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.

Indications

You would think at this stage of the game that i don't need further evidence of my position on the dominant side of the SM coin. And honestly, it's largely true. I don't seek further validation of my place in this dynamic (despite the myriad reasons that crop up, reminding us that we're still not in the "green zone"), yet i cannot stop those instances in my life where such validation occurs.

We were preparing ourselves for our dinner date. That evening, we would have the pleasure of sharing a meal with meg and her beau. My girl was rifling through her various outfits, trying to find the one that wouldn't overstate her appearance, but would also not misrepresent it. In the end she chose to wear her tuxedo corset, with an accompanying long, black skirt and heels. I remember that i needed to remind her of the exchanges meg and i had engaged in regarding this double date, only because these details are largely left omitted from her, and that it would make for smoother conversation if she had more background. One of the things i'd mentioned was that i'd like her to discuss the phenomenon of cumming on command with meg.

"Why's that?"

"Why's that? Well, i think it would be really interesting to - just bring it up. You know this is something i'm interested in."

Already, it became evident to me how this topic would be something that wouldn't have my girl's full attention, thus making it all the less likely that she'd bring it up over dinner. I sat a little while and fumed over this, knowing that i was in an untenable position. Certainly, i could force my girl to chat with meg (who she was just meeting for the first time) about her ability to cum on command, but there would be one thing that was severely lacking in the discussion: my girl's desire to cum.

It's true. My girl doesn't have a burning desire to masturbate. In fact, it wouldn't be a complete misrepresentation to say that more often than not, i've suggested that she go into the bedroom and masturbate several times more than i've ever "caught" her masturbating (truthfully, such a discovery hasn't happened). Believe me when i say this, i would LOVE it if i were to "catch" her curled up in a fetal position on our bed, making the dirty and nasty with the Hitachi shoved firmly between her legs. Alas, it just isn't her priority.

This doesn't mean we don't have an active, feral sex life. Quite the contrary. But what it does mean is that i've never been able to withhold orgasms from her as a method of correction or punishment. Honestly, were i to ban her from cumming for a week's time, she'd simply look at me with a look that registered one single word:

"Really?"

Turning back to that evening, i reminded her of how meg is one who really responds to the withdrawal of permission to orgasm. She finds it both frustrating and exciting. I waited...let a few beats pass into the air, to see if my girl would offer her accordance with this point of view and then i remembered, it doesn't have the same impact on her.

And that is when the reaffirmation began to materialize.

"Darlin, what do you think of the idea that i might forbid you from masturbating?"

"Well, i think the idea is interesting. I really like the idea of somehow being controlled, even if it's not something i regularly do."

I smiled, and then i thought about it myself. How would i react if my partner suddenly decided that i couldn't masturbate for a week, a month, or even an entire year. I WOULD BE PISSED. And that's when the clarity plopped me hard upon the head. I know for a fact that i wouldn't react in any sort of positive fashion should someone decide that they wanted to control my masturbatory behavior. And, honestly, i can't think of a clearer indication of one's side of the SM coin.

Even my girl, who doesn't really enjoy or have a drive to masturbate, found something stimulating in the idea of control. Whereas, i bristled, bucked and battled with the idea. There might be those of you out there who feel that this is just an isolated example, but for someone who isn't looking for reasons to define myself as the dominant in my partnership, this one came across loud and clear.

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For the record, we didn't speak about this in our outing during our dinner date with meg and her amazing beau. It didn't even occur to me to bring it up (nor would it have occurred to my girl - NEXT time) because we were having too much fun breaking the ice and chatting about topics all of us do not normally get to chat about in person, live, and engagingly.

They're here

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

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

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

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

Reason #48 for my anonymity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Putting pressure on myself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He said to shine them for the Fat Lady

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

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

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

In his honor, i leave you with a few:

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

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

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

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

Burlessque and less

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

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

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

That's it. That's the story.





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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