They're here

I imagine that the hands that built them had no idea of the power the raw materials they used to craft them would possess. They were simply cutting along the lines of the pattern they had by now memorized, sending them off to the room filled with whirring sewing machines, to be stitched and shaped. To all the hands who had held them so far, they were just objects, articles of clothing - weird, even unnatural certainly - but simple garments nonetheless. Out of the factory, onto the truck that would carry them to the distribution center, these shiny assassins lay in domicility within their long, white cardboard box.

They still, at this point, were well over a month away from arriving into my hands. Final negotiations with the saucy supplier over which method of payment, followed by shipping preferences were to take place. And then, they would make their long journey from way down under, eventually, gradually, aggravatingly slowly to my door.

I conjur up a storyline that says somewhere along their voyage to me they were momentarily re-routed, landing themselves in the darkened lair of a malevolent sorcerer. In his hands, he would slowly dip them into some black magic liquid, chanting ancient, mysterious words, fully possessing them with a demonic spirit that would be unleashed upon the mortal in whose hands they would eventually land. This is the only way i can believe that they would have so much power over me once they finally did arrive.

I'd come home from work, having finished a very, long day, looking for some peaceful quiet with my girl. To my surprise, there, awaiting my arrival was the long, white box. I knew immediately what lay inside. My hands burned as i held the box and made the ascent to our apartment. I may not have noticed at the time, but slowly, a pool of saliva had begun to collect in my mouth. Even through their case, their power seeped, ultimately corrupting my mind. By the time i put the key in the door, my skin was tingling, my ears buzzing, my blood coursing. I quickly shut the door behind me so as to keep discreet the immense erection that had expanded in my suit pants.

Reason #48 for my anonymity

I had so many other things i planned to write about. Much more enjoyable things. Juicy. Tawdry. The kind of things that perhaps are the sole reasons most of you come to visit. But no. Instead, i had to read this article.

Anthrax. Whoa. Dangerous stuff, sure. But why exactly is it being mentioned on these pages? When i first read the article several days ago, it brought back many memories of 2001. Of that time, living in my city that had been attacked by terrorists. How we were just starting to adjust to the new landscape, how we were just starting the work we needed to do in order to heal and then - POW - those letters delivering their vicious white powder landed at several Broadcasting HQ's here in Midtown and at the doors of several U.S. Senators down in Washington D.C. More panic and terror set in. We didn't know how much we would need to recoil and fortify against the evils out there. It was genuinely a very scary, completely unsexy time. But it's not those memories that push me to write on this article. No. The reason came further down the page, when i came across the "profile" the journalist decided to fabricate of the alleged anthrax mailer:

They discovered his penchant for taking long drives at night, sometimes mailing letters and packages from distant spots under assumed names. They discovered his obsession with a sorority, Kappa Kappa Gamma, and with images of blindfolded women, hundreds of which were found on his computer, the report says.

I can understand the relevance of mentioning his penchant for taking long drives at night wherein he would drop something in a postal box several miles away. It establishes a pattern of behavior that can explain his ability to send those anthrax-laden envelopes from Princeton, NJ. I can even vaguely get why they divulge his obsession with a sorority (although they do not say which campus - i can't imagine he was just obsessed with this particular sorority, nationwide, but i digress). What i cannot understand for the life of me is why this journalist saw fit reasons to mention his "obsession" with images of blindfolded women. WHAT RELEVANCE IS THAT????!!??

I was so incredibly perturbed when i came across that part of the article. Of course they had to find some S&M aspect to fully complete the psychotic character that would commit such heinous acts. I closed the article. Forgot about it as best i could, and went on with my day.

But this bullshit statement wouldn't let me rest. It kept popping up in my head. Shoving its way into my eye, poking me. Causing me to grow increasingly irritated. I even tried my traditional methods of relieving anxiety and frustration: Run Like Hell. The weather has been gorgeous, so i took to the park and ran until my sides screamed. And yet, it didn't seem to do the job because i could still feel anger for this journalists irresponsible words in between my gasps for air. This wasn't just some pandering tabloid, looking to jolt its pages with some scandal. No, this was the New York Times, the supposed standard of journalistic excellence.

Why is it that whenever a beat reporter is looking to fill out his column, he sinks into the muck and chooses to capitalize on the alleged's collection of S&M porn? Why in articles about great men who have accomplished heroic deeds, we do not hear that they too had a vast collection of images of blindfolded women.

"In addition to raising millions of dollars for relief efforts in Haiti, George Clooney likes to relax and let off steam by picking through his sizable anthology of women gagged by rope."

I can quite easily say that i have way more than hundreds of images of material that, should a journalist with half a brain find them, could paint me as the Most Dangerous Man Alive. It's articles like this that remind me that it's not safe to express who i am in a public forum. That it's not safe to attach myself to these acts i depict on this site, despite the fact that every one of them are of a consensual manner. This is why i must be anonymous, despite my efforts to present SM as a responsible and loving expression of intimacy and vulnerability.

And to be honest, there are days i don't think it's worth it.

Putting pressure on myself

The other day i was looking at a new corset maker i'd discovered, going through the usual evaluation process:

critiquing the corsets shape/construction (some really good S-shaped items, perhaps too many pipe stem corsets for my tastes); dissecting the corsetier's dedication to tightlacing (clearly, Fran is a practitioner herself of corset training); and ultimately will i purchase one for my girl (*sigh* yes, i probably will).

There is no doubt that my girl adores corsetting. In truth, she doesn't devote as much free time as i do to the research and exploration of the artform of restraint. I'm the one who usually introduces her to the latest device or accoutrement she will likely sport, and i understand that is how our dynamic has been constructed. But, i also understood that there are deeper, more integrated motivations for my passions.

I love restraint. I love bondage and confinement. I always have, but here's where it may not be exactly clear: i love restraint for myself. I recognize that hearing a Dominant male offer that in addition to restraining his submissive girl, he also likes to apply it to himself may result in a little head-scratching. I might even risk my membership in the Great Hall of Fierce and Ferocious Dominants by admitting these appetites. Alas, risk i must.

I've spoken in the past about exercising my own restraint, but what i'm referring to in this diatribe isn't self-control. In fact, it might make more sense if we used the slightly different word of "constraint" or also known as the application of physical pressure.

It's important that i convince you that this isn't something that i've just been walking around with in my pocket. In fact, it's somewhat of a surprise to me. I've been binding up pretty girls for so many years, i never stopped to recognize that there is some of this gesticulation that i like to do to myself. Let me be more clear.

As long as i can remember, since i was a kid, i have put tape on my fingers, wrapping it around each digit as an athlete or guitar player might. I love the constriction, but i also like how it looks, aesthetically. I also really enjoy how it feels to peel it off my skin at the end of the day, slowly revealing the ring of moisture-parched flesh underneath. Extending this practice, i have a collection of leather and velcro straps that i've accumulated over the years that i will, on occasion, wrap around my forearms, my biceps, or even my mid-section.

I remember one of my favorite things to do as a kid on a Saturday afternoon was to sneak down into our basement and burrow under the piles of freshly washed laundry. The more compression i felt, the more secure and at peace i seemed. I would lay there for hours, even falling asleep. I didn't want to do anything else with my weekend, just rest underneath all those layers, imagining that i was in some kind of factory, waiting patiently in the mold, until the moment when my raw materials had cured and hardened.

Even today, i still like wearing ultra-tight underwear, pants and shirts. I enjoy the rigidness and the restriction of the tight-fitting garments, but i also like how it makes me feel more cohesive and put together.

Oddly, none of this has any submissive applications. I've never wanted to be at someone else's whim, bound by them. That actually irritates me just to even think about it. No, for me, this is something i'm in complete control of, because it's not the position of power this places me, but the sensation of compression that i'm after.

That said, i do look at my girl, mummified in several layers of plastic wrap and duct tape with a little nostalgia.

He said to shine them for the Fat Lady

He's not exactly the reason i've chosen to write. In fact, i came upon his work later than most. I still remember when i first received "Nine Short Stories" and "Franny and Zooey" as a gift from a friend. I thought, how peculiar that he gave me these and not Salinger's more well-known book "The Catcher in the Rye", which i hadn't read either. I thanked my friend, but i don't think i ever properly thanked him. I couldn't know how those books would alter my views on the world.

I haven't fully processed what his passing means to me. I expect the impact will last and grow as time passes. I will, as i do every three months, turn to one of his books for comfort and revelation.

As a frequent writing exercise, i would try to craft a sentence or two that would tell a very vivid story. I saw them as a challenge J.D. made to me personally.

In his honor, i leave you with a few:

- She wrinkled her nose while chomping on french fries which she pretended were her nagging mother's fingers.

- Through the congested grove of trees, i could see two lovers resting on the sandy river banks, playing with eachother's hair. The girl laughed, then sighed, her head falling onto his arm.

- His sunburnt face looked up at me as i passed. Squinting, he smiled from the right side of his mouth. He offered me a slice from his apple. I told him that i wasn't hungry. In fact, i was incredibly hungry.

- She skipped, leading with her right foot, while her left hand dangled from the two longest fingers of her hurrying father.

Burlessque and less

I am a lucky man. I really am. Let me start this post by establishing this fact. I do not want the subject i plan to address come back to bite me in the ass because my manner sounds like someone who doesn't understand and acknowledge their blessings. I count them, i give thanks for them, i even try to share them with others. I'm a nice sadist (so i've been told).

As i've reported here many, several, numerous times, my girl and i are connoisseurs of the raging neo-burlesque scene. We had been having so much fun at shows, that eventually, my girl caught the burlesque bug. She started taking classes at the New York School of Burlesque, and because she is an incredibly ambitious creature, she soon found herself performing at the very venues her and i had been frequenting.

Flash forward through the past 6 months. On the weekends - sometimes every weekend, other times she'll skip a few - you can find my girl teasing her butt off somewhere in the city (this is actually the explanation as to why there has been very little in terms of updates on Kitty's site - for those who've been wondering). It's quite wonderful.

That's it. That's the story.





Not enough? Think i'm leaving something out? You're wondering, what's all this "i'm so lucky" song and dance disclaimer? Fine. I'll proceed.

A lot has happened to Deity throughout his girl's metamorphosis from spectator to performer. It's not a matter of not supporting her desire to do this, in case some of you are wondering if that caused any shrapnel in this process. Quite the contrary. I'm incredibly supportive. Any time she gets another solicitation for a gig, i'm the one who offers her excitement and praise. However, the reasons for my support have shifted over time.

Admittedly, when the notion first arose that she would dive into the feathery and glittery world of burlesque, i was all agog about spending my weekend evenings exposed to all that girly shake, shimmy and sway. I thought, "Wow, i get to see hyper, ultra-feminine nudity on a weekly basis, AND get free drinks (that's right, spouses of dancers are often comped on cocktails)? How could i lose?"

***To pause for just a moment, it is important to note that although it may come across as explicit here to my readers, it was not directly assumed that i would be in attendance to all of my girl's performances. And there have been a few occasions where i've not been there in the flesh while she struts her stuff up on stage, but there hasn't been a single evening where i haven't met her at the bar/cafe/lounge after her show, and escorted her home. This is where my motivations to support my girl's passions dramatically shifted.***

Two facets emerged. The first one is the easiest to describe. It is one based on an entrenched desire to protect my girl. I'm not sure how other girls do it, but in this city, in order to maximize your dance card, you pack in as many gigs as possible in a night, and shuttle between them via the subway. In order to do this efficiently, you must be fully glammed out, which of course attracts attention (both polite and unwanted). I understand that women attract this kind of attention on a daily basis, but when you are wearing 2-inch long fake eyelashes, a dress that is 120% about glamor, and patent leather stilettos, you tend to receive a year's worth of wolf whistles in an entire evening. Once this reality was in place, it became quite clear what fed my motivations to support her art - to make sure she wasn't harassed.

But, it turns out, there are not just wolves in the strangers on a train, or those in attendance at a show. There is shiftiness in the producers and curators of the various showcases she pops in and out of. Because i receive a great deal of fulfillment from manipulating and cajoling others with my charm, i naturally slid into the role as my girl's manager. This entails me whispering into the patron's ear during intermission, regaling an engrossing story to the bandleader, or chatting up one of the other dancers - all for one purpose: booking another gig for my girl.

All this activity means that some sacrifice had to occur. Last night, that sacrifice made itself very evident. I'd stationed myself at my "usual spot" at the bar - near the maitre-d, but not too far from the barkeep. It was during a conversation i was having with the restaurant's owner that i realized my own desensitization/assimilation. We we're chatting about my girl's upcoming number - what volume level the track should be, etcetera - and the whole time i hadn't even realized that just five feet away from me, world-class strip-teasing was taking place. It was true. When i took a moment to reflect on it, i confirmed that during other shows, where the silky flesh would otherwise have tantalized me, i was too concerned with finding the best spot to film my girl's act or worried that the lighting wasn't carried out correctly.

Here's my exit. I should grab it while it's clearly within my grasp.

There have been a few occasions, mind you, where she's been made to feel uncomfortable by one of the (usually drunk) patrons, but i won't go into detail about how i responded to those moments (not just yet).

For the most part, i relish the fact that i get to say this is my life (although, i don't get to say it to too many people - another post?). As i said, i'm very grateful, but i'd be deceiving you if i led you to believe that this was what it would be like to have a burlesque dancer lying next to you in bed.

Complete absurdity

In order to look at the subjects of my posts, it takes a great deal of humility on my part. I speak constantly, repeatedly and roundly about the acquisition of material things to satisfy a very eccentric and highly-selective sexual appetite. I'm aware that my kink involves the use of and play with objects (both man-made and human), which gives the perception that i must have a bottomless wallet (or enormous personal debt) and an equally soul-less joy in buying/shopping/collecting.

Couldn't be further than the truth.

My mind is a battlefield under constant struggle between the opposite poles of a simple, ascetic life and the glossy, shiny paraphernalia of my fetishes. I do not own many books, music albums or movies, having reduced my once vast collection in order to have as few material items as possible. I believe that this world, this big stone exists for us to do more than just make a pile of products and trinkets. I'm troubled by how many lives i see dedicated to consuming material goods. I witness dozens of people toiling away at jobs that do not fulfill them only so they can catch the latest sample sale and parade around with this season's Gucci handbag. This confoundedness permeates my life.

I tend to only buy clothing for myself when i absolutely need it. Since it is my goal to contribute as much beauty to this world as i can, i make sure that the few outfits that i possess are handsome and well-appointed. However, should any of these outfits suffer a casualty, it pains me a great deal to have to shop for its replacement. I have literally entered a clothier, looked at a single shirt for 30 minutes, only to convince myself that i can do without and exit the store. A week will pass, and it is clear that the old shirt cannot be mended anymore, and i will trudge back over to the store, to finally make the necessary purchase. But this struggle doesn't end there. The instant i leave the establishment, with shopping bag in tow, i am overwhelmed with a sense of guilt. There have been occasions where i have bought and returned repeatedly the same item, over, and over again.

I have imposed this same leanness to my girl's wardrobe. Whenever she acquires a new dress or pair of shoes, she knows she must rid herself of an existing item - which at first she absolutely loathed. However lately, she has resigned herself to this rule's dominion, altering the timing of her own purchases to follow the shift in her tastes, happily replacing a pair of boring, old pumps with a newer, flashier pair.

At the moment, i am contemplating a very sizable purchase of an item i have been obsessing over for many, many years. Which means, we still haven't addressed the fog of hypocrisy that sits abated off the coast of Deity's shores. Believe me, when i say this, i'm very aware of the contradiction my words present - sentence after sentence. But, when it comes to something that satisfies my kinky appetites, i can almost not help it. When i look at this list, it takes every ounce of restraint in my body to not splurge and purchase every single item on it. Where is this chaste, virtuous and conscientious soul who cannot bring himself to buy a CD of music he's coveted for 11 years? Instead, he is replaced by a bandit who has put these abstract constructions on a strange tier that he believes will bring him euphoric jollies and thrills once he reaches it. (Let us not start the discussion about what happens once he has acquired all of those toys - what then?)

Perhaps, to some of you, this struggle is completely absurd. And that may be true. However, when you see the images coming to us of the struggles and hardship of those victims of the earthquake in Haiti, it makes you question whether or not we are really hear just to buy stuff.

A year of a little less lustful quality

As i trained myself to no longer append "09" to the end of the date and instead use "10", it occurred to me that it was time to summarize the year that has passed on this site. I suppose the title i've chosen for this post is a bit misleading. It might imply that there has been an overall deficit in erotic thrills in my life, but that is definitely not what i mean to imply. As i scanned the rolls of posts that i penned last year, when comparing their amount to years before, i noticed that the number was considerably less. I went from an inaugural output in 2007 of 98 posts, to an unimaginable 125 the next year, then plummeted in 2009 to a measly 68. There are several factors that led to this.

The initial factor comes through very clearly when i look at the posts in the first quarter of 2009. While i'm quite found of the post i wrote about where i turned my girl into a stool, something feels off when you notice i followed it not long after with another favorite of mine involving my gambling with her ability to control her jaw. Even i can see that these are not that different from eachother. Inwardly, i was sensing a bit of redundancy on my part, but i didn't want to mention it. I was hoping i could overcome it. I made it through February, whose highlight was a piece about how the body's reactions can betray the mind, but then i hit my first road bump. I turned to my readers for inspiration, and the posts that followed, while worthy enough to read, don't sound particularly inspired. Another month followed, and the only post in that time that continues to excite me was one in which i compelled you, the reader, to give into temptation. Otherwise, it was as if i was a visitor at my own site. I spoke with nostalgia about those in my past in a clinical tone, one that sounded as if i hoped to squelch any of my emotional connection to the site. I've been in enough failed romances to know what that signals.

The end.

And it came.

I stepped away. I gave myself space. I took the time i devoted to writing on The Lustful Quality and spent it not writing at all (which is something that was COMPLETELY new for me. I've always written). Instead, i took many a walk and spent as little time as i could in front of a computer screen.

A week passed (this may not seem like a long time, but you see, i had been regularly posting, on average - when not on vacation - every three days). Then another. And soon it was a month. I didn't think about the site all that much, which i think was very good for me. But after a point, i started to miss authoring my thoughts as Deity. I still lived my "life" as Deity, but i didn't so much document it as him. And i started to miss that. The thing that i missed the most was writing without pause, without any concern for who was reading my output. That's how i wrote when i first began TransformHer. I just wrote. I didn't know if three people would read it let alone thirty. It was in fact how i'd been writing for the decades prior to me starting this site.

Finally after almost two months away, i came back. Two things immediately changed about my output. I posted more infrequently, which was such a relief to not feel like i had to stuff anything i could throw together into these digital tubes once three days had passed. More importantly, i posted with much more reckless abandon.

You can hear that in this post. It's not the "hottest" or "sexiest" post, but it's exactly what i wanted to write about. I also posted more poems. I haven't the foggiest idea if those are the reasons why you come to read my blathering, but i had to think if it wasn't, you'd move on. Now mind you, this reckless abandon did have its drawbacks.

I got in some serious hot water when i attempted to take a shortcut with a post by piling three disjointed ideas into one, and not really taking heed of the sensitive ground i was treading in that assemblage. Asserting that i was merely addressing the difficult topic of the marks of femininity with a non-chalant, carefree manner in the comments to this post only continued to make the situation worse. Thankfully, my girl came to my aid, to provide deference on my behalf, which i rarely seem to possess.

It was, in the end, a real-life lesson of the principle that if you decide to say whatever you want without regards for your audience, they can take either issue with you or take their eyes elsewhere. It was an important lesson to absorb. For here as well as elsewhere in my life.

My favorite post in the last three months, and the one that really symbolized to me my "return" was my contribution to lg's orgasm project. I felt challenged by the task. It took a great deal of thought about what i wanted to say and how i should construct it, and all of this mental acuity stripped away any target other than myself. In the end, what i posted was for me. I wrote on a subject that i'd always wanted to explore in a manner i'd always wanted to hear.

At the beginning of 2010 (Two-thousand ten or Twenty ten - i'm still undecided), i'm not sure where i'll take Her Erotic Demise. I've really enjoyed my expansion to Tumblr, my audience is very different (read: more males) than it is here because most of what i post is images rather than words, so that difference is an interesting experience. Also, I've been pondering adding a vocal component to this site in the form of a podcast.

Whatever i decide here at The Lustful Quality, i assure you that there will be a lot more, with a particular emphasis on quality. Thank you all for your patience and your visits.