Unspoken

A lot can be said with regards to establishing and maintaining a power exchange. Lord knows, i've pasted myriad words up on that endless ebony scrim attempting to detail my own experience. But something occurred to me as i pondered that wall, my experience, and the words i've used to describe it. The more i reflected on this and the self-publishing tomes of other tops and bottoms, i realized that there is a lot that goes unsaid.

Specifically, the reality of life as it interrupts, informs and supersedes a full-blown SM partnership appears to often get omitted. I won't presume the ability to tackle this in one post, nor will i ignorantly believe that this is at all interesting to my readers ("Where're the vignettes of hot bondage?"). But far be it from me to let the unmentioned, on a site that is full of unmentionables, get ignored.

Let's call it "fantasy v. reality":

• immediate disposal of pants v. gradual, eventual weeding out

My girl's dress code is something i'm quite proud of and do not tire from the administration of it. However, it would be a complete fraud to present the notion that Day One she had a closet full of pants, and by Day Two she possessed zero pantaloons. In four years of our relationship, i have only overseen the last six months as totally pants-less. She got rid of the last pair late last summer. Now, i live in a part of the country that enjoys all four seasons (however shorter and whacked the colder ones are becoming), and one must account for the frigid wind chills that someone not allowed to wear leg-coverings will encounter. Enter legwarmers. Her stockings provide one barrier, but not sufficient when the temperature drops below 40 Fahrenheit. She has collected an assortment in multiple colors and styles that draws as much attention to her as does the fact that she's wearing a dress on a snowy, blistery day.

• piercings whenever called upon v. her gradual acceptance of the fact
  

I've known for quite awhile that i would want to mark any girl of mine in various ways as my possession, and one method i wanted to principally employ was piercing. Early in our relationship, i presented the idea to her that she would need to get pierced. For a girl who sported the fairly uncommon nose ring, she held a great deal of resistance to the idea of metal penetrating other parts of her body. I didn't consider her reaction as an indication of a hard limit, but she certainly wasn't budging on the idea. I left it alone for awhile, until one day, she surprised me by announcing that she'd grown very excited about the idea of doing that for me. Within a week, two beautiful rings hung from each of her tits.

• tightlacing v. our modified version of tightlacing

I love the idea of my girl strapped in her corset all day long. Her mid-section rigidly constrained, all the while exhibiting a fetching waspy waist. In the beginning, she in fact wore it 23 hours a day, even sleeping in it, and only taking it off to bathe and attend to her roughed-up skin. It became clear after a few months, that she was able to achieve the same reduction we both preferred (22") without needing to lace in it while she slumbered. It should become very clear that a power exchange of this nature has the elements to contend with, which we most certainly did when it came to tightlacing. It is nearly impossible for her to lace when the weather gets warmer than 75 degrees. We've explored many options to try to overcome the shear discomfort of a corset on the hot and humid days (even purchased a so-called Summer corset), but have had to concede that the months of July and August are corset-free (except for those occasional trips to the Artic).

These are just a few of the many negotiations i've had to engage in in order to achieve the kind of power exchange i've wanted. The list of these items goes on much much longer, and i certainly could share more of them because i recognize the valuable lesson i learn by retracing them here on "The Lustful Quality". But, even i find myself, after too long, wondering where the hot bondage scenes are.

Egalité

I find some of my most productive discussions with my girl regarding our power exchange tend to occur during our morning routine of breakfast. It could be that we've had nothing of the real world actively pressing on us for the duration of our slumber, thus freeing our minds to comfortably explore the topic. It could be the soft light of the morning that spills into our dining foyer that eases the conversation along, like the first incubating warmth of a mother hen as she sits on her darling little eggs. Or perhaps it's the act of breaking our fast, the comfort of being once again part of the collective waking that happens around this city - all over a cup of coffee and some toast.

Whatever factors play into this phenomenon, i look forward to the real progress her and i tend to make during these conversations. A few weeks back, a discussion that has often come up, dribbled back into the porous but sound foundation of our power exchange. We'd prattled in a playful way about how corset season was rapidly approaching. The weather was slowly releasing its grip on its romance with the tropics, giving way to a crisper peel in the air, and i had indicated that it was starting to be time where she would need to lace everyday. She objected, citing the still high level of humidity, which despite the air temperature, makes binding a thick corset around one's mid-section akin to a localized trip to the tropics. I chided her, asking where my resilient girl had gone and who was this easily discouraged creature in her place. She rebutted my efforts at cajolery with a simple oral intake of her upper lip, sucking on it between her teeth.

Now, as the dominant, it is my job (one of many) to push, challenge, and expand the frontiers of our intimate connection. I have many tools i can use to perform this role. But, this is not a simple-minded role, one made without reflection, study or observation. I'm not merely pushing a round stone to the edge of an embankment, searching for that final point right before it tilts its weight into a freefall below. A thousand factors differentiate my girl from a boulder. I must account for these, or risk pushing too far by simply being an ass.

"You know, Cathie Jung laces every day."

She looked at me, with her chin on the back of her hand, blinking one long drawn out shutter of her eyes. I saw i hadn't been effective. Further, i had to push further.

"I've no doubt that Dita would tough it out."

I didn't even need to check to see if my attempt had successfully motivated her. I could tell by the sensation of daggers at my throat that came from her icy stare what she thought of that remark. I looked anyway. Yep, i'd gone too far.

My girl is incredibly competitive, insisting on many avenues at being the best and most accomplished. Parading into our discussion two icons in the field of tightlacing who have the resources and daily accoutrements to comfortably tackle their goal squeezed the last bit of playfulness out of our exchange. I saw what i'd done. But, i hadn't anticipated the turn the dialogue would take.

She remained in her seat, but i could tell that only her body was present. Her mind had lifted her torso up and walked into the other room out of pride. The specter of silence hovered in the air above us, holding still all objects that would seem to move autonomously on their own: the sunbeams arching in through the window, the hands of the wall clock hanging in the living room. I asked her for her thoughts.

"Why do you insist on us being unequal?"

Excuse me? I had expected a complaint about my stubborn views regarding her intolerance of a swampy torso, but this was deeper than i had even envisioned. But, immediately, i saw what she was after. In absorbing my egotistical push for as much as i could get, she'd found herself examining what she felt was a disparity in our exchange. I ask, i shove, i demand...where does she ever get to exact this same toll?

This theme has come up many times in my life. They will struggle with the unending give they are asked for, seeing the direction in the vector that passes between us, and perceive that it is only one way. I've discussed this with my girl many times, when she encounters concerns that her behavior indicates weakness, and even ineptitude. Because this is not a new topic, testing the quality of our power exchange, i employ a tactic not previously considered.

"Do you want a cock?"

"A what?"

"A cock."

I'm not asking her if she craves the sensation of her various orifices filled with my male anatomy. I'm asking if she wants a large penetrating member hanging down between her legs instead of the beautiful petals that blossom there now.

"No. Of course not."

"Then why ask for equality?"

I say this with two things in mind. The first being that equality, as it is being defined here, is largely impossible. Secondly, why is equality so important?

I'll address the first notion, that equality cannot fit in a power exchange, and i'll do so by examining the pure physicality of this arrangement. I have often seen my manifestation in this exchange as the plug, and she as the outlet. I implant my prongs into her slots, and she provides the energy that powers our mechanism. What is equal about that? Without her, the flow never initiates, yet it cannot occur without me penetrating her, somehow, some way. What goes often overlooked is the natural anatomy (and what in the early days of my venture into SM that had me convinced that all girls are submissive) that exists between the two of us. In order for us to copulate, i must enter her, she must accept me, take me in. Regardless of how you choose to look at this, equality can never be established. Which leads me to my second point.

What is so great about equality? Simply, i choose to treat my girl whenever i can. I never look for her to catch up with me. Whenever we are out on a shopping venture (not as common an activity as it may seem), i can assure you that 80% or more of that is dedicated to perfecting her wardrobe or getting something that either one or both of us are obsessed with her having.

I understand what her message is. She struggles sometimes with the notion that her whole life she has chosen for herself how to live, look and act and now finds herself in a situation where a large percentage of that is decided for her. She sometimes feels guilty that she is betraying the morals and standards she feels she was raised with, and other times experiences remorse that she's able to live a life she'd always fantasized about.

For me, i'm too busy enjoying myself to really evaluate who is ahead and who is behind.

Heavy machinery

I'm not sure where i developed a desire to physically modify the female form, but i know i have a serious hankering for it. To the point where i have a well fortified bimbo fetish. The aspect that informs my fascination in bimbos doesn't come from their cookie-cutter quality of platinum blond sexpots with 44D busoms. What attracts me to the notion of a "girl-next-door" submitting to the process of transformation into the next Pam Anderson is the idea that she's making permanent changes to her body in order to fulfill a sexual desire.

Yes, i confess, i am a sucker for huge, artificial, can't manage without a back brace tits. Those thick collagen infested lips, i'll allow those to invade my horizon. There are few alterations a girl can make to her body that don't affect me somehow, all because i have the ability to transport this to a need to sexually improve themselves: aka submit to another's intense desire (albeit the media, their parents, peers, their own fantasies, etc.). I'm a person who scans the panoply offering of cable channels for the random plastic surgery broadcasted for our aghast viewing enjoyment. The idea of someone submitting to ultra huge tits, that continue to grow (which is the case of "string implants"), expanding and transforming her body until it is no longer recognizable excites me to no end. This girl must then face her fate and assume her role as a freak, a modified fucktoy.

I have physically modified every girl i've ever been involved with, varying in degree from complete transformation to muted. The one girl who's sole purpose was to fulfill my desire to craft the female form to my liking was the one we shall call "forgirl".

She first came to me in a now defunct chatroom i used to host on body modification and tightlacing. This was singlehandedly the most voluminous way to interact with girls who sought a source of domineering strength in the field of physical management. Any given day, i would encounter 30+ girls who dropped in based on the title of the room alone as it was listed in the Yahoo! chat index. "forgirl" dropped in one day, coming to me with the mostly innocuous interest in pursuing her girlfriend's interest in becoming a submissive. What struck me as odd that a top would come and visit my chatroom which was quite explicit in its main role as a trap for submissive females was that this visitor was herself a submissive.

Several fiery debates followed our initial encounter, where "forgirl" insisted that she was the top in the relationship, and that i needn't think of her as a project i could mold. Mind you, reader, "forgirl" came to me without a single physical modification to her name. Her ears weren't even pierced. Either arrogantly following my lust, or in fact accurately using my senses to track and hunt this willing prey, i decided that it was she who wanted to be transformed.

Through regular visits - visits which had her in the earlier stages insisting the curiosity on submitting to body modification was alien and foreign to her - i was able to whittle away at her resolve. I still remember the first modification command. I told "forgirl" that she was to get her earrings pierced, but not at the local mall where they do it with a handheld piercing gun. Instead, i insisted she go to a legitimate piercer who would take into deep consideration all the necessary mechanics involved in properly impaling someone with metal.

I recognized a golden opportunity with "forgirl". Here was someone so ravenous for the process of transformation, that the submission to the actual act of metamorphesis and then further submission to the altered behavior her newly modified body must take gave her an amazing thrill. Which, when applied correctly, made her even more attracted to physical transmogrification, because she learned the positive effects of giving into impulses and sexual longings. Seeing this over a careful period of observation, I decided to push the accelerator all the way to the floor.

In the 3+ years of our full interaction, "forgirl" had a combined total of over 60 body piercings. These included 8 studs in each of her ears, 24 rings and barbells in her inner and outer labia, 8 rings hung from both of the lips on her mouth and 5 piercings in each of her nipples, which were also subsequently stretched. She was constantly changing out the gauge of the rings penetrating her body, with the goal of making her holes and the skin that surrounded them as big as possible. I loved hearing her break apart at the idea of having permanently altered, pierced and stretched cuntlips that anyone who saw her would know precisely what purpose she served. In fact, this was about the most perfect exposition i could attain in all of this exploration. The self-fulfilling prophecy - that a girl might enjoy becoming a sex object only to find out that the more she allowed herself to become objectified, the stronger the idea she was turning into a sex object became - constantly came up and was repeatedly burnished within our interaction.

All told, forgirl underwent a total body modification. She wore a corset, lacing down to 18" on a regular basis. She wore only high-heeled shoes, claiming that walking barefoot was rather painful. In the evenings, she would come home from work and laced herself in a pair of ballet boots for the remainder of the night. Off and on she wore a chastity belt that was locked on her, only to provide more frustration and difficulty, with accompanying hobble chains and waist band. She also really took to a fetish that at the time of our first encounter i'd only briefly felt comfortable admitting to: that of articifial nail tips and manicure. She maintained nail tips of 2 or more inches. We also managed to induce her to lactate, and with regular (two-a-day) pumpings, she was able to grow her tits rather decisively. She was in fact a prisoner to her own body. If she didn't pump, her tits would ache and grow excruciatingly sore, which would encourage pumping, which only encouraged milk production. And she loved it.

In the end, the natural course of our relationship passed, and she did in fact assume the role of matronly dominant to her partner (who also underwent similar modification). She pops in every once in awhile, asking me to devise a new way she can inconvenience herself. I happily oblige, but it feels mechanical aftwerward, almost as if i'm a vending machine she's popped a quarter in to get a fortune cookie with deviant instructions inside the sugary biscuit. What i find is missing is the give and take, the debating, the maneuvering and the ultimately satisfying euphoria that we were both submitting to her body's need to be modified.

Sugasm #93

Sugasm #93

Mon 20th Aug, 07

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #94? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Between Baths
“His tongue licks along the edge of my thong and then slips underneath, and then he pulls the material aside so he can get to me.”

Fantasy Vs. Reality: What Is Cheating?
“Paid escort work is fantasy; dating me is reality.”

How To Set Up an MFM Threesome
“You’d be surprised how many guys will say they can’t wait to bed her down, then chicken out or not show up after you’ve shelled out money for a hotel room.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Neal Mather Fetish Figurenes

Editor’s Choice
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See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Playing with my Barbie

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.

Red alert

I'm preparing to leave on my vacation - my much needed vacation. In my preparation, i must think of the items i'll need for the duration of my trip. Having never been to my destination before, i don't know what i'll need to bring and what i'll be able to pick up remotely.

I've travelled hundreds of times whilst engaging in SM-based activities (and with the intention of transporting those activities). It goes without saying that travel before 9/11 came with much less scrutiny of my personal belongings. Since the events and repercussions of that day, i've been subjected to over 40 different bag searches, a dozen private screenings (with my girl having to endure just as many herself because the steel boning of her corset triggers the metal detectors), and numerous times i've found "Just Looking" messages from the TSA in my checked baggage. Steeling myself for this invasion of privacy, i have resolutely refused to let this ridiculous reduction in civil liberties hamper my personal life. I have hauled in my carry-on baggage, at one point or another, the following:

Spools of leather strips
Rattan cane
Nipple clamps
Butt plug(s)
Locking leather cuffs
Spreader bar
Latex corset, hood, panties, sheeting
Leather harness with bit-gag
Cat-o-nine tails
Bondage tape
Armbinder
Ballgag
Electrical tape
Various lengths of rope, Kevlar line, and nylon strapping
Mini-flogger (a gift, courtesy of Fetish Insider, my gracious guest contributor while i'm away)

I find the security personnel working the examination lines to be much more lax in my city than those of my destinations. I'm not really sure why that is. I'm able to sneak things by the hometown crew that the away squad gives me the biggest pain over. I enjoy playing with them, acting dumb, but i also enjoy taking the opportunity to embarrass my girl a little. I make sure she goes in front of me (which isn't necessarily a walk in the park. I swear, they never saw a custom-made corset before???). Then, when i know my bag is going to flag one of the inspectors, i make sure to call my girl's name out loud:

"OH, honey! Wait!"

The unknowing guard will hold up her leather head harness and inquire as to what that is. Now, by this point, as she eyes this device that just the previous night had been strapped to her head, forcing her mouth to be held unwillingly open, my girl's cheeks have changed nine shades of red. To let her off the hook (plus, for some reason, i'm spooked into thinking that being kinky is somehow aiding the terrorists. Thank you Dick Cheney), i'll simply explain that it's bridle gear for a horse, which easily passes muster. On our merry way they let us, to infect the general populace with our very dangerous and national security-threatening power exchange.

This vacation presents a different scenario than others as i am not travelling with my girl. She has left already, having business to deal with before my arrival. As a result of this, i felt the need to leave her with something that she could look after, tending to it until i arrive at her side. Hours before she left for the airport, i had her strip down to just her bra, and proceeded to lash her well-primed ass with three magnificent welts. Should anyone see fit to examine her undercarriage, they would find these trademarks - a calling card, if you will - which would certainly lead to her embarrassment.

It's unlikely that any TSA personnel would ask for that kind of access, which leaves me the task of picking the right apparatus to stuff into my bag, just to ensure the appropriate amount of shame occurs on our return trip.

What sites have you memorized?

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The rudiments of tightlacing

When i first proposed the idea to her that she swathe her torso in a custom-designed corset, she balked at the idea. She was accustomed to wearing jeans, tennis shoes and t-shirts that had the random logo of any number of indy rock bands she was listening to. She was absolutely cute in whatever she wore, but for my tastes, the look had to go.

I gave her the task of creating a complete catalogue of her wardrobe, down to her detailing the description of every single one of her 75+ pair of panties. After reviewing the list she gave me, i came back to her with a truncated collection of clothes that consisted of those she would be allowed to keep, and those she would be altruistically donating to the local Salvation Army. Her first comment upon receiving the list, i believe, took the tone of, "Are you fucking kidding?"

I wasn't. I knew exactly what i wanted. Obviously, pants were a thing of the past. But so too were 80% of her shoes. Even then, the hardest part to let go of were her t-shirts. She'd collected these silk-screened flimsies for years. They represented fond memories, proud achievements and bold statements of her adolescent development. I respected this. I truly did. But nonetheless, they had to go. They wouldn't work with what i had in mind.

"And why exactly would they not work?"

"T-shirts do not go with corsets."

I've had the pleasure of being a witness to a handful of girls donning a corset for the first time. I don't mean to simplify or diminish these experiences by suggesting that each girl's reaction was exactly the same, but, essentially, they were. They melted when they saw the final product after all of the tugging and tightening. Their hands went immediately to their new, contorted waist, as they stared at themselves in the mirror, striking a pose of heroically-charged sexuality. From this reaction, i hold the blunt-headed notion that all girls should wear corsets, understanding that it would not be just for their romantic counterparts.

I took my girl to the local fetish shop, which happened to stock a grand assortment of different sized, off-the-rack corsets (what, you don't have this in your town?). The rule of thumb with tightlacing is that you need to select one that is 4" smaller than your natural waist. As she was already teeny, the options in the 23"-sized constricters weren't all that enormous. We selected two very beautiful protoypes: a gorgeous 'Tiffany blue' LoveSick basque, and a red silk brocade Shane Aaron underbust. The clerk who was assisting, took us into the biggest dressing room i'd ever been in, and proceeded to ask my girl to disrobe. A normally modest filly, my girl quickly abandoned her clothes and let this complete stranger strap the rigid garment to her topless frame. In ten minutes, all of the soliciting i'd been doing in favor of corsets became useless. She saw and felt all she needed in order to help her with her decision. We ended up settling on the Shane Aaron design, but as is the case with tightlacing, we had to submit her measurements and select the fabric quality and color to the corsetiere (who resided in Las Vegas at the time), who would, in 6 weeks, handcraft a custom-made article of lingerie suitable for 23 hours of daily wear.

We are now approaching 3 years of my girl's waist training. We have, in that time, fine-tuned her regiment to where she is laced 8-10 hours a day (except when the humidity exceeds 70% and the air temp rises above 75 degrees F), reduces to a flattering 22" wasped shape, and have amassed a collection of 5 personalized garments she alternates between.

The thing that grabs me, despite years of coveting the corsetted female form, and accomodating its "normalcy" over the past few years, i never tire of the daily regiment of tightlacing. My girl has learned how to lace herself (a product of our living apart while corset training), but on certain days, either because a snag has developed in the mechanics, or because she just wants to be charitable, she will ask for my assistance. Turning her back to me, she will raise her hands and lean against a wall or doorframe, and without fail, as i tug and tug, i'm never able to walk away without a prominent statement of my arousal saluting this facet of our relationship.

Playing dress up

When i was a young child, my only play pal was my older sister. Being four years my senior, she was well ensconced in the make-believe theatre of dolls - specifically Barbie. As early as i can remember, i was the "preparatory" stage of these productions. That meant i was tasked with costume changes in between sets. Very quickly i gleaned the stark difference between the clothes for the girl dolls and those for the boys (which numbered only 2 in her coterie of plastic figurines). The girl clothes had ribbons and shiny colors and materials. Different angles and patterns and cuts that actually flaunted and flattered their bodies. For my first formative and interactive play, i was deciding what the girls would wear and how they would ultimately look. I loved my role.

As i got a bit older, much to my father's dismay, i continued using dolls for stimulation. My mother had no problem supplying me with a contraband 'My Lil Pony' or a 'Cabbage Patch Kid'. I would enter into an intense relationship with these tiny feminine objects, treating them with delicate and meticulous care. In fact, my first crush was on 'Blueberry Muffin', the dark girl in the Strawberry Shortcake gang. But, as some may suspect, i didn't brush their hair or primp them in any conventional way. In fact, if you were to look at my small collection of dolls, they would look very different from how i received them. Almost all of them, if they didn't have it already, got their hair dyed to a dark color. I would take markers and draw longer lashes across their plasticine brows. Eventually, they would look as i wanted them to look.

Of course, as i reached adolescence, i abandoned my dolls. In fact the impulse to dress up a doll got locked in deep subterfuge, replaced instead by the less heady pursuit of real live girls and the flowery scents on their necks. It wasn't until i was dedicating my time to one of those females that i would begin to see applications of my childhood aptitude. I only went to three formal dances in Middle school and High school, and for each of them, i payed an unusually high amount of attention on what my date would wear. In 9th grade, i broke up with the captain of the Freshman cheerleading squad because one day she didn't smell the way i'd wanted. I even convinced the girl i dated for the longest amount of time in my teens to dye her hair from her beautiful natural blonde to deep, rich auburn. I still remember the whole body stimulation i felt when she came back from the salon with her newly tarnished locks.

Over the years, i've been able to explore different levels of feminine image manipulation. Most of my courtships have not taken the "ask for her phone number, set up a date" format. A few, those who i sensed would tolerate it, would be taken through a lengthy phone or e-mail interview - the equivalent of the stage director looking from the dark at the ingenue pinned by the bright spotlight, asking her to "turn around for him". The girls who permitted this odd evaluation wanted it. They wanted to be cast in my production. As a prerequisite to our eventual 'first date', the girl would consent to me choosing her comportment from head to toe. Some would be told to wear a certain length of skirt. Others with their hair up, and earrings that complimented the length of their neck. A very select few would be told to go completely without panties. And yes, a few of them agreed to that. All of them were asked to wear heels or boots, of a specific shape and style. These girls were not accustomed to dressing in the ultra-feminine way i demanded, and they absolutely were not used to being told how to dress. Over the years, through trial and error (some would come to the dates so enraged at me for my demands - yet, oddly still dressed as i asked - that i would usally get a faceful of the lady's beverage by the end of the night), i honed what i came to understand was my dress code, which i recognize serves as a hoop that a beautiful feminine creature must leap through in order to gain my attention.

My girl abides more or less to my dresscode on a daily basis. Except for the unbearably hot months, she laces in one of her custom corsets down to 22 1/2". We've been together for several years, and i still get incredibly aroused when on occasion she asks for my help lacing her up. She wears thigh high stockings, usually with seams, held up by a garter belt (or sometimes garters attached to her corset). She dyes her hair jet blue black, and keeps it long. Every two weeks, i treat her to a trip to the nail salon, where she gets a french manicure and fills for her 1/2" long acrylic fingernails. She does not wear pants - ever. Only dresses or skirts (i used to get such horrible looks from her in the early stages of our relationship when i would say "Men wear pants, darlin. Do you want to dress like a man?"), even in the colder months, where she employs the use of legwarmers, which i find much more flattering.

On the surface, she looks incredible every single day, and i look at her as a present to a world that suffers from not having enough beauty - to quote the theologian Vigen Guroian "We long for salvation, so that beauty fills our lives". When we are out, people take notice of her, stare, marvel at her tiny waist and her prim outfit. One elderly man stopped us and even paid her a compliment by saying "You are so beautiful, you remind me that there is the Divine." Underneath all of this, i know that my dress code limits her. She can only eat certain-sized portions when laced. She has grown intimate with the "Backspace" key, because the length of her nails causes her to hit the wrong one. All of this endlessly titilates me. I get a kick from the struggle, but i also admire, respect and cherish it.

Maybe someday i'll grow tired of enforcing this dress code. Perhaps, i'll find other passions to deploy my meticulous energy for details. For now, i enjoy having a living and breathing doll, who i can take out whenever i want, or keep her locked up in her case.