremendous amount of overlap with diaper fetishists—though these two paraphilias are not synonymous—who enjoy having regular intercourse just wearing a diaper.
As for those coddling man-sized babies, you will find their partners acting just as a good mother should: wiping faces, bottoms, heating up warm milk, poking a nipple into a hungry mouth, swaddling their dearest darling in a nice clean white diaper, or perhaps punishing a very naughty boy with swift strikes on their bottom draped over their knee.
And now: the erotic fiction.
“What’s the matter, Pipsqueak? You’ve barely touched your dinner.”
“It’s nothing—I’m OK, Mommy.”
“Is your rope harness too tight? Do you want me to pull out your plug?”
“No, no it’s nothing—”
“Nothing’s what’s in your stomach. What’s going on in your mind? Please tell me, Pipsqueak. I can’t bring you to the dungeon tonight if you’re not feeling well.”
“It hurts.”
“What does, baby? Your tummy?”
“No—my heart.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I just wish I looked like you—you keep saying that one day I’ll grow nice big breasts like yours but I just feel so gross. Maybe I won’t be liked if I don’t look like you.”
“Oh, my tiny tootsie pop—why ever would you think that? I love you just the way you are. With tiny wrists I can tie tight, and ticklish feet that kick the sheets off the bed. And your collar looks so lovely nestled around your pale, smooth neck—it’s almost like heavy cream. And there’s so much of you that I like that you can’t see in the mirror. Like how your mouth feels when it’s—”
“Mommy you’re making me blush.”
“Good. I let you get away with a lot, because I love you, but the one thing I won’t tolerate under my roof is letting you believe you are anything less than spectacular.”
“My chore chart is covered in so many gold stars! I’m a very good girl, Mommy—you can’t say I’m not. Star stickers don’t lie.”
“Well I can say this—I don’t need you to look like me. It is not necessary to have my hips for me to tie you to the ottoman and rest my feet on your face while I watch my soaps. You do not need my shoulders to have your mouth washed out with cock. And you certainly don’t need my pussy—because I keep yours locked up. I bet it’s blushing under your chastity belt—isn’t it?”
“Maaaayyybbbeeeee—”
“And if you don’t finish your dinner, we can’t have a sleepover tonight. And you’ve been really working for that, too. Don’t you want to watch me fuck your best friend? I was going to let you decide whether or not I let her come. Not that we’d hear you very clearly—the closet is very far from the bed and I have to gag you when I tie you up in there. I even picked out the stockings you like so much for tonight, too.”
“Oh yes yes yes, please Mommy. I’ve been trying very hard! I went up two butt plug sizes this week. I wanted to wear my plug that looks like a fox’s tail! Stephanie told me that my chastity belt was silly and that only silly girls let their moms take away their orgasms I wanted her to see how much fun it is.”
“Well I need you to finish your supper first. Hanging you up in the closet is going to take a while—the longer you hold off on those peas, the later it’s going to be before I can call Stephanie.”
“OK, Mommy. Will you untie me so I can put them in the microwave?”
“Tell you what. How about—how about I let you have dessert first, just this once, just to show you how happy and in love with you I am?”
“Oh my god.”
“Do you think you can pull my panties down with your teeth without tearing them?”
“Um, um, um, um, um.”
“Can you smell it, little girl? Can you smell how wet I am, seeing you so wound up?”
“Y-y-you smell so good, Mommy. I want—I want—please? Please? PLEASE?”
“You can ask nicer than that. I raised you better.”
“Please, um, um, oh god, um—”
“And I didn’t get to tell you about my day at work. He finally did it. He bent me over that desk, in full view of the whole office, and he fucked the shit out of my pussy. I bet some of him is still in there. I wonder if you could taste it. You're gonna swirl it around in your mouth while I make your best friend cry and beg—”
“Feed the slut, Mommy. Please. Feed the slut.”
“Oh, is the slut hungry now?”
“Yes, Mommy. The slut is so hungry. She’s starving. Please, Mommy. Please let your slut taste you. Please . . . please.”
“On your knees.”
“Thank you, Mommy. I love you. I love you so much.”
“Good. Don’t let it spoil your supper.”