Porter confessions

Week before last: What a week. First the confirmation of the earlier rumor about the powhiri, then these Strike Back promotional photos from Clerihew. It’s not that there are only two axes on which I measure my Armitagemania, but the extremes of virtue and vice were definitely represented in my thoughts that week, and I was rescued from my confusion only temporarily by my intense need to finish grading. Here I’m following up on the post where I noted the reaction. I tried to make this cohere differently, and it didn’t work, so for today you get: my fantasies when I look at the picture. Here it is again.

Richard Armitage as John Porter in a promo photo related to Strike Back viral video by David Clerihew. Source: Русскоязычный Cайт Pичардa Армитиджa; I got it from Richard Armitage Net.

Here are my comments from way back when on how the video worked, by joining the perspectives of spectator and captor. Here are my comments shortly thereafter on possible viewer perspectives and the way in which the actor, by forcing us to watch, reverses some power relationships in the piece, as long as we don’t think about our ethics too closely. Here, again, are your comments about what you notice in the picture. Below, then, some of my fantasies, in no particular order. These are narrated in the fragmentary way I experience them, and like many fantasies, they are not internally consistent. Readers may find these inappropriate; none are sexually explicit in the form I’ve written them here, but caveat lector nonetheless, as they don’t put me in an especially savory light. I’m trying to keep it real here and take responsibility; I did consider not posting these today because it’s Easter Sunday, but this is all just as real to me as the previous two posts, and I don’t want to put it off any more. Key to being able to express these fantasies at all is something that CP noted, that we know that the actor submitted to having the photos taken — a double-edged interpretive sword that makes taboo thoughts permissible (“it’s only a character, not a real person being held captive / being tortured”) even as it points to the watery line between actor and character, as the fact that we have qualms at all relates at least partially to our perception that Porter is real, a feature that Mr. Armitage gives him, and that it is wrong to be aroused by even the implied suffering of others. It is “only” a performance, but it is a performance that intends to provoke (on whatever level). There’ll be more to say about this in upcoming posts.

In sum, for this post: I hope that when they read this, the people who wrote to me this week to confess that they’re troubled by their fantasies with regard either to Richard Armitage or some of the characters he plays in general or these pictures in specific may feel comforted that they are absolutely not alone in that.

***

I open the door to the room. Porter looks up. For a minute there’s a flash in his eyes, then he rearranges his expression, back to concentrated neutrality. I have a water bottle and a washcloth. I close the door behind me, walk over to him, open the bottle, and put it to his lips. He does not open his mouth. “You’d better drink while you can,” I say. “You don’t know when I’ll be back.” Still no response. I wet the cloth a little with some of the water, and dab as gently as I can at the wound on his head. He jerks his head away, but in doing so, his glance connects with mine. In it is a mixture of fury and shame. He holds his head still. I proffer the bottle again. He drinks, his eyes on me all the time. When he stops swallowing to catch his breath, I withdraw the bottle, and continue to wipe his face. He looks pointedly downward. When I’m done, I leave, but not without first grasping the back of his neck and forcing his face, and his glance, back up at me.

***

The lower half of the t-shirt makes his stomach look like a dirty marble statue. I want to touch it, stroking across lightly, and see what happens to his face. I want to touch lower, and see him struggle against the rope holding his hands together. I want to hear his breath come quicker and quicker. I want to stroke along his inner thighs, knowing he can’t really move his legs, and then press harder and harder.  I want to see him struggle to keep his eyes open and defiant and his mouth closed as I smooth his hair back from his forehead and draw the tip of my tongue gently down his earlobe. I want to see him tremble in his bonds, under my hands.

***

I open the door to the room. Porter looks up. He’s tied up very tightly. His eyes flash. I’ve got a gun and a water bottle. I close the door behind me, walk over to him, and put my hand over his mouth. He twists his head, twists all over in his bonds. “Look at me,” I say. “Look at me. Hold still.” He finally gives in. “I’ve got water for you, here, and a gun. The magazine is full. I’m putting it over here,” I gesture toward the door, near which I lay the gun on the floor, “and I’m going to untie your hands, first, and then your legs. You probably should stay here for a minute and make sure your circulation has been restored. If you want, I’ll massage your legs a bit. But you can’t stay long. The guard in the hall is asleep. There’s one more guard at the exterior door, whom you’ll have to overpower or kill. Here,” I say as I pull them out of my pocket, “are the keys to the jeep outside. I don’t know how much gas is in it. In the jeep are medical supplies, you can bandage the cuts on your arms.” Coming back to him, I press the water bottle to his lips, and he drinks for a moment, then pulls his head away, rasping out, “why should I trust you?” I stroke my hand along his hairline, and laugh. “Because you have no choice. Listen. You’ll have to put me out and tie my hands. Just try not to hurt me too badly.” I set the water bottle down, and reach behind his body to untie his hands. When they’re undone, he shakes his arms briefly, then reaches forward, pulls back an arm, and slams his fist into my skull.

***

I’m seated on the stained mattress with him, but I am free and he remains tied up. I ask him who he is, why he’s here, but he’s silent. Eventually I see his head drop, and then snap up sharply. “Rest your head on my lap,” I urge him. No response. “I know you’re tired.” I wait a few more minutes, until I see his head nod again. “I won’t hurt you,” I say. No response. But when his head drops the third time, I kneel up, reach over, and start pulling him sideways. Sensing no resistance, I edge over further, pull him off his knees and onto his side and shoulders, and place his head in my lap. He groans deeply as the blood rushes back into his calves and feet. I stroke along his hairline and ears, gently. When I take a moment to stroke along the stubble on his jaw, though, I feel moisture under my fingertips. I stop the stroking as I feel his breath slow, and he drifts off to sleep.

***

“You stink, John Porter,” I jeer, and without untying him, I begin to cut the filthy t-shirt off the top of his upper body. He struggles, but he’s tied up tightly and I remind him that I have a utility knife in my hands. His blood has encrusted it to his chest in some places. He still moves fitfully. “Do you want me to rip the shirt off, or take it off gently? Your choice.” He stills, and I reach over to a basin of warm water and a sponge, and start to soak the t-shirt off in the places where it is still clinging. “I’m going to disinfect these cuts,” I inform him when I’ve gotten the shirt off, and begin the work of cleaning and then bandaging. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. “You’re being traded back,” I reply. “Somebody cares.” He snorts, then winces as the disinfectant hits a particularly deep spot. “You’ll probably need stitches there,” I comment. He drops his head and grits his jaw. Even injured, his body is so beautiful. I can’t keep my mind on the task anymore, and I set down the implements of medicine and begin to rub his shoulders. “You’ll also probably need a chiropractor.” I feel his muscles tense under the pressure from my fingers, and his shoulders twist from side to side as he tries to ward off the invasive touch. “You’re so beautiful,” I say, “and all I’ve wanted to do since you’ve been here is touch you. Is that so bad?” His silence indicates his humiliation, which eventually transfers itself back to me. I pick up the sponge again, and giving him a last wipe all over, tell him that someone will be in soon to take him onward.

***

I burst into the room, followed by four armed soldiers. Surprised, his face starts up. I motion the soldiers to move on, but I enter the room. “What took you so long?” he rasps out, as a look of relief appears on his face, and then a grin. “Let’s get you out of these ropes,” I reply, pulling him forward so I can release his hands. He groans as he pulls his arms forward, his shoulders convulse, and muscles begin to burn; I push his body back as he loses balance, his upper body falling against mine, then help him to stand. More groans, as I first help him lean against the wall and then squat to loosen the ropes around his boots. We hear rifle fire from the corridor. He steps off the mattress and stamps his feet, wincing. He turns his head from side to side, quickly, estimating the situation, and looks down to see if I’ve got another firearm for him. “I’ll give you a gun,” I say, “if you’ll give me a kiss thank-you for untying you.” He leans over and puts his mouth over mine, biting my lips and then, as I open my mouth, quickly pressing harder with his tongue until I am gasping for breath. His hand moves to my breast, and then down my side until he’s found my sidearm. Kissing all the time, he pulls it out of the holster and then breaks off contact with a grin on his face, assuming a serious expression as he dashes out the door to join the rest of the team. Now I’m the one with the grin on her face.

~ by Servetus on April 24, 2011.