Scene it all

As you make your way through your own sexual discovery, you tend to spend the initial stages of this exploration within your mind. It's not common that you share this embryonic experience with others. Not yet. You play with the new sensations in your head. Flexing the new connections between stronger, fortified and maturing muscles. When you are ready (or more likely when you aren't), suddenly presented with a partner (or partners), you venture into an experimental stage with others. It's from this point where you forge deep, intimate connections with these individuals who share similar appetites as yours, each of you uncovering new forms of expression that broaden a nascent language of the skin and senses. If you are blessed, you look around this new world, and see similar souls, each seeking the same sexual sustenance - synchronicity, symbiosis, singularity.

But what happens if you are not fortunate enough to find those "others"? What happens if you discover that your sexual desires do not match the oft-repeated examples from society and culture around you? Do you start to doubt the authenticity of your needs and hungers? Do you embark on a long voyage of self-betrayal, doubt and denial?

It's been nearly 20 years since I saw my first fetish images from the unsanctioned use of an Internet-enabled computer I was stationed at for a mindless temp job (back then, "Internet-enabled" was in fact a very common thing). What I felt as I clicked through a seemingly endless assortment of grainy images of women clad - head-to-toe - in shiny rubber was a pulse that throbbed in me unlike anything else up to this point. It triggered alive some sort of contraption in my body that sought a source of fuel and energy not easily found, and more importantly, one that my then-current environment labeled as perverted, wrong and unacceptable. I was forced to take my sexuality deep underground.

This subterfuge led me to relocate to a different city, a much larger one, with the promise that I'd find other like-minded souls operating in a world where I could satisfy and explore this erotic currency much more freely. Since my emigration, there have been many unconnected experiences that have fulfilled, but even today, I cannot ignore my deep dissatisfaction with "the scene". As recently as this past Halloween, my girl and I went to the self-proclaimed "Premiere Fetish Play Party" in Gotham, only to be incredibly let down at how enormously disorganized and scattered this world was. I won't go into detail about what we encountered, only to say that if this is the preeminent celebration of kink in this metropolis, fetish is unattractive, sociopathic and rude. After an evening of extreme letdowns, I had to come to grips with the fact that in this massively chaotic and unbridled city, you still are not able to find the environment that permits you to foster the deep kind of intimacy you'd think a playground of this size would allow.

I wonder if those of you reading this have found similar disappointments. I invite you to share your experiences in the comments to this post. I'd really love to hear your successes and your misfortunes. Perhaps here on these pages, we can have a dialog over what sort of landscape we'd hope to find. Perhaps, we can find ways to not feel totally isolated and alone.

Matters undermind

I initially wrote this as a stream of conscious note on my iTouch while riding through the underground tunnels of my adopted hometown. There is part of me that wants to just publish it unedited, as the raw thoughts that streamed into my head during my performance of the socially acceptable role called a "commuter". This way, i can provide a view into my mind during a period of "normalcy" and day-to-day activity. But, i'm not even sure this is something the reader desires, nor do i necessarily think it is all that authentic.

Why would the reader really care about my thoughts during a period of routine banality? And even if they did, are these the only representation of my thoughts that i can offer? Admittedly, the forum for the words i publish here takes the shape of one that pursues the boundaries and landscapes of my sexuality, so it makes sense that the subject of any thesis i make should also resemble that same shape. But there are parts of me that wonders if this one-dimensional character has worn its welcome. Perhaps i've lived all i could through this web journal, and the authenticity resides elsewhere inaccessible to my readers.

With that said, i present to you the following, with as few edits as i could make to maintain authenticity:

I live a double life. I have two Twitter accounts. I have two separate Gmail accounts. The same with YouTube, DeviantArt, Facebook, Tumblr, MySpace, etc. On one vein, I maintain my public, identity-laced persona, never veering past the deviant line my mind constantly crosses. While the other sprays his sexual/physical avatar all over the place. It is the best example of arrested development I can think of. Yet, I can do little about this truncated existence. Society insists I remain closeted. (is it society's insistence or, perhaps, my own?)

Meanwhile, I'm taunted by those who have managed to broadcast a public, kinky representation of themselves and I have to wonder what penalty must they pay?

FetishKitsch - They are a genuine, intimate couple who have chosen to film their kinky, fetish-laden sexual escapades. For numerous reasons (their genuineness, their attractiveness, their passion, etc.), they have managed to make a living doing this, for the most part. This is not the bit that i covet. I do not wish to turn my play sessions with my girl into a commercial venture. I've made a few photos and one video, but have no plans to expand on these efforts. What attracts me to their level of openness is their geography. They do not live in fetish-friendly Germany, or even the tolerant environs of the U.K. (or even Canada). No, in fact, they live in the slow Mid West of the US of A. They have no compunction for revealing not only their sexual tastes, but their faces and their names (assuming they are not pseudonyms). I envy their liberated approach to exposing their sexuality. Some may look at my site and think i've done my own emancipation. However public i've been, you will never find my name/face associated with the identity known as "Deity".

Darenzia - She is a bona fide fetish model. She's stunning. She's modeled with some amazing beauties and for some amazing photographers. I adored her as skin candy through the various websites and periodicals i explored. It wasn't until i found her on Twitter that i developed an intellectual crush on her. I cannot recall how i came across her Twitter feed, but it has been an absolute thrill to behold. She has a rapier, sarcastic wit that doesn't quite fit the graceful elegance of her beauty - and that's what makes her all the more interesting. She talks shit about everyone. She knows how to use the medium of 140 characters to add pizazz into the world, all the while wishing you could personally witness the life she leads. In the time that i've been following her (as myself, not Deity), there has been no less than 40 times i've wanted to reply to something she posted. I recognize i run a little bit of a risk for my "professional" self to publicly declaring through the list of those i follow on Twitter that i keep track of the comings and goings of a riske, fetish model. The only explanation i can offer as to why i do it is that i've grown weary.

I'm tired of putting one face forward while concealing another. Next year will present me with my fourth year of authoring content through this site, via this Deity persona. There is a great deal of frustration in only being able to interact with a virtual audience, meanwhile living a life as someone my closest associates only know to a certain depth. I look at FetishKitsch and Darenzia and wonder what it would be like if i melded the two spheres. Would it turn out to be what i wanted, or were all the risks i drew up in my brain factual and not exaggerations.

Am I too safe? Too cautious? Perhaps too self-important. It's very hard to determine when to play it safe and when to let go.

Constantly hiding sucks. Especially if it's just rote and unnecessary. Should I risk it and put me and my girl's likeness out there just to say "Fuck this, I'm sick of hiding."? Or should I not take the bait and stay veiled?

I do not have so much hubris to believe my little web journal gets anywhere near the notice or traffic that FetishKitsch and Darenzia get, so it may not be all that much of a risk were i to take away the masks i keep on both my girl and i.

Lately however, those have not been the questions i've been pondering. As i face the end of another year, and think forward about the year to come, i wonder how much longer i will continue to give this persona and these black walls any more of my energy.

Dominating the conversation

Recently, i was lucky enough to have fallen into a tidy sum of money that i wasn't at all expecting. I'm not a wealthy individual, nor am i poor. I make a reasonable salary, and our home is one of a few, but blessed comforts. What this all means is that this money served as an extraneous, imposing presence that couldn't simply be ignored.

I immediately called up my young nieces, asking them what it was they wanted most of all, right there, right now. One giddily shrieked "an iPod!!!", while the other shyly offered that she might like to have a brand new bike. Done, i told them. They squealed with their girlish delight. What next? I carved out a sizable sum and sent it off to one of my girl's favorite charities. Still left with a meritorious amount, i asked my girl if her dress code accoutrement needed any refreshing. How were her corsets? Fine? Hmmmm. What about her heels? Any pair in desperate need of replacement? No, all perfectly suitable. Stockings? Yes, yes, there are definitely a few pairs that she could retire and put out of their misery. However, that only ate up a few simoleons. What to do?

And then, suddenly, the thought occurred to me: I might be able to retire a number of items from off of my fetish wish list.

I exercised restraint (although not much) and hastily ordered some items that i have personally been lusting over for easily a decade's time. But here's the rub, since placing the order, i have been unable to think of little else, pondering the workshop where these items would be made, the shelves on which they sat, ready to be shipped to me, waiting, prolonging their arrival. And it has been killing me.

I have written very little explicitly about my status as a fetishist. In fact, of the 300+ posts i've penned for this site, only five contain the word "fetishist". Only 25 carry the label of "fetish", as if it weren't all that an important facet of my sexuality, when in fact it makes up the bold lion's share. It plays such a large role in how i verbalize my sexual desire, that sometimes it makes me question how "dominant" i actually am.

lg comes to mind when i make a statement like that, because she has recently revealed her own fluidity with the power roles she plays in her relationship with her Daddy. She has always represented herself publicly as a submissive girl, looking to be controlled and contained. However, she uncovered a desire to take charge, and demand worship. I applaud her exploration and discovery. This isn't exactly what i'm referring to, however.

I have no interests in acting like the submissive bottom in my dynamic with my girl. I am absolutely the Top, but i'm not so certain how "dominant" i am due to the ways in which my various fetishes can immediately take control over me. I could be in complete command of my persona, walking along the city streets, confident, bee-lining to every corner, and *BAM!!!* out of the blue, a cute girl with long, fake nails could wander into my view. All other thoughts evacuate from my single rail mind, and all i can do is stare, salivate and pant after this display of manicured perfection. Am i in control in this situation? Absolutely not. My body has an involuntary reaction to such a sight. The same goes with a gal lacing into a corset, sliding on a latex garment, or pulling on a pair of fully-fashioned thigh highs. I cannot control the instant arousal that overflows my body.

I will say it right here that having fetishes is not exactly a wonderful thing. To be instantly upturned the moment the fetishized object comes into view not only makes for some awkward public moments, but once someone learns about your fetish, depending on the character of the person, they'll attempt to either control you with it or embarrass you. Neither situation is enjoyable. I'm not ashamed nor distraught that i have these highly developed fetishes, but they do serve as a limitation, which is precisely the same impetus that a submissive might encounter when boundaries and rules for themselves have been defined by their Dominant.

The longer i live my life in this so-called realm of SM, the more i find myself turning away from prescriptive words such as "Dominant" and "submissive". They don't fit the reality of my experience. Because, as someone who deals with myriad fetishes, even though my girl goes and gets her nails done every two weeks exactly as i require (a "Dominant" decision), their appearance in my day interrupts whatever it was i happened to be doing at the time (an act of submission, if i ever saw one). They pester me. They demand my attention. And once they get it, all i can do is sit transfixed, succumbing to the overflowing desire to rapidly reach an orgasm.

Appliqué

I assume that those of you who make the trek to TransformHer, do so in part out of an affection for obsession. Witnessing the material that emerges from someone's obsession is one of my all time pursuits. I adore the poets who are so fixated upon a single word that they use it in numerous poems, re-use it, repeat it, dissect it, and string it together in an endless train of circuitous discovery (see Gertrude Stein's exposition on 'full', 'exactly' and 'he').

One of my biggest thrills when i first moved to my adopted hometown was the regular trip to the Guggenheim Museum where the most comprehensive collection of Kandinsky art exists. My initial encounter with Wassily's art had me react with revolt at the possibility that someone might've plagiarized my own drawings. I wasn't aware of the time period this man had created his artistic embellishments, so my hubris allowed me to believe my own geometric sketches wherein i explored, expunged and evaporated the circular shape had been completely original. Learning that he'd trotted out his own obsession with the curvaceous geometry nearly 100 years before me not only put my mind at ease, but a distant connection with a foreign, long-passed stranger developed in my heart, so that when i first was able to see his work hanging in the gorgeous air of the Guggenheim, i reached out to it, as if it were the output of a dearly departed friend.

To say that i've been obsessed with the ballet boots i purchased for my girl would be as tame as saying that the Sun is a moderate lighting device. No fewer than 10 times daily, since we've received them, do they enter into my mind. The images of them that i took to post to these pages still sit on my mobile, and as if they were pictures from a nursery, i visit my "babies" regularly throughout the day. As in the past, when i've acquired new kinky accoutrements, i remain wary of "blowing my load" prematurely by too frequently implementing the latest device in my toy chest. Truth be told, this is an academic understanding. Inwardly, i don't care one bit.

The first evening we had them, i made my girl give them an impromptu try. It was scintillating fun watching her slide her naked foot into these black, shiny stallions. I remember that i placed myself on the far end of the couch, restraining myself from grabbing onto her left leg and jerking the other pair on hastily. She could hardly stand in them (which wasn't a surprise), but that didn't matter. They immediately changed the way she looked, the way she thought of her legs, the way i thought of her. In ballet boots, especially knee-high, you cannot look normal. You don't even resemble a human. You've left the terrestrial species once your toes serve as your only contact with the ground. Gushes of erotic energy flooded into my body. So much that even after i'd expended multiple volts of it by fucking her naked-all-but-the-boots body, i buzzed for hours afterward.

As days passed, i fantasized about the boots, me putting them on her, my girl wearing them around, as well as the numerous torments i'd put her through as she did. Outwardly, i tried to appear indifferent to this footwear, referencing them only occasionally in conversation with my girl - i didn't want to acknowledge the realistic hold they had over me. However, on the inside, i felt strangely subservient to them. It was almost as if i was no longer in control.

And then another Friday came upon us. It was time for some form of correction. The long week had ended and we had both earned this playful moment. In my mind, i conjured up numerous scenarios for us, purposely trying to avoid the bullying presence of those delectable shoes. I wrestled with their influence for awhile before finally relenting. After all their insistence, they would hold a central role in the evening's events. In greeting my girl at the entrance of our apartment, i asked her for her preference.

"Which would you prefer: swats or rope?"

This game, like all of them with her, was rigged. I knew that neither one posed the most pleasing of experiences for her, but even as she pondered her plight, she definitely did not detect the ace i hid in my hand. At the opportune time, i would slap this on the table.

"Swats."

I sent her to the bedroom to strip. I viewed the time that existed between this moment and the point in which i would grab the long white box from atop her armoir as if it were a decadent wish about to come true. Long ago, she had grown accustomed to my desire to keep her on her toes. Only now, the literal aspect of this fully realized volition presented itself as an interminable possibility.

I retrieved the boots from their case, and handed them to my naked girl. Without skipping a beat, she carefully tugged them onto her feet. I helped her upward and aided her promenade to the end of the bed. She grasped the black iron of the footboard with more industry than she normally did.

"Point it out."

God, what a site. Her delicious, pale skin pouring over her round cheeks and hips, collecting in the dark, sinister chalice of these boots. Her ass suspended in the air with an agility not typically viewed - i suspected it had to do with the extreme angle of her toes and calves. I viewed her from all angles, marveling at an image of something i'd lusted over only in the professional photographs of others. Because of my salivating lust, her backside received a sensational beating, however, due to the air in the chamber sizzling with arousal, she took each blow with esteem. Uncustomarily, i shortened the duration of her spanking, only because i couldn't hold out any longer.

I positioned her in the bed on all fours. The stiletto of the heels pointed at my swollen erection, but before i mounted her, i stopped short and did something i've never done before. A compulsion welled up inside of me, a need to worship her boots. I bent down and with as much passion as if i were embracing my girl, i kissed and licked the shiny, patent leather encasing her legs. My eyes closed for a moment as i did this, opening them again only to continue on with my dream.

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.

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.

Worn out

Whenever anyone has asked what my highlight from me and my girl's recent trip to London is, i've hesitated in my response. Quite honestly, i could pick many favorite memories from my inaugural visit to the Square Mile. We saw so many things: gloriously old museums, eccentric and unique boutiques, my favorite soccer team's hallowed grounds, a great assemblage of pubs, and much more. But, it is not the sheer number of great attractions that gives my answer to their question pause. Instead, it is the "inappropriate" nature of our vacation's most treasured souvenir:

Our attendance at Torture Garden's London Fetish Ball

Some of you may remember (and the naughtiest of you might even chuckle) my post about the preparations i needed to go through in order to secure our attendance of the Ball. The biggest stress that followed once our latex goods were ordered and delivered was safely packing them into our luggage prior to our departure and then handing them over to the ever dutiful TSA. I had serious concerns this tidy little investment in rubber gear would find it's way into the back screening rooms at JFK airport, and never see the light of day again. What a sigh of relief that came rushing out of my lungs when i gathered our valises from the luggage carousels at Heathrow and saw the cable tie i put on each zipper completely in tact.

We spent the day of the event caroming from one parlor after another of feminine delicacies, finishing our tour in the neighborhood where my cherished football team plays and also where my dear friend who helped us get into the Ball resided. Originally, the plan i'd arranged with my comrade was for my girl and i to bring over our whole get-up, and then we'd all get ready. This sounded like a lot of fun, but ultimately impractical, when i considered how many different girly accessories and tools we'd have to haul from our hotel to accomplish my doll's latex transformation. We settled for splitting a pizza while watching a soccer match - which was the perfect antidote for my excited nerves in anticipation of the evening's festivities - and then my girl and i made our way back to our West London accommodations.

Getting ready for fetish events is always such a thrill, because i adore witnessing my girl's metamorphosis from pretty, dainty gentlelady to sexed-up, slick, fetish vixen. However, this time was different, because i was making my debut sporting the very textile i've spent many years obsessing over when worn by my feminine counterparts. When it came time to polish and shine my clothing, it sunk in how real my immersion into this event was to be. I was buffing the slick latex so that my own attractiveness would stand out - such an overtly sexual and aggressive gesture i'm not accustomed to making (i'm usually much more subtle in the expression of my appearance) - and soon i felt my own transformation start to unfold. By the time we got the call from the lobby downstairs that the cab we'd ordered had arrived, a fervent energy pulsed through my body, intensified by how turned on both of us were when we looked at eachother. Instead of being coy, we walked through the lobby of our hotel (which was surprisingly busy for that late hour), with purposeful strides and direct eye contact with anyone gawking at our shiny figurines parading across the marble floor.

The spectacle of the Fetish Ball was everything my friend had billed it out to be. This was not going to be like the hugely disappointing events we'd attended here in the States. Top to bottom, the multi-level, former cathedral swam with gorgeous people - both male and female. Hundreds of tightly-clad, latex seductresses slithered and ground their hips to the bombastic beats of the DJ's house music. Vampiric goths, naughty nurses, sinful nuns, pretty candy-coated pixies, and breathtaking pin-ups roamed the grounds, providing your's truly with a sensory feast i'd be able to munch on during the many days following.

The air hummed with a sexual sizzle, that only lowered and deepened into a guttural growl once we stepped foot into the area known as "the Dungeon". It's here that my latex dolly got the most attention - the kind of attention (and my subsequent reaction) that requires another entry, all to itself.

Turning it on myself

In the near future, the House of Deity will temporarily relocate across the Atlantic to a famed city i haven't yet had the pleasure to visit. This city is one of the cultural scions for many things, but for my purposes, it plays a significant role in the world of fetish. While it isn't the official reason my girl and i are hopping on an easterly plane, kink will be explored, purveyed, played and even purchased. All of this will culminate in the attendance of one of the world's biggest fetish events, with a particular concentration on one of my three largest fetishes: latex

In preparation to attend this kinky gala, my girl and i have had a lot of fun perusing the ever growing market of latex clothing, in search for an update to her wardrobe. However, there is a kink (wink-wink) in this usually conventional search. Due to the profile this party receives, it must enforce a very strict dress code in order to maintain an immaculate latex orthodoxy. As a result, i've had to acquire a latex costume of my own. This is a first.

For years, i've happily plundered my dough on a rubbery dress or skirt for my female companion to don. In fact, 100% of my attention in any boutique that hawks these garments has been devoted to the "Women's" section. I never cared to look at the male offerings because so much of what i saw was so unappealing. Honestly, the notion of slapping on a full-body latex catsuit did nothing for me - worse, it conjured images of the limitless amateur photos i've encountered of male slaves awkwardly draped in the shiny, cocooning material. I didn't relish the task. My fetish isn't one where i'm the mannequin, but rather where i'm able to make my female counterpart the mannequin. Nonetheless, i received repeated assurance from my overseas connection that we would not be allowed entrance - no matter how incredible my girl looked - if i wasn't dressed in some rubberized fashion.

After much procrastination, we settled on a simple military-themed outfit from Libidex. My how easy it was to find something for her, in fact the more difficult task proved to be settling on just one outfit. We waited for our package to arrive in the mail.

When it finally arrived, greeted first by a burst of the heavy, smoky aroma of latex, we carefully peeled each slithery item from its envelope of tissue paper (which is a must when shipping latex, because unlike other clothing, these delicate items cannot lie against themselves out of fear that they will adhere to eachother). I purposely delayed in examining the shirt and pants we ordered for me, instead insisting on previewing her outfit. When i finally fished out my purchases, i was pleasantly greeted with a handsome plumb-colored short sleeved shirt with a striking military insignia on the arm.

The moment arrived to try it on. Having instructed several girls on the application of talcum powder to their bodies in order to facilitate the tug of these rubbery items over their flesh, for some reason, i felt a stubbornly masculine resistance to doing the same for me. I didn't need soft, slightly perfumed baby powder. My sheer will and determination will suffice. Boy, was i wrong. Not only was it a massive struggle to pull on the incredibly tight military trousers, but the material caught on every single hair on my legs and yanked at them, as if to tear each follicle from my flesh.

Eventually, i got the pants on, and then buttoned up the army shirt, still feeling a little weird to actually be someone putting on latex clothes. Almost immediately, i could feel the effect of the tight, stretch material that cause so many to become latex aficionados. I felt a cool breath on my body everywhere the latex touched, that would eventually warm up against my skin. The tight constriction of the material also had an unexpected appeal. I've worn tight pants before, but because these stretched and smoothed over my body to such an extreme degree, they really felt like they were a part of my anatomy, rather than simply draped over it. When we studied eachother, alternating between the mirror and looking straight at eachother, both me and my girl were excited at how relatively un-freakish we looked. She looked phenomenal in the dress we chose, the slick, liquidy latex flowing over her delicious curves. In many ways, we mutually felt like we had put on superhero costumes for Halloween. All we needed were eye masks to fully conceal our identity.

Even now, as i contemplate the fact that after all these years, i finally own some latex outfit for myself, the idea feels a bit surreal. It's like turning the transformation ray on myself, and sometimes i don't mind that notion, but for the most part that time in my life has passed, and i can't help but feel a little out of place.

Lynch/fetish

From the first moment i heard the opening, tragic notes of this song, i was hooked. I wanted to escape to this world of simple, forest-inhabiting, cherry pie-ingesting, supernatural people. Each stroke of the cascading six tones, rising then falling, like the chest of an innocent child stopping to catch their breath amidst a game of hide and seek hypnotized me, putting me in a euphoric trance. It all seemed so innocent, the pristine woodland creatures, tumbling waterfalls, soft amber colors. And of course, there were the girls of Twin Peaks. Every single one of them angelic heartbreakers, with pin-up looks and well-concealed darker sides that threatened to burst at any moment. This world represented a place where the fulfillment of my appetites could occur - the rigid capture of romantic beauty - i just didn't realize how much this hunger would affect me or how frequently i'd need to satisfy it.

My favorite of all the girls was Audrey, played by the gorgeous actress Sherilyn Fenn:


This image of Ms. Fenn is an exact copy of one i stared at for many, many hours. I'm not sure what i hoped would happen by these lengthy staring sessions. Her mouth invited a kiss. Her hands at her neck spoke of surrender, as well as one lost in lust. Her eyes, the delicately slanted whispers, bore into you, challenging you to muster up the courage to even be near her. The mountainous, ebony tendrils of her curly hair gave her a regal look, but also made her look like she was falling - away from you, urging you to save her, to catch her.

Hours.

I had to know everything about this actress, the man who composed this music and the other people behind this show. Everything. Eventually, i learned all of the actresses names. And eventually i learned the man who created this dreamy world: David Lynch

It's been (and i can't believe this) almost 20 years since David Lynch first brought us his world of Twin Peaks. Since that time, i have obsessively sought out his entire ouevre. He has imagined very diverse, incredibly surreal landscapes. From Victorian freaks of nature, to a senior citizen taking a jaunt on a riding lawnmower in the Heartland. From a futuristic desert landscape to a neverending highway of nightmares. There has been one theme that has consistently materialized in his work, that of devestatingly gorgeous feminine beauty. Without saying the word, Mr. Lynch, in his cinema, has paraded a world of his spiritual and sexual fetishes. The women have curves as if they belonged in a museum of ancient Roman vases, and the perfection of their faces certainly worthy of heavenly Goddesses.

Recently, i became aware of a collaboration between the cinematic visionary David Lynch and the footwear fantastico Christian Louboutin. Now, i'm a little embarassed to say that this partnership happened back in 2008. How i could've missed this exhibit, i'll never know, but i hope that it escaped my clutches doesn't harm my reputation as kink aficionado with you, my readers.


It's not exactly clear what the full exhibit consisted of, but i gather that David Lynch took the photos of models wearing shoes that Christian Louboutin designed specifically for this project. With all high-minded intellectualism, i can sense a woundedness that each model expresses, that they are trapped by an insanely demanding ideal of femininity which truly only values their parts rather than the sum of them. However, one look at the shoes in this photo, and the fetishist in me completely starts to lose composure. These extreme heels are totally unwalkable - to someone who has a fetish for female objectification, having your doll mobile rarely seems to be a necessity.

This gallery shows the spectrum of shots and shoes these two created.

This has a video that shows the gallery space, and a bit more examples of Louboutin's creations.

I'm not surprised that David Lynch at this point in his career is being more outwardly obvious with his own kinky bents. The arc of his career has been a gradually ascending dialog on this subject. It's comforting, somehow, to have an artist that i've followed and adored for two decades "come out", even though all along, when i first encountered his vision of a sleepy logging town in the Pacific Northwest, i had my suspicions.

Deity's ode to OurNails.com

I am an unabashed fan of this site, and i have mentioned it and my affection for long, fake fingernails a few times before. It took me awhile to admit this to myself, let alone anyone else. I remember doing so for the first time on this portal and still feeling a little vulnerable about declaring my love for these freakishly long unguils. But, i've found myself going to OurNails.com so frequently these past few days, that i cannot hold in my love for it. I invite others to travel over there and see the beautiful models they've assembled.

In looking for more OurNails girls online, i've found a TROVE of replicated digitized doubles that will serve as the body of my ode to them. Without further ado:

Ode to OurNails.com

Here's to them having their own YouTube channel.

Here's to them letting Cassandra pop balloons on vuze.com.

Hip-hip hooray to their MySpace page!

And let us raise a glass to the slideshow that landed me the caketopper to this post (yes, i've watched it easily over 10 times).

Thank you, OurNails. You nails it every time.

Working the kinks out

As i write this (and i usually write my posts, instead of type them. I use the typing portion as the editing stage. Did someone say intern?), my girl is in her den click-clacking away on her laptop. She doesn't know that in about two hours from now, i will call for her, wherein she will expeditiously respond by coming into my den. I will be situated in my comfortable chair, exposing a large amount of lap for her to situate her little tummy right on top. Before she stretches herself over my knees, she will lower her panties (perhaps even remove them), and gather her skirt over her hips. There is much i enjoy with taking her over my knee. It paints such a beautiful image.

-the willing and waiting female buttocks prostrated up directly at me, attached to a very vulnerable and pensive submissive girl.

However, it is not my posture of choice for many reasons. And as i contemplated the reality of this upcoming episode, those reasons percolated into my mind, only long enough for me to realize that they represent the hallmark of what is a common compromise with regards to a kinky lifestyle. Albeit a very attractive way to position a bottom, it is very clumsy and a hard one to endure. She must awkwardly plant her hands onto the floor, supporting the weight of her torso, while balancing this with her firmly anchored feet attempting the same thing on her lower end. However, when i strike, her impulse is to pull up her legs, which forces a huge amount of weight onto her frail hands and wrists.

Much about kink has this similar 'form vs. function' debacle. When you're looking at sexy rubber photos, it isn't made clear how sweltering it is to wear latex is (i've seen models at the end of the night, removing their garments, and pouring ounces of perspiration out of them - i know, so arousing!). When you watch an incredibly intricate display of shibari rope bondage, how often do you think about the maintenance in cleaning up after a scene or even the necessary, meticulous care one needs to apply to the conditioning and cleaning of their jute supplies? Corset repair, replacement of stockings with runs, proper sanitizing of anal toys, latex garment conditioning, cane straightening, tightening the bolts and general safety inspection of your homemade St. Andrew's cross - all of it hard work that is happily attended to, but nonetheless an additional burden for those who pursue the kinky path (i believe someone earlier mentioned 'interns', is that still a possibility?).

And what about those who are disinclined to all of that work? There are those who pursue what i colloquially call 'SM lite'. These are the folks who get the furry handcuffs, the ready-made crotchless latex skirt shoved into a cardboard box, the nipple clamps that have very little impact on the victim's anatomy. They are the vanilla (i do loathe to use this word, but in this context it makes sense) seeking a little hot fudge on top of their double scoop. And that's fine. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. There are times i can imagine how much easier it must be not to have a toolchest full of implements, thwackers, devices and contraband.

But then i visit my toolchest, study its salacious contents and realize i wouldn't want it any other way.

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.

Thierry Mugler

It began, i'm almost certain, with a tag-along trip with my mother to her beauty salon one afternoon when i was young. In order to paint the most honest image of myself, i won't blithely say i was bored, as i usually carried with me a stack of books or comics, but i must confess that the overflowing piles of beauty magazines attracted my eye. I picked out a handful, and scooted my little tush onto the over-stuffed couch in the lobby of the salon. All around me, females of all ages, shapes and colorations were yielding to the expertise of the scissor-wielding maestros and their visions of enhancement. I flipped through the colorful periodicals, consuming every picture (which is a considerable task when you consider that the ratio of photo to print is astonishingly high for these magazines), enjoying the parade of beautiful vixens. I couldn't help but feel entranced by the hundred different displays of cosmetic-dazzled faces, high-fashion footwear and elaborate hairstyles. I wasn't too far into my exploration before i encountered the face that would dominate my mind for years following.

The face belonged to Cindy Crawford.



That one image launched a 5-year long hobby of mine that had me scouring every monthly beauty rag out there for shots of my Cindy. In that span of time, i accumulated four 3-ring binders of pictures of her. I used to sneak into book stores and quickly flip through their magazines in hopes of scoring me yet another photospread, where i would brandish the Exact-O knife i carried in my pocket to quickly extract the goods. I'm not sure what aim i was attempting to accomplish collecting all these images. I guess i'd made a claim on Ms. Crawford (i even set to memory every biographical piece of information i could about her), and felt the closest i would come to possessing her was through these binders.

Over time, the habit of scouring these advertisement-laden publications for Crawford kibble fluttered away. But what remained in its place was an appreciation for and attachment to the inner workings of the fashion industry. In these few years, i mentally catalogued every model, every designer and nearly every trend each fashion house put forth. In doing so, i was trying to explore the possibilities of robing the female body, accentuating its beauty, exciting the imagination through the adornment of the feminine curves. I appreciated the slender yet graceful approach to apparel the folks at Dior had. In the hands of Chanel, the female body had strength, wisdom and prowess. I didn't care for the syrupy style of Dolce and Gabbana, nor the fiery flare of Versace. However, all of these centres du mode came off as middlingly pedestrian when i first encountered the diabolically fetishistic styling of Thierry Mugler.



Monsieur Mugler's appreciation and utilization of PVC, latex and corsets in his haute couture shows might've been enough to make him the singular favorite of mine, but as i grew accustomed to his dark, bent aesthetic, it was then that i discovered his most profound creations that seared his imaginative work to my psyche.

As the photo above illustrates, Mugler, who burst onto the fashion scene in the mid 80's staying until his last show in the year 2000, replaced the typical en vogue wardrobe with his warped, twisted visions of the evolution and metamorphosis of the female creature. Literally. He took the sleek waspy lines formed by a tightly laced corset, and fashioned an alien bird creature with brilliant colorful plumage that surrounded an insect-like abdomen. Even her makeup expressed supra-human qualities. I remember my first peek at this ornithic humanoid, and the way she stood engrossed in the transformation of her body into a sleek, sexual creature, the way she leered out at the worthless homo sapiens in the audience penetrated me with such gross sexual urges.

Thierry Mugler explored this were-creature exercise multiple times throughout his brilliant but short career.



























Seeing this unabashed expression of the erotic qualities of transforming the female into another being, a different vessel, on such a public and revered stage allowed my young mind, which was grappling with my own intense desires to manipulate and convert the girls in my immediate vicinity, to relax in what i felt was camaraderie with a Frenchman i would never have the chance to meet.

The more research i did into Mugler's work, the more objectification and metamorphosis i encountered, and strangely, it was the fashion world (not exactly the bastion of machismo for most straight men) that gave me the bolt of confidence to explore and demand the specific sexual nuances i still insist on to this day.

In these female robot images, the aspect that stimulated me most was the idea of a proto-typical girl submitting to the conversion from human to part machine. She wanted her dynamic sexual fire to be preserved and amalgamated in a metallic suit, letting the rigidity of her existence as part machine alter and shape her behavior and movement. I've never found robots manufactured to look like females enticing, but rather the notion of a normal girl submitting (either forced or consensual - it didn't matter in my fantasies) to the mad scientist's designs that altered her body permanently, especially her mind, has for the longest time chimed my erotic bells.

I offer the reader these final two videos that show first the robot-girl, removing her human clothing, strutting around in her awkward, newly acquired metallic exterior, then followed by the bird-creature that stares into the audience (found approximately at the 2:16 point of the video), looking for it's first victim since its recent conversion into an aviary predator. Listen to the change in music, even Mugler acknowledges the psychotic statement he makes with this feminine beast, darkening the tone and the mood appropriately. I am so deeply grateful for this one man's contribution to my sexuality, it's hard for me to realize how fortunate i was to encounter his articulation when i did.

Talon-ted

For those of you who have been along for the ride, you've come to learn that my girl goes through her winsome day while maintaining a manicure of one-inch acrylic extensions from each of her dainty fingers. Very early on in our relationship, i asked her to submit to this demand, making it one of the first dress code modifications i instituted. The initial forays into artificial nails with her were haphazard. She found them incredibly limiting and the craftsmanship of the nail tech she visited was shoddy. She'd lost 2 nails in the first eight days. She protested this demand of mine, finding it incredibly impractical to her academic pursuits (which consisted of frequent use and reliance on the very tip of her finger). In a manner that established a tenor for our relationship, i calmly listened, letting her air her grievances, then pointedly asserted the way her hands were to be presented - and made an appointment for her with a manicurist i trusted.

Flash forward 3 years: Having developed a trusted and satisfying relationship with her nail tech, my girl now gets pampered every two weeks with a complete spa visit that finetunes the perfection of her long french-manicured nails. She has adapted to the impact these artificial extensions have impeded on her life, dialing a phone, advancing a song on her iPod, or even opening up a can of soda differently than she had before. She looks at these appliances as natural, part of her regular routine, and would prefer not to see her hand without them.















I have encountered few people in my life and on this cyber circuit who openly hold the same affection i have to this feminine accoutrement. The limited number of self-identified followers led me to examine my own attachment to this cosmetic alteration. As is the custom for most eccentricities of mine i try to examine, i find i have plenty of examples of their existence in my past, but few explanations why. However, i remember the first instance of my attraction to long fingernails.

-----------------------------

Her name was Stacy. I was sitting in the library at high school, thumbing through three separate Jack London novels (i believe one of them was Sea Wolf), when i heard a rather loud, frilly commotion at the front desk. Three girls had wandered into a world they certainly did not fit, one where the literary contents outnumbered the visitors. Each of them had platinum blond hair, tussled in a rage-inducing way. Each of them snapped gum in a code only the three of them could understand. Their entire wardrobes jangled and clattered with the numerous necklaces and bracelets they wore stacked against eachother. They'd been sent to this cavern of literacy to research a report that their civics teacher had commissioned of them about the economies of South America. Clearly, the subject (pre-Wikipedia, for those youngins who question how hard such a report would be - this would involve them looking in a card catalog...oh, just look it up on Wikipedia) proved a daunting matter for these three phillies and the poor desk clerk who happened to be servicing the counter when they arrived.

Stacy was the quiet one, in that, she spent most of her time leaning her back away from the desk clerk, examining both the inhabitants of the library and the neon orange color of her 2" long nails. I'd never seen anything like this. They screamed femininity in such a gaudy and putrefied way - i was hooked. I gathered up my belongings, and sauntered up to the counter, offering my services in their quest to get in and out as quick as possible. I spent the next 30 minutes superficially fishing out the information they needed, while secretly feeling such squeamish delight watching Stacy manipulate pens, her hair, a leaf of paper with her long nails. I found the sound of them clicking against eachother more mesmerizing than a windchime on a quiet, breezy summer afternoon.



















This same stop-whatever-i'm-doing-and-gawk reaction has not dampened, even nearly twenty years later. In the intervening years, i've convinced a good 70% of the girls i've dated to give a trial with nails this long. And i should stress, it's always fake nails. Something about long, natural nails really grosses me out. The way they aren't uniform in shape and curvature, the yellowish, grimy color they have - i've never cared for them (i especially get weirded out when i see men with long, natural fingernails). They must be fake. They must be square-tipped, and they must be curved like talons.

I can easily identify a few things about nails like this that i find attractive. They extend a female's hand, making them long, fragile and feminine. They act as a protuberance, making daily tasks difficult, negotiable. I'm a complete connoisseur for the way a girl moves her appendage with nails like this. There is a delicacy in her strokes, as if she were transferring a Ming vase from one case to another.

I'm so attuned to this that i sometimes catch myself feeling mildly on edge when we socialize with friends and family members who knew my girl before her modifications. These nails are the clearest indication of the transformation she has undergone over the past few years. This audience has made remarks to her about them:

"How do you not poke your eye out with those?"
"Aren't you afraid of scaring little kids with your claws?"
"I don't see how you can function."

I'd rather not spend time defending our relationship, and because of this, i anticipate comments like these. I even watch how someone like her father looks at her hands as she uses them to articulate a point in a story of hers, and inwardly disdains his daughter's aesthetic choices. In the end, i appreciate the opportunity to indulge in this fetish of mine, and dismiss any outside criticism that we may encounter.

I may never fully understand what it is about these prosthetics that rock me to my erotic core, the answer, if there needs to be one remains elusive. It is for that reason, i leave the reader with, instead of a sound conclusion, a small quartet of images from the fingernail fetish ingenue Foxy Anya.

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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More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Playing with my Barbie

Marking what is mine

"Absolutely not!"

I have to admit. My girl was so cute in her refusal. It was very early in the development of our dynamic, very early in our coupling, just, very early. I had made my demand that she let me mark her by piercing each of her nipples with a 10-gauge, steel ring. She labeled this as a hard limit.

The grey, crescent-shaped impression right in the middle of the girl's tit that pressed through the tight, cotton material of her t-shirt caught my eye. Before that afternoon many years ago on the outdoor pedestrian mall, i'd never seen a nipple piercing. Technically, i hadn't seen it this time, either, but i'd seen enough. I was hooked. The idea of a girl piercing metal through a part of her body that i had such a desire to wrap my lips around mixed up a devious mental pudding in my mind. I immediately thought of this piercing, above all others that i'd seen littering the young, feral faces of the opposite sex, as the true calling card of the kinkster. I looked for as many images as possible online, finding my way eventually to BMEZine. What i gleaned as i scanned the not-quite-as-vast archives of this site was that i liked the idea of using the piercing as a way to signify someone's submissiveness to me. I also liked the idea of infecting a girl, taking a blank canvas, clean of any piercings, and slowly warping her body so that she would look like the kinksters i assumed these other girls were.

I respect my girl's hard limits. I truly do. Most of them actually coincide with my own. There are, however, those interests of mine that live in the frightening darkness beyond the borders of her horizon. Having had years of experience examining, exploring and engaging in my own kink, my girl came to me as a relative novice. She'd had fantasies and a few rougher moments with past lovers, but never any formal indulgence in SM. Therefore, i've taken some of her limits as expressions of uncertainty, and look at them as ways we can gain intimacy by overcoming them.

One way i broached the subject of piercing was to assure her that i didn't have a desire to blot her face and entire body with metal threaded through her flesh. I've always stated that i want my girl to look classy, and a heavily pierced visage tends not to look that way. The nipple piercings would be a discrete notion that only her and i would know about, except those times she was to appear nude in a play party setting (or in front of her doctor - a potentially humiliating scenario i relished thinking about). I could feel ground starting to give on this matter.

Marking the one you are intimate with as yours comes off as a very brutal and violent gesture. I understand that's part of its thrill, but it is something that only those of us who seek this dynamic care to allow. The notion of possession outside a power exchange causes so much friction, especially if it is deemed one way and not reciprocal. I do not seek to wear a mark that indicates i am owned, nor do i feel that it is appropriate that i wear something that tells others i have possessions. As many of us know, it is not easy finding a consenting partner who will submit to the status of an object, and at least for me, i have the desire to mark my girl to signal to anyone else that should encounter her, but more importantly to herself, that she is taken. Plucked. Reserved. And in a way that a ring on her finger doesn't communicate.

Against the signal, we were crossing the intersection of Lafayette and Great Jones one evening when she declared,"I'd like to do this for you." Imagine a wide-angle lens shot zooming into her face. Stopping in the crosswalk, I double, triple, google take at her. This, as i stated. was a hard limit for her. I remember feeling like Joshua standing at the crumbled walls of Jericho. And then i realized the horn blaring in my ears was that of a yellow taxi cab leaning on its horn. I gathered my girl - with pride - and escorted her to the other side of the street.

I've had other submissives pierced. Some quite dramatically. But that was just for the mechanical application of metal through flesh, for the sole purpose of pursuing the excitement of body modification. One former submissive ("4girl") who continues to check in with me every once in awhile was pierced (rather dramatically) over 50 times, each hole receiving a certain labor of stretching or skin-punching. The pleasure of applying my physical tug on 4girl's cunt lips, nipples, and ear lobes satisfied the urge to dominate her flesh. But what must be mentioned is knowing what only her and i know: the 4girl who once was versus the submissive-to-her-own-modified-body that is now. When i first met her, 4girl had two piercings, the conventional earlobes done by a piercing gun at a suburban mall earring shop. By the time our dynamic had lived its fullest and passed on, 4girl was permanently altered, not resembling the once curious creature that had crept into my saloon.

As part of an entire evening dedicated to the splendor of overcome obstacles (including where we both ordered dishes we typically had avoided at an exotic Peruvian restaurant), i escorted my girl to the piercing salon. I explained to the bejeweled and begraffitied technician what i wanted. I chose not to force the boundaries of our power exchange around him, and took a somewhat subdued tact with his professional, albeit overly cautious, recommendations. Somehow i got talked into the smaller 12 gauge instead of the 10. Fine. It was a detail i didn't really care to parse, especially since i could see every minute i negotiated only prolonged the torment my incredibly patient and brave girl was having to endure.

I love her nipple rings, her "bits" as i like to call them. I've since increased the gauge of her rings and changed out the jewelry a couple of times. I don't foresee going outrageously big, because she has such delicate-looking nipples and anything too large will just appear grotesque. What this has accomplished, besides providing a semi-permanent place to latch something onto her, is an opening of frontiers. In time, i will seek a true permanent mark, and because we ventured into this new territory together and no one got hurt (i swear all she got was a pin prick), we've grown even closer.

Second skin

I credit the internet for many things.

It allowed me the opportunity to once again cross paths with those personalities i'd lost touch with through the passage of time. However, ultimately, those reunions are short-lived and have usually led to nothing more than a few reciprocal e-mails, the exchange fizzling out into an "oh,well" resignation.

It allowed me to search for jobs and openings across the country and globe that i would normally not have seen, providing me with a glimpse into the possibilities of a new life, a new home, a new culture. I have learned, though, that i still encounter more fulfilling career moves by following the tried and true-tested path of "who you know" (it surprises me still today how the pedigree of your acquaintances trumps that of your own talent).

Ultimately, what i can thank the internet for, without any reservation, is the exposure it has given me to numerous forms of kink. Many of my perversions i can trace back to some remnant or pleasure-seeking memory from my childhood. But, there are those that came to me exclusively through my manic world wide webbery. I have encountered and sampled just about any fetish imaginable, trying each of them on for a moment to see if indeed it fit me. Most didn't, but those that stuck have adhered themselves to the back of my kinky locker, where i go to fill my often famished gullet. One i admittedly would not likely have encountered had i not spent time in my early work life whoring the free Internet connection at my job, following link after endless link, is that of the infecting fetish material known as latex.

When i look at an image of a girl in latex i can think of nothing but sexual desire. There is no other use for donning clothing made of shiny latex except to be turned into a sex object. Many of the fetishes that arouse me come from objects i eroticize. I do not need to do that with latex. It exudes sex. I recognize that much of what is out there in the latex genre probably turns off most people, and this is largely due to the freakish outfits and appearances those into heavy rubber assume. I felt this way too when i first stumbled across the world of shiny cocooned females. But as i gobbled more and more of it, viewing the evocative energy it seemed to draw out of its models, i found myself wanting more and more extreme latex images.

I found the material encapsulating, both my mind and the girl wearing it. It moulded over their female form, recreating it, duplicating it. Then, it captured it, kidnapped it, shined it up, and made it brand new. Things that are shiny look newer, cleaner, exciting; simply put, sexy. Latex removed imperfection, it made the flesh uniform, removed all blemishes, squeezed the flesh underneath, tightened the thighs. It pulled and compressed, creating instant clevage, lifting ass cheeks, and it screamed "i must be worn with heels". It gave a manufactured look to the girl, as if she were created in a factory, a doll ready to be used and displayed. All of this was accomplished for me merely by its imagic qualities. I hadn't yet encountered the material in person.

The scent - oh what a scent! Rough. Thick. Pungent. Smoky. Walking for the first time into a store that sold articles of latex clothing, the thing that i became addicted to more than anything else was the smell. So strong. It punctured my nostrils with a potent sexual perfume. When mixed with sweat and the natural feminine odors that arrive with her arousal, the strong scent slaughters the refined gentleman i try to uphold, leaving behind a beast of raw lust. Taking her from behind while she's wearing a rubber catstuit, as the floral aroma from her cunt rises, mingling with her musky backside, it stings my nose, inciting my urge to fuck. Harder. Slamming into her. I experience the most primal bouts of sex when latex is involved.

Over the years, i have culled through thousands of images of females bound in rubber, hundreds of sites of both amateur and professional variety demonstrating devious slick applications, and i've attended numerous rubber balls and parties with my latex-encased companion. The material never ceases to plunge me into a dark fathom of infatuation. I invite the curious and the mildly alarmed to explore this sexual top of all fabrics. I'll even provide you with a few links to get you started:

Marquis
DeMask
SkinTwo
LatexLair
Rubberdoll