Am i a fetishist?

Ed Wood.

J. Edgar Hoover

Fyodor Dostoevski

F. Scott Fitzgerald

What do they all have in common? They are renowned fetishists. The first two being cross-dressers, while the second divided their time between revolutionizing the modern novel and worshiping the female podiatric anatomy. Obviously the former share a somewhat shamed and scarred remembrance for their kink, whereas the reputation of the latter two largely survives any notion of their sexual deviations.

Growing up, i could do little to stop my halt-in-my-place reaction to any flaunting of an ultra-female variety. If i witnessed a lady stopping mid-stride to gaze into a store window to fuss with her beehive hairdo, i could do nothing but gawk. Or should some gal struggle with her makeup compact on account of her 1" long fake nails, i most assuredly had a courtside seat for this event.

When i explored the avenues available to me to satisfy these (what i believed to be) odd appetites, i came across the word "fetish". At first, it presented itself as an exotic term, something to be embraced like "denouement" or "piece de resistance". As i read more on the term, and as i heard those around me dropping it into conversations, it gained a negative reputation with me. I remember a girlfriend of mine at the time referring to fetishes as "freaky, disgusting, and altogether unacceptable." Various definitions (depending on the context of the source) can be attached to the term. A sexual attraction to objects and materials as opposed to persons. The substitution (for social outcast reasons) of things instead of persons as sexual stimuli (Karl Marx famously referred to materialism as a hard-rooted fetish of Capitalism). I heard that someone who had a fetish (God be with them) could not get aroused unless the fetishized object were present. It became something i myself fought to deny as part of my psychosis, that i didn't need the items that struck an immediate reaction from me should i encounter them, which had me quickly leaping over to the judgmental side of the fence that chastised those who were avowed fetishists.

This punitive approach i took got further compounded when i sought out materials that would satisfy my need for sexual (non-fetishistic, i swear!) stimulus. I searched for photos or videos of the use of mummification, breath play/gasmasks/rebreather bags, full latex enclosure (as opposed to simply a pair of panties fashioned out of the pliable material), inflatable gags, head-encasing hoods or masks, chastity belts, and so on. To my horror, the vast majority of the subjects (and the seekers, i found) were male, and a good number of them were transvestites. I WAS NOT A TRANSVESTITE ("The lady doth protest too much, methinks"). I knew i didn't seek to don woman's clothes and develop a feminine side to my personality, but i could clearly see some part of me responded to the matter found in these pigeonholes. And so i pushed myself further away from the possibility that i may have my own landscape of fetishes. For many years, i put this outlet that responded so strongly to this type of stimulus away. It lay dormant. I hoped it would suffocate and die, like an appendage with a rubber band wrapped around it, choking it of any blood flow, soon to rot and fall off. However, this was not the case.

I moved to a city where they practically established cultural institutions that manufactured walking and breathing models for every fetish known to man. Pretty soon, i could no longer ignore the effect the sound of a clapping high heel had on me. Nor could i just pretend that the altered sway a girl has when wearing a pair of these clod-hoppers (what i've come to call the "Lift-Move-Drop" action of the female buttocks when compensating for the shift in her gait a pair of heels causes) didn't make me want to abandon all plans and just follow this beautiful creature.

Still to this day, i cannot get on a train and not notice every gal wearing a skirt, every well-coiffed hairdo, every pristinely manicured hand, and lord i must look ridiculous the way i crane my neck to catch a glimpse of a girl who i sense is wearing a pair of heels. Why i do this, i ultimately do not know. Am i a fetishist? Frankly, i don't care if i'm labelled as one or not, i just know that far too much has been made about it, and i no longer care to weigh in on the issue like i once did.

p.s. I leave it up to the pure psychoanalysts in the crowd to make sense of the mess that is my ultimate fetishistic fantasy, which is turning girls into objects.

Sugasm #130

May 5th, 2008 by Vixen | Updated: May 6th, 2008

Half-Nekkid Thursday courtesy of Tara Tainton.

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 #131? 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
Gross Spelling Errors Turn Me Off
“Here are a few other word issues that come up in sex writing that throw me off and drive me crazy.”

L’Artiste
“I want time to sip my whisky, to drink you in as you unveil yourself, as you offer your body to my steady gaze.”

Learning My Limits (Part 1)
“It hurts. It’s gorgeous. ”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
24-Months of AVN Online, $0

Editor’s Choice
The Few, The Proud, The Pornless

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

BDSM & Fetish
Cut to the chaste

Cut to the chaste

- You place the sealed envelope on the open lid of the blue postal box. You give it one last look, sigh, then let it slide into the belly of the container, certain it will take at least 3 days before i receive the keys in my mail.

- You pull the belt up your legs, situating it at your hips. The coldness of the steel pussy plate and chain that runs along the crevice of your ass causes you to suck in your breath. You adjust the latch in front, making sure the waistband is pulled snug, but not too tight for longterm wear. From the box, you pick up the 2" brass padlocks, sliding one in the latch on the front, and one in the rear. Clasping onto each lock with your hands, you click them closed. You go back to your bed, take out the manila envelope i provided and write my address on the front. You gather the keys, and drop them in, sealing it closed with clear packing tape.

- You carefully, meticulously lubricate your front passage. Sliding several lube-covered fingers in your radiating cunt, you ensure that this canal is adequately prepared. Checking one last time, you examine the small metallic dildo found, carefully wrapped, in the bottom of the package, ensuring the extended-release batteries are situated correctly. You turn the device on, feeling it buzz with animation in your hands. It goes silent, which for a moment causes you to panic, but then you remember its programmed sequence. It won't awake again for another 15 minutes, turning on for 3 minutes, and then hibernating, repeating this cycle until the power in the batteries expires. You slowly, deliberately slowly, slide it past your slick cunt lips, pushing it entirely inside your wet gash. You next grab the leather and metal chastity belt, admiring the weight of the device, anticipating the heavy presence it will render upon your body.

- You walk into the vestibule of your apartment, spying the medium-sized box placed at the foot of your door. You lean down to view the sender's information and immediately gasp when you recognize who it is from. Picking up the box produces a clattering of metal from inside. You fiddle with your keys, opening your door, and immediately walk to your bedroom, leaving the unopened box on your bed. You go to your nightstand and pull out a tube of lubricant and lay it next to the parcel. You try to fill the time that you can feel is rapidly shrinking between now and when you open the package. You take off your heels, remove your skirt, slide off your stockings. You thumb through the stack of regular mail. Bills. Bills. Solicitations. Bills. Distractions. Your mind does not think of these daily interruptions. Rather, it hones in on the ever growing in-your-mind collection of shipped materials waiting for you in your boudoir. Resigned, you take the letter opener from the drawer and take what seems to be a longer than usual walk to the back of your apartment. You quickly dismantle the taped seams, and carefully open the cardboard contraption. My handwritten letter greets your eyes:

"My dear,
We both knew this day would come. You'd expressed a desire for more. More control, more domination. Yet, you exhibited very little ability to accept what amount i could provide due to our distance. Despite the lack of commitment needed to maintain a healthy, strong and meaningful power exchange, i believe the items in this box will act as a catalyst to a much greater fellowship.

You have many choices. You have exhibited a willingness to keep that quantity as large as possible. I've reduced it down to two. Either, submit or not.

The material found within will facilitate your passage into the liberating servitude you've soberly spoken to me about. Choose quickly and resolutely.

I'll await the envelope with the keys inside, signaling your selection."