I went to watch Pillion the other day and, instead of being revolted or turned on by the BDSM scenes, I felt European pride. Babygirl, a movie that explored similar themes and came out last year, gave them the full Hollywood treatment. Most of the action took place in plush New York offices, impossibly grand homes or ragingly cool clubs.
The first sex scene in British-Irish Pillion happens behind some high street bins. Afterwards, most of the intense leather-clad story revolves around a house in Chislehurst, near the M25. It made the plot feel more real and more human, which is what you want when trying to discuss attraction, desire and the power dynamics that come from any relationship, kink-laden or not.
It felt refreshing to watch a movie that earnestly engaged with something most people will have only ever seen in media seeking to caricature it. It wasn’t preachy or overly glamorising. Instead, it treated their dominant/submissive relationship as behaviour worthy of study. Perhaps most importantly, it treated us, the audience, as grown-ups capable of handling it.
These days, it feels like a rare feat. Somehow we have found ourselves in a world that’s both crude yet sexless; endlessly raunchy but never sensual. Violent, misogynistic porn is everywhere online but educational content about sex is hidden. The most powerful man in the world speaks of women as if they’re inflatable toys, but a real female nipple must never be seen anywhere by anyone.
I thought about this as I left the David Zwirner gallery in Mayfair, having gone to see its Diane Arbus exhibition. It was poignant and brilliant. My favourite picture was of a woman with a frizzy mane, rolling her eyes under thick, spidery eyelashes. She’s reclining on a couch, topless, and you can catch a glimpse of her armpit hair. Her taut breasts are on show; her nipples pointing at the lens and at the sky. I found it flawless and took a snap of it to share on Instagram, then I remembered. Human flesh is no longer welcome on social media. How long until humans in general get booted out?
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My escape from tech dystopia sits at the bottom of my handbag at all times. For more than a decade, I’ve carried a camera around and used it to document my life. I do very little with the pictures, aside from chucking them on a website few have the address to. It’s my own diary and, crucially, forces me to exist in the world.
Because I know I have this thing on me that may capture special moments and store them for ever, I force myself to seek those vignettes as I go about my day. It feels like the opposite of doomscrolling. Though it would be easier for me to get them processed through one of those online-based, mail-in startups, I prefer going to a real local shop in Pimlico, London.
It seemingly exists outside of time and is solely staffed by people over the age of 70. My old camera broke last month so they advised me on a new one; I got my first roll back this week, and am incredibly pleased with the results. The only thing, really, is that I’d probably feel too awkward to get saucy pictures processed by them. There’s just no escape, is there?
Photograph courtesy of Picturehouse Entertainment