Playing with my Barbie

I had the worst hobby as a young boy. The kind that no "lettered in Football", Special Forces in Vietnam, self-made rags-to-riches father would ever want his son to have.

I played with dolls.

I not only played with them, i cared for them unlike even the most attentive little girl. Since i could only convince my mom to let me have two Barbies, i took immaculate care of my pair of ductile muses. No one would ever find their doll heads popped off the knobbed neck, nor would a single synthetic strand of hair be lopped to the floor. I altered them to suit some internal aesthetic, but in a beautiful way. I didn't carry out deep-seeded self-hatred upon their artificial corps by grotesquely mutilating them. Rather, i took them out every once in awhile, when i knew i'd have some private moments to myself.

Thinking about how i played with them reveals a deeper vein feeding what became my erotic fuselage later in my life. In private, i didn't put on a pageant or play house with them. They remained dolls. In fact, i don't remember ever giving them voices. In the manner which out of context seems the creepiest, i simply brought them out; dressed them up; looked at them - stared at them; examined them for any flaws, nicks or damage; kissed them on the forehead; then placed them back in their cases.

As i described earlier, i thought i'd grow out of this habit. I was made to feel by those who ever caught windfall of my hobby a certain urgency to move on. Despite the negative connotations of the labels i heard (sissy, girly-boy, homo, etc.), i knew they didn't describe me. I didn't long to be these dolls, nor their real counterparts or their impersonators. Which, honestly, may have been an easier way out of my predicament. It is safe to say that going through life as a homosexual or a transgendered individual has received considerable more support from society than the idea of a man who seeks fulfillment by having a cabinet of living dolls he has modified and keeps locked up.

Dating usually didn't arouse this need in me. I'd go through the usual adolescent ruminations of courting the opposite sex, but i came to see my efforts as blank and disingenuous. I knew i needed some other kind of depth to the exchange besides 'pinning a girl' and just 'going steady'. Once i began to indulge in sexually sado-masochistic games with females, i encountered a tug from within to move the dynamic in a specific direction: the role of dollmaker. To what extent i fulfilled this role varied in intensity, depending on the kind of energy that existed. The few occasions where this intensity took on an extreme magnitude scared (and continues to scare) even me.

I played with many girls, both online and in person, dabbling with this scenario of turning them into my living doll. We would go through my well-documented dress code process, stripping them of their originality as expressed through their personal wardrobe. If the energy flowed well between us, i would then insist on taking control of her body by slowly modifying it through corset, heel, and anal training as well as other physical modifications. Again, i'm moving the girl towards my desired starting point, using her body and mind as sculpting materials for my lustful manipulation. I'm also trapping her independence and her personality deep inside - not diminishing them, but capturing them - i do not want "her" to disappear. I want her to remain, but as a prisoner, relishing the liberty of her capture or cursing her desire's strength to overwhelm her.

The next step has only manifested itself with a handful of girls, but it is where i've seen my darkest appetites emerge, and therefore i do not often let it get aroused. It involves vocabulary. I provide the girl, who is firmly in my clutches, with a limited list of approved words she is allowed to use when referring to herself and her surroundings. I coach her in these words, quizzing her, drilling her, making her repeat them. If she uses a word not on her list, she receives correction. I am lenient in the beginning, because altering one's vocabulary is an incredibly difficult proposition. Once i'm clear that she understands the constraints of her new vocabulary, i am stern and pick up on every single minute mistake.

And then, i go further.

I restrict her language even more. I outlaw certain verbs, certain phrasings, even tenses. At this point, my mouth drips with saliva, the promise of a mineral-rich meal brings me to a frenzy. I perform the final transformation: I strip her of her ability to speak in the first person. She speaks the language of an object, one that has no possessions. Her thoughts are not hers. She has become a "doll". Her voice is merely articulating actions the doll undertakes at my bidding. I'll converse with the newly created object. I'll ask it if she likes being a doll.

"barbie likes"

At this stage, 'barbie' exists as an open mind, a vessel prepared for and desirous of direction, of my commands. I instruct Barbie what kind of toy she is, what her purpose is, her functions. The doll accepts these, taking her owner's desires and making them hers. Barbie, rather the girl trapped inside the shell of the doll, exudes arousal at the thought of submitting not just to me but the echoing urges of a mindless plaything.

My Barbie now thrives on the desires i gave her. The desires i created her with.