Extended Tea Time

I am suffering from a rather dramatic drug hangover today.  I took some sleep aids to knock me out and give me a good night’s rest, and what time do I wake up?  The normal time, what else?  I swear, I’d give just about anything to sleep to about eight AM, and not crawl out of bed before six.

So the drugs are lingering with me, and it’s not a good feeling.  I sort of feel dizzy all the time, and if you’ve ever had vertigo, it’s not a pleasant feeling.  The mind feels like it should shut down and rest a while, but the body is like, “No, dude; we got things to do.”

And I’m stuck in the middle with these clowns.  This is where I wish I could download my mind into another body and just get on with the day.  Screw flying cars:  give me the Black Widow clone body, stat!

I only managed to get in seven hundred words on Fantasies in Harmonie last night, due in part to discussing matters of an article with someone last night.  By the time they vacated the Internet it was past nine my time, and I was starting to have a sleepy.  Still seven hundred words was pretty good, especially when I spent about fifteen minutes considering how I was going to get my lady writers together for a week in the woods.

The thing that’s coming out from this is that I’m getting wordy again.  I’m already twenty-two hundred words into the first part, and I’ve not even gotten to the magic.  Most of the stories like this have people stripping to their knickers at this point, and I’m rambling on about month-long writing camps and word counts.  This is why I’m not as good at erotica as, say, someone doing werewolf porn:  I gotta do the set up and make my characters look like read people in unreal situations.  The people writing the werewolf porn have psudo-wolves banging away by the fifteen hundredth word.

This is how I want to do it, though–it’s how I have to do it.  I try to do more than write characters who vanish when they turn sideways.  I’m sure I could write porn and, as one of my friends says, have them “bang at a thousand (words),” but if I did that, then one would never feel a connection to the girl who feels herself changing all over . . .

Naw, not gonna tell you.  You just have to wait for the story to show up on Amazon.

This made me think about the dream I wrote about yesterday.  After one friend read the post they said, “Sounds like a story there.”  Oh, does it now?  Actually, I’d sort of thought of the same thing, that maybe there’s a story in them there REM waves.  A sexy story?  Sure.  A kinky story?  You betcha.

The question becomes, do I write it?  And what is it about besides latex clad women with multiple limbs getting their freak on?

Wait–do I really need more than that?

Morning Brings Encasement

The last few days have been something of a break from writing for me.  Not that I’m not writing–oh, no, I’m still going there, but considering I started out the week freaking my butt off I thought it best to tune things down a little, retreat and regroup, and get my butt back into things in a way that didn’t feel like I was forcing things.

I pretty much came to the end of my erotic story last night.  Well, almost the end: all that reminds is a simple action (I should have said the climax, right?  Ha, ha, freakin’ ha!) and then the coda and that’s it.  My Trusty Editor^tm has been reading this story and they are of the opinion that this little story is very hot.  Apparently there was a lot of thigh pressing during their reading, which I take as a good sign.

Of course some of this got me thinking, because the erotica has put my mind into other areas.  And it seems to bring out–things in others as well.  (By the way, if you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m going to discuss sexual things here, so if you don’t want to read, LOOK AWAY!!!)  One of my online friends began describing a fantasy of hers yesterday, and like the good writer–and sometimes kinky dude–I am, we started working it out . . . and by the time we were finished with the, um, details, I think my friend was sitting at the computer with a little bit of shock beaming through the smile on her face.

Yes, I love a good collaboration.

And then today I log into my blog and discover I’ve got hits.  And the hits came via a web search for the following: “latex catsuit american horror”.  If you run that search you’ll find something very interesting, and I’m pretty curious about how this person found this blog–but that’s incidental to where I’m going.

There is a person I know and, I’ll be honest, I care about a lot.  Said person is female, and I would say she is a very kind and generous person.  She’s also a person who is, I would dare say, a kinky romantic, which is to say she’s a lot like me.

Nearly the moment I saw the link hit my mind started working, thinking of my friend and thinking of something else: latex.  Now, people know I’ve had my issues with latex fetishists, but this is different, because I have the feeling that were my friend introduced to the product in the way I have in mind, they’d really enjoy it.

A lot.

Keep in mind, kinky stuff coming next!

She wakes up slowly and I’m already up, with a few boxes ready for her.  One has the loveliest green and black latex catsuit.  After she showers we powder her body and work her into the suit, covering all of her body save for her head and hair.  The second box has a pair of ultra-hot black platform heels that make her a good 6 inches taller once they’re on.  And the third has a lockable corset that I slide around her waist, tighten just a little, and then padlock shut.  The keys are locked inside a small safe that I know the combo to, and as that happens she puts her arms around me and asks how long it’s going to take before she’s allowed out.

That’s easy, I tell her.  You have three orifices: all three will get used.

She smiles . . . and one of the three gets used right away.

The day is spent with her encased this way.  She goes about her day and I have a hard time not touching her, feeling her, running my hands over her rubbery form.  And she loves the attention.  It makes her feel strange, but in a different way–a way she never knew existed.  She’s experiencing a bit of a sexual awakening, and it’s allowing her to see a new her that she never knew could exist.

Yes, the suit is tight; yes, the heels make it difficult to walk and stand at times; yet, the gloves make it hard to do things sometimes; yes, the corset forces her to walk and sit differently; yes, doing things that she took for granted before are harder now, and sometimes require assistance–

And she loves it all.

Eventually the day comes to an end and night arrives.  Eventually we find a way to put all three of her orifices to great use, and the keys come out of the safe and the things come off–but not until the next morning, when we’ve both had the opportunity to rest and recharge and enjoy a morning with fetish gear . . ..

And, of course, there is a follow up to this fantasy . . . something with her looking down on me while she’s holding her own boxes, and all the while she’s smiling . . . but I’m not going there at the moment–

Trust me, though: what happens next is really, really nice.

I mean, look at this face–

Would I lie?

And There Will Come Soft Rain–

Today is one of those days that simply brings the peace.  It’s been raining since late last night, and it’s one of those light but steady rains that whisper in the background.  You can hear it outside the windows–which you can totally have open–and it lulls you into a state of blissfulness unlike any you could experience outside of a great session of love making.

Sure, you wouldn’t want to commute to work in this–and if the traffic reports from Chicago are any indication I’m in the very small minority of those who love this sort of weather.  On days like this you and your significant other can get on your comfy pants (or skirts, if you of that mind) and pullovers and snuggle up.  Or just stay in your pajamas and wile away the time in bed.  And if you have a laptop, so much the better, because you or them and both can live blog the experience.

It’s times like this I do wish I could do that, ’cause moments like these are fleeting, and time grows short.  To sit in the cool air, the soft rain outside your open window, a warm body beside you . . . it can get better, but that’s a hell of a start.  It’s the sort of scene that people write about, that they fantasize about, that they wish for with all their hearts (some of you might be Gallifreyan, so I don’t want to discriminate).  And yet, it’s one that rarely comes to us.

Why is that?  Is the world so imperfect that you always have to settle for what you get, and not what you need?  Why can’t I have a moment like this, where I’m in bed with my laptop, and someone is cuddled up next to me watching me write these words, and both of us are loving moment?  Why can’t you have someone who shares your love with the same passion, who shares your same ideals, who not only wants to share your fantasies, but has a few she’d love to share with you?  And those fantasies don’t need to be erotic in nature, but damn it all, that would be fun, wouldn’t it?

I mean, as with my short erotic story I’m writing for the hell of it, I’m done with the foreplay and ready to move on to the “good stuff”, so to speak.  What I see in stories like this I want others to see as well, and . . . well, you know.  People aren’t always going to be in line with what you see and like.  I’m sure there’s a couple of scenes in this story when they are read some people will go, “Damn, really?  You went there?”  That’s the idea, dude: go there and take someone with you.  And while many might not dig the trip, you’re going to have a few who slide up to you and say, “Yeah . . . that hit the spot.  Thanks.”

Many years ago I read a fanfic about a woman who found herself trapped in a fetish outfit she was unable to remove, and for some reason it resounded to me.  It wasn’t all that particularly well written, but something in my head turned this mild horror story around into something far different.  What if the person wanted to be trapped in something like that?  Not because it was this kinky-ass get off for her, but because she found something in being bound into such an outfit that it permanently filled a deep seeded desire?

And what if she could find someone with whom to share that desire?

If you’re read this blog for any period of time you’ll know how I feel about whingy latex wearing bitches, but of late I’ve had this fantasy.  In it there is a woman who is new to any sort of fetish play, and so, for a day, I take her and encase her in a very lovely latex catsuit that leave only head head exposed.  For the day she’s showing her body to me, but . . . not really, for while I see it, I don’t really see what’s under her rubber skin.  I can touch her, but I’m not really touching her.  She’s exposed, but . . . not really.

I want it all to play with her notions of how she views herself, and how others view her.  In particular one person . . ..

Of course she wouldn’t be trapped in that outfit forever.  But perhaps she’d want to be trapped another way–with someone who help feed her fantasies, her wants, her desires.  She already understands that the sensual and erotic are mental, and that physicality is greatly enhanced by a strong imagination.  And once she took this step into another realm of sexual enticement . . . well, you know the rest.

There’s no turning back.

Soft rains bring these sort of thoughts.  They let you relax and stretch your mind.  They bring a different sensation to one’s libido.

What they don’t bring is that other person who’ll share everything with you, perfectly, forever.

Ah, but isn’t that just one more fantasy we can all try to make real?

To Whinge in Latex

This has been brewing for a few days–more than that, really, but this morning, as I stand in my library and watch the gray sky turn a brighter gray, it hit me: yeah, I should tell people about this ’cause, hell, people listen to me!

I’ve mentioned on a few occasion that many years ago I used to write fetish fiction.  Nothing very important, mind you:  just stuff that I was using to (a) help me get back into writing after having been away from working the creative juices for years, and (b) because it was fun to do at the time.

How I actual got into these sites . . . damn, I don’t even know these days.  What I remember is finding a couple of sites, reading the stories and thinking, “Shit, man, I can do better than this.”  (Which is, truth be known, why I took my first writing course many, many decades ago: ’cause I thought I could do shit better than the pros.  Way better than Michael Bay, yo.)  And then I made contact with a couple of the site operators–nice people, for the most part–and then talk got to where it was, “Why don’t you try this?”, and the rest is history.

Along the way I met some–shall we say, interesting people.  I wrote all this stuff under another name and worked hard to keep my identity hidden, so most people I met online had no idea who I was–or for that matter, what.  In my time, however, two people have continued to stick out for me, if for no other reason that, to this day, they still pop up.

One is a guy who lives in California.  I’ve mentioned him before in this blog since he’ll still send me things to read and critique, and the results are often never pretty.  He’s into Agalmatophilia as well as having a thing for really big Barbies.  He’s not a bad guy if you ignore the fact that he can’t write worth a damn.  In the grand scheme of things he’s not the true focus of this rant, though he’d played his part.

The other person is a woman who lives New York City (yeah, I’m hittin’ both coasts).  She’s also in Agalmatophilia, but from the perspective of being the object rather than see one.  But her big kink is latex.  Oh, yeah.  Extremely heavy into latex, so much so that it’s nearly impossible to have a conversation with her without the subject coming up at least a dozen times.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that . . ..

When I was writing my fetish stories these two were a couple of my biggest boosters, so much so that they’d ask to see stories before I “published” them, and often showered me in complements after a reading.

Notice I said “often”.  Because as time went on, “often” started becoming the norm.

First off, lets clear the air: I got no problem with anyone’s fetish, as bizarre as it might seem to those whom don’t share it.  I got my own likes and dislikes, so I don’t throw stones.  I think the only people I’ve ever gotten into any sort of throw down with over stuff like this was, first, a guy who claimed he was a dominate but turned out to be a serial abuser who just liked slapping women around; and second, another guy I knew whose fantasy was to be turned into a lovely Chinese girl, get married and have tons of babies–which, again, is cool if you’re really into that . . . ‘cept he got pissy with me one day when I asked him if he’d ever want to get with someone else who done the same (you know, switch male-to-female) and he went off on how I was insinuating that he’d (his words) “go gay”, and since he’d wanted to marry a guy and have babies that was so totally not gay, now that you see how I swing don’t ever bring up doing women again!  I should also mention–and I do so only out of meanness–that he was a “Kill Government/Don’t Tax Me!” (again his words) Republican, so I shouldn’t have been too surprised by anything he said–

Where was I?  Oh, yeah: latex.

With the friends I mentioned above I’d write stories and they’d read them and all was fine–for a while.  The more I started getting into things I wanted to write about, the more I noticed a change in their attitudes towards my work.  Simply, the more I wasn’t touching things that interested them the most, the more they found my work “not interesting”.

The worst reaction, though, came from my lady friend.  One day she started begging me to write something for her, and after a month of her starting every email with “When are you going to do a story for me?” (when she wasn’t starting an email with “I’m wearing [name of garments here] today”) I decided I better write something or I’d never hear the end.

So I did.  And I sent it to her.

And it didn’t take long to get a response.

I don’t remember the exact wording of her email, but it was something like, “I hate when you write like this.  I didn’t like the transformation, it wasn’t doll like enough.  And there was no latex!  Don’t ever do this again.”

I wasn’t happy.  No, no.  Not at all.  It pissed me off a great deal, and I couldn’t let it go without having my own say–which at that time had been building for a while.  Not just because of her, but also due to comments from my other friend, who’d been saying, in somewhat kinder words, that my writing was “moving away from what made me great” (an exact quote), meaning I wasn’t punching all his fetish buttons these days and I need to get back on track.

I shot back an email to my lady friend, and I wasn’t too kind.  I started off by saying, “I’m sorry you didn’t like it, but I didn’t write it for you, I wrote it for me,” and finished with, “I’m not your goddamn monkey and I don’t do this (write) because I want to get you off.  I do it because I like it.”  I didn’t mind letting the tone come across angry because I was angry.  Getting trashed by a critic because they find fault with your work is one thing: getting trashed by someone who didn’t get their sexual jollies fulfilled while reading a story they begged you to write is something completely different.

It was then that I turned the proverbial corner.  It was then and there that I stopped writing any sort of fetish fiction.  Not because I was getting bitched at, but because I knew I was wasting my time.  It was a dead end.  I had a choice: continue writing things that only a small number of people on the Internet were ever going to see, or go for the gold.

Screw it.  That’s an easy one.

Now, why do I bring this up?  Well, partially because of the stuff I’ve been seeing from my friend in California (whose latest work is . . . well, spectacular!  I mean, really!  He loves to talk about things in an exciting way!  Totally!  I mean, every fucking sentence is just!!  Like!!!  This!!!!), but because of something that happened with my latex lady . . ..

See, she sends me this picture the other day and asks, “Can you do a caption for this?  You’re so perfect.”  I didn’t think much about it, emailed her back, “Yeah, sure,” and then got to my real work, the ghost story I’ve been working on (and which I need to get into right after this rant).

Couple of days later I’m working on a blog post and here I get an IM.  It’s her, and she’s got a question:  ”Am I gonna have to do that caption?”  Oh, ho.  Not difficult to discern the tone of that message.  Being the nice guy I am, I give her my response:

“Oh, are you pissed ’cause I haven’t done your caption?  I just cranked out 1500 words on a story I’m trying to get published, so I’m a little busy.  Your caption isn’t even near the top of queue; I’ll get to it when I get to it.”

There was a good five minutes pause, then the response:  ”Hey, good to hear about your story **hugs**”.

It’s not that I want to push anyone way, but understand: I’ve moved on.  Even when I was capturing your interest I was only doing it because my writing was capturing my interest.

It was never about you.

It’s always been about me.