Wonder Woman Should Join the Lingerie Football League

I have come late to the Lingerie Football League. Like most things of this nature, it appeared on my Facebook feed courtesy of my good friend and arbiter of all things that ride the cutting edge of bad taste, Matt Samartzis.

I had initially dismissed the Lingerie Football League. Imagine that; a whole lot of scantily-clad strippers playing a dangerous, rigorous sport like gridiron. How degrading, both for the women and the sport itself.

When I watched Matt’s clip, I was struck by three things, in the following order; 1. The outfits, a fusion of lingerie and stylized gridiron attire, 2. The raw, athletic sex appeal of the players demonstrated through their skills and lastly, 3. These women actually fight each other.


Firstly, the outfits aren’t altogether impractical. The players wear spikes, long socks and tight briefs, along with shoulder pads and helmets. Granted, the shoulder pads are cut to allow for some push-up action of the DDs, but the outfit’s composition isn’t entirely dissimilar to the lycra and spandex that have become so much a feature of male contact team sports. Those fabrics release sweat and aren’t as likely to be caught up, torn off or interfere with movement.

The difference between the LFL uniforms and the NFL, for example, is a homophobic thing. Australian, New Zealand and American cultures aren’t as comfortable with the overt sexualization of men. It makes everybody focus too much on the thorny locus of questions about being gay.

Secondly, I’ve never been one for skinny, hungry chicks. There’s something super-sexy about a woman who has a skill like a singer, or a musician. If she’s athletic, that reaches another threshold again.


Lastly, there’s something about watching those girls fight. I had a former girlfriend who was really turned on by men fighting. She watched a tape of my fights once and this tacitiurn, gentle, demure woman said, ‘That is like porn to me.’

When I’m fighting, I can taste blood and metal. My blood and homones are all flowing through the emergency circuitry and all I can smell are his sweat and the hormones escaping from his autonomic system. The dominant sensation is pain.

After the LFL however, I completely understand where she was coming from. It could be derided as simplistic, but the simplistic intersection of impulses and ideas is necessary to the function of ‘popular’ culture, whether it’s in comic books or sports.



Facebook is a field of chance intersection. Further down my page appeared a GIF in which Wonder Woman was on all fours, being whipped by another woman in a different super-hero outfit. I was so excited, I googled ‘Wonder Woman Bondage’ to see if I could find the rest of it.

No sign. I did, however, find an article previously published in ‘The Atlantic’ about the origins of Wonder Woman and the strange life and crazy times of her creator, William Marston.

From ‘Vice Magazine’:

“William Marston, the psychologist and comic author who created Wonder Woman, believed that the only way to save the world from war was for women to rule the world and for men to become more like women.

“Marston was, among other things, a noted psychological researcher and an enthusiastic bondage fetishist; he believed comic books were a great form for educational, anti-patriarchy propaganda. Wonder Woman was designed to bring the world to matriarchy through confronting abuse and modeling girl power, genderfucking, bondage play, and erotic mind control.” 



I remember sitting and talking with the gorgeous, long-limbed, doe-eyed creature one day and from somewhere within the swirling, amorphous darkness of my brain came hurtling a single image, like a meteor; this girl with a ball gag, kneeling in the middle of my king-sized bed.

Her hands were cuffed behind her back and a single strand of drool ran from the gag to her thigh, like a ligature. Her big blue eyes were turned up towards me, brimming with expectation, submission and excitement. She was a sussurating, respiring universe and I was entirely focused.

The immutable truth of contact. Skin on skin. The one who wants it more is the slave, regardless of who is wearing the restraints. The word that I find in my mouth to describe what happened, like a coin left under my tongue, is love.



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