Vampires, Burlesque and External Torture: Musings on Forniphilia
Author: Oscar Wilder
I was introduced to the concept of human furniture by the roleplaying game, Vampire: The Masquerade. Except, the concept wasn’t exactly kinky, and not portrayed as desirable at all. In this game, certain vampires are capable of contorting a human form, molding flesh into whatever shape they please, leaving their victims forever paralyzed as a grotesque ornament. When this particular piece of lore came up, it invited mostly jokes or expressions of revulsion from my fellow players.
But it invoked something different in me. The first emotion I recognised was sympathy for the poor mortals that had been turned into vampire furniture. But underneath, there was something else: identification. I couldn’t put my finger on why exactly I related to the plight of people forced to literally bend over backwards for others, but twenty years of being a scholar, tutor and entertainer might have something to do with it. And finally, I uncovered a deeper feeling only when I stripped back the layers, like a couch in need of new upholstery... Envy.
There’s a reason I’m an entertainer and tutor, after all. It does make me happy to help and serve others. And perhaps being a chair would be a simpler job than choregraphing, performing, teaching, editing and writing scholarly papers. So I laughed along with the others, but secretly tucked away those thoughts about serving a dark vampiric overlord as a table.
Then, the stunning Mya Tension announced one of the themes for her kinky burlesque classes was ‘forniphilia’, or, human furniture. I signed up mostly out of curiousity, knowing I had this pull to the idea. Mya explained that people enjoyed the kink usually because of the submission, serving others, and even the degradation. Some of my classmates were dommes, and joked about how this foray into submission was unusual for them. Sure, I can recognise a significant element of submission in forniphilia, but I saw it quite differently. If you falter, if you can’t hold the weight of the person using you as a chair, they fall. They rely on you, depend on you – and you must be strong.
A story emerged. First, the furniture submits to their users/makers: bending down, contorting themselves into uncomfortable positions, or offering their empty hands to take a coat. Then, the maker submits to their furniture; trusting their creation to hold their entire bodyweight, to stay balanced and stable, to take care of their prized possessions. The power exchange is mutual. And that’s to say nothing of the relationship between the furniture participants. In Mya’s class, four of us had to work together to create an armchair. This was an exercise in trust and collaboration, each of us fitting our bodies carefully together to create an artwork, a functional sculpture; a shared goal. I imagined us all posed perfectly together like a Renaissance painting, an artistic tangle of limbs. It was compelling, both personal and collective.
That’s not to say that there is only one narrative when it comes to forniphilia, or that being human furniture isn’t experienced as degrading, submissive, or challenging. But I had felt in my inner clockwork that being furniture was a radical exercise in collaboration. The belonging I felt, to be part of something. The satisfaction I felt, of being of service to others. The honour I felt, of being trusted with someone’s body, possessions, or presence. The vanity I felt, at being posed as a sleek, shining, white-gloved artwork for people to aesthetically admire. It was so far from this idea that human furniture was a terrible fate to avoid at all costs.
To be fair, some dominants may be cruel to their creations, making sure they’re in eternal pain like the vampire overlords (though some of us like that), or constantly criticizing their efforts, or, in Mya’s case, bringing a flogger onstage to tickle her creations to try and get them to move without informing us of the fact beforehand. (My only real criticism of this is that I was not one of people lucky enough to have their mettle tested.) But I think many of us enjoyed the concept of human furniture, as opposed to this idea being repugnant. Perhaps we would feel differently if Mya had kept us in furniture form all night; but deep down, I personally crave a chance to prove my endurance and strength. To prove I can take it.
There was also a favourable alternative interpretation from select members of my roleplaying game. Several of the genderqueer or gender non-conforming players, such as myself, saw the benefits inherent in the idea of ‘flesh-crafting’. For some of us, a little pain is an easy price to pay for being able to reshape one’s body at will – to manage dysphoria, to explore what’s possible aesthetically, or to escape expectations of gender and how one is ‘supposed’ to look (after all, gender doesn’t apply to an armchair). This is perhaps why there is a wider response of horror towards flesh-crafting and human furniture in that context: because many people would naturally find it dysphoric to be turned into an armchair.
So, have I served as human furniture since? Kind of. Being a quarter of an armchair for Licentious was a wonderful experience, and I think we all discovered the appeal of dressing in latex and fancy white gloves, surrounded by women in sparkling dresses drinking champagne. But in my limited experience on the scene in Boorloo (Perth), I haven’t actually seen any human furniture. I do recall once watching a friend light a candle for wax play by placing the box in their sub’s mouth and striking the match, and I think it’s fitting that this act of bodily service stayed with me. I also had the pleasure of being put up on the cross by a friend and her partner, and at one point they decided to use me as a wall to make out against... and it was an extremely hot moment. So, I guess I could make a good mattress. I’m sure my flesh is soft enough.
To conclude, I want to share a poem I wrote that brings together my feelings and perspectives on forniphilia. The vampire game, the collaboration, the mutual trust without throwing away the Dom/sub dynamics, and developing a relationship with your furniture. What if you became close with someone’s house, as well as its owner? How would you treat your furniture if it knew all your secrets?
The Lair of the Tzimisce
Azazel holds the doorknob with the same grace
as meeting a Prime Minister.
Doesn't
knock harshly,
more like a
firm rolling of knuckles
down a tight spine.
Steps as if on sacred ground,
shifting ball of foot to toes, weight spread,
comments, ‘What a lovely carpet. So soft, and yet so
dense’ and can feel it shift in gratitude
like breathing. Pushes their stilettos in
only slowly, like
releasing a tight muscle; a pressure point.
Thanks the hat-stand for taking their coat,
‘That's eighteenth century Balenciaga. I trust you
to look after it,’
smooths their hand
along banisters
like soothingly stroking
a housecat.
Sits gently on the chaise lounge, letting it
enjoy the soft silk of their dress,
is careful not to spill the boiling tea.
Cushions shift and embrace.
They recline onto it and sigh,
‘You're so comfortable.’
It lets them sink a little deeper,
supporting their bones, their
aching back. It knows
Azazel has a sprained latissimus dorsi,
holds their bruised ribs
with deference.
‘Who hurt you?’ it whispers.
‘Never you mind. I'll be fine.’
Azazel understands the furniture
can hear their conversations: occasionally
asks the opinion of the coffee table,
which creaks slightly in agreement.
As the hours wear on, they caress the chaise lounge,
massage the weary flesh, murmur to the footstool,
‘You're doing such a good job.’
The stairs see the struggle
in Azazel's graccilus, the way their gastonemius seizes,
squash themselves less steep,
and Azazel kneads the ache in their legs, murmurs relief.
Azazel whispers prayers to the attic, the dark cobweb-corners,
blessings to the ante-chamber,
and to the bathroom, confessions. Washing their hands
as if all water is holy,
the eyes watching them
no different to the eyes of God.