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.