Showing posts with label inflatable. Show all posts
Showing posts with label inflatable. Show all posts
Monday, October 6, 2014
Sunday, February 7, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Sugasm #109
Sugasm 109
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 #110? 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
Body Image In Art, Porn & Media
“Imposing it upon myself, or accepting that someone else has the right to impose it upon me, is something I can refuse to do.”
The Importance of Getting Tested for Sexually Transmitted Infections
“I am taking care of myself. I wish they would do the same.”
When Natural Doesn’t Feel Natural at All
“I’d kept mine neatly trimmed for so long, then cleanly shaved, that I couldn’t remember what I look like in full and natural form.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Pic(k) of the Day
Editor’s Choice
Darkroom Fantasy
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
Blow-up dolls
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Blow-up dolls
As a child, i used to sneak into the upstairs hall closet to fish out a handful of sterile latex gloves from the supply my mom insisted on keeping in the off-chance that one of us rambunctious kids would incur a wound and need immediate in-home surgery. Safe in my room, i'd layer these rubber mittens over my hands, then go to sleep for what was a very restless slumber. A deep desire to find my extremities somehow transformed into rubbery appendages would wake me up frequently throughout the night. Come dawn, the only thing i would find would be thirsty, pale digits with pruney fingerprints once i sloughed the gloves off.
I can identify at this early age a fascination with creating a second skin, one that i could slip in and out of for those moments i didn't want to be recognized and instead experience life as a different person. For the entire day following one of these sleepy time metamorphosis campaigns, the heavy thick odor of latex penetrated my nostrils whenever my hands neared my face. Upon each whiff, i was reminded of my fixation on alteration, and gradually over time, a hard-coded trigger developed in my subconscious. Any time i encountered this odor, whether lying horizontally prone in the dentist's chair or helping blow up balloons for a birthday party, i retreated a little to my sanctuary where modifying the body and mind provided protection and strength. I had no concept of this playing into my sexual formation or that an entire industry of magazines, clothiers and gatherings existed.
Out of college, i'd just gotten back from a stint overseas, and found myself working my first office job, stationed in front of a computer for most of the day. I'd not had much opportunity to wade in this new digital body of water we know now as the Internet, and not having a modem or even a computer at home, the magical window that opened every time i clicked on the Netscape icon on my office workstation instantly aroused my deep hungers. These were the Old West days of online surfing, where few rules existed (and one certainly did not yet hear stories of consequence brought by exploring this medium), which meant companies who provided their employees unlimited access didn't know from content filters meant to intercept their drones' lascivious requests. In a matter of days of starting this job, i'd crafted queries in Altavista that searched for all items dealing with "second+skin+transformation". The results of which quickly punctured my worker bee innertube, letting escape any levels of productivity i may have offered. This and the extensive browsing trail of mine Netscape captured made my rather quick dismissal from this job a foregone conclusion.
What i found in those early cyber days went far beyond any single source of visual influence i'd encountered. Not only was i seeing simple articles of clothing re-made with latex, but i was finding entire head-to-toe suits that people wore, and they did this in the raw daylight. It's odd that of all the aesthetically pleasing fashions i gorged myself on in these wide-ranging surveys, it is the most bizarre and eccentric uses of latex that i can still recall.
The oldest memory i have of those early information superhighway cruises was a bloke named "Mr. Blow-up". He kept coming up in nearly every search i made. If you haven't seen this sort of stuff before, it's just brain-jostlingly odd - it was certainly for me when i first saw it. This fetish is referred to as "inflatable rubber", and the 'bottom' is placed inside a latex enclosure that has an inner and outer sheath, creating a self-contained envelope that when filled with air expands, and compresses over the person's body part within the device. It took awhile for me to grasp exactly how this would accomplish a number of fascinations that i had. At first i grappled with the idea of whether or not i wanted to be inside one of these latex cocoons. Over the years, i have tried on numerous rubber uniforms and outfits, out of mere curiosity, and i've even pulled on hoods and masks completely entombing my head. My visceral reaction to self-administering this pliable bondage has never come anywhere close to when i've applied it to a willing female partner.
As i began to explore and grow the dominant pillar of my being, the existence of inflatable latex gear sounded off alarms that indicated i could accomplish multiple fantasies with one application. It has been well-established that i enjoy transforming girls into toys like this one:
This is the model 1016 from Insex. She is swathed in thick (5 mm) medical-grade black latex which in conjunction with the color goes very far to wash away any vestiges of her human form. From her bald head all the way to her club-mitted hands, she is an object, hung before you in a way that begs for your lustful attention.
Further along in my searches, i was introduced to vacuum beds:
In this clip, you see a girl already encased in a catsuit, increasing the number of crushing layers by slipping inside a vacuum bed. As much as i care to avoid identifying "Eureka" moments for myself, when i reflected on inflatable latex, i kept coming back to the idea of entombing the girl in a second skin, and then compounding that by pumping up the dehumanization with a grotesquely inflated shell. When i looked at the bulbous larva writhing on the floor, i could project the same pleasurable imagined conversions i made as a child onto this female who was surrounded by pungent rubber perfumes, but also sizzle with the thrill of transforming her into an un-human form.
I present again the idea of inflatable gags as another application of the versatile material of latex. Clearly, that is not all that is on display in these FetishNation photos, but what grabs me about these are the full body transparent latex suit that circumvents even her face. Her near unconscious expression viewed through the yellowish tinted material gives the illusion of entrapment and suspension. The over the neck corset only serves to accentuate the immobilization of freedom, and the plunger dangling from her mouth adds a wicked mechanization that further degrades the girl into an objectified form.
I leave the reader with this final assertion about these forms of bondage. Outfitting someone like this eliminates any possibility of penetration. The girl in all of these examples truly exists as an untouchable and thus instantly more desirable and precious possession. What grabs me about this as i pull these examples from the pornographic stores on my computer is the absence of traditional smut in the images. It isn't about sex and orgasm, but this flawless second skin i pursued as a child. I'm seeking - i will ALWAYS seek - to make the perfect retreat, the perfect subject, the perfect doll.
***Part of Cowgirl's 12-hour feed on Insex***
I can identify at this early age a fascination with creating a second skin, one that i could slip in and out of for those moments i didn't want to be recognized and instead experience life as a different person. For the entire day following one of these sleepy time metamorphosis campaigns, the heavy thick odor of latex penetrated my nostrils whenever my hands neared my face. Upon each whiff, i was reminded of my fixation on alteration, and gradually over time, a hard-coded trigger developed in my subconscious. Any time i encountered this odor, whether lying horizontally prone in the dentist's chair or helping blow up balloons for a birthday party, i retreated a little to my sanctuary where modifying the body and mind provided protection and strength. I had no concept of this playing into my sexual formation or that an entire industry of magazines, clothiers and gatherings existed.
Out of college, i'd just gotten back from a stint overseas, and found myself working my first office job, stationed in front of a computer for most of the day. I'd not had much opportunity to wade in this new digital body of water we know now as the Internet, and not having a modem or even a computer at home, the magical window that opened every time i clicked on the Netscape icon on my office workstation instantly aroused my deep hungers. These were the Old West days of online surfing, where few rules existed (and one certainly did not yet hear stories of consequence brought by exploring this medium), which meant companies who provided their employees unlimited access didn't know from content filters meant to intercept their drones' lascivious requests. In a matter of days of starting this job, i'd crafted queries in Altavista that searched for all items dealing with "second+skin+transformation". The results of which quickly punctured my worker bee innertube, letting escape any levels of productivity i may have offered. This and the extensive browsing trail of mine Netscape captured made my rather quick dismissal from this job a foregone conclusion.
What i found in those early cyber days went far beyond any single source of visual influence i'd encountered. Not only was i seeing simple articles of clothing re-made with latex, but i was finding entire head-to-toe suits that people wore, and they did this in the raw daylight. It's odd that of all the aesthetically pleasing fashions i gorged myself on in these wide-ranging surveys, it is the most bizarre and eccentric uses of latex that i can still recall.
The oldest memory i have of those early information superhighway cruises was a bloke named "Mr. Blow-up". He kept coming up in nearly every search i made. If you haven't seen this sort of stuff before, it's just brain-jostlingly odd - it was certainly for me when i first saw it. This fetish is referred to as "inflatable rubber", and the 'bottom' is placed inside a latex enclosure that has an inner and outer sheath, creating a self-contained envelope that when filled with air expands, and compresses over the person's body part within the device. It took awhile for me to grasp exactly how this would accomplish a number of fascinations that i had. At first i grappled with the idea of whether or not i wanted to be inside one of these latex cocoons. Over the years, i have tried on numerous rubber uniforms and outfits, out of mere curiosity, and i've even pulled on hoods and masks completely entombing my head. My visceral reaction to self-administering this pliable bondage has never come anywhere close to when i've applied it to a willing female partner.
As i began to explore and grow the dominant pillar of my being, the existence of inflatable latex gear sounded off alarms that indicated i could accomplish multiple fantasies with one application. It has been well-established that i enjoy transforming girls into toys like this one:
This is the model 1016 from Insex. She is swathed in thick (5 mm) medical-grade black latex which in conjunction with the color goes very far to wash away any vestiges of her human form. From her bald head all the way to her club-mitted hands, she is an object, hung before you in a way that begs for your lustful attention.Further along in my searches, i was introduced to vacuum beds:
In this clip, you see a girl already encased in a catsuit, increasing the number of crushing layers by slipping inside a vacuum bed. As much as i care to avoid identifying "Eureka" moments for myself, when i reflected on inflatable latex, i kept coming back to the idea of entombing the girl in a second skin, and then compounding that by pumping up the dehumanization with a grotesquely inflated shell. When i looked at the bulbous larva writhing on the floor, i could project the same pleasurable imagined conversions i made as a child onto this female who was surrounded by pungent rubber perfumes, but also sizzle with the thrill of transforming her into an un-human form.
I present again the idea of inflatable gags as another application of the versatile material of latex. Clearly, that is not all that is on display in these FetishNation photos, but what grabs me about these are the full body transparent latex suit that circumvents even her face. Her near unconscious expression viewed through the yellowish tinted material gives the illusion of entrapment and suspension. The over the neck corset only serves to accentuate the immobilization of freedom, and the plunger dangling from her mouth adds a wicked mechanization that further degrades the girl into an objectified form.
I leave the reader with this final assertion about these forms of bondage. Outfitting someone like this eliminates any possibility of penetration. The girl in all of these examples truly exists as an untouchable and thus instantly more desirable and precious possession. What grabs me about this as i pull these examples from the pornographic stores on my computer is the absence of traditional smut in the images. It isn't about sex and orgasm, but this flawless second skin i pursued as a child. I'm seeking - i will ALWAYS seek - to make the perfect retreat, the perfect subject, the perfect doll.
***Part of Cowgirl's 12-hour feed on Insex***
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