Fetish

I know what a fetish is.  I've discovered that I have more than one.

You have some idea about fetishism, don't you?

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders defines the fetishist quite unflatteringly as one who has, "over a period of at least 6 months, recurrent, intense sexually arousing fantasies, sexual urges, or behaviors involving the use of nonliving objects (e.g. female undergarments)."  This inanimate turn-on disrupts normal sexual function, in that one can't "perform" without aid of the fetish.  I reject this pathologizing description for my own purposes.  

Sacher-Masoch has a slightly more poetical take on fetishism; although his characters come to no very good end, at least they traffick in more original objects of desire than prosaic "female undergarments."  Severin loves Wanda's fur coat like anything! And if you've never read "Venus in Furs," I do literally mean that he is hot for her fur coat.  Meaning her outer garment made of ermine.  That, and her whips.

A languid abandonment pervaded Wanda's entire being. What a voluptuous softness there was in the gloaming of her half-closed eyes, in the red flood of her hair which shimmered faintly under the white powder, in the red and white satin which crackled about her with every movement, in the swelling ermine of the kazabaika in which she carelessly nestled.

"Please," I stammered, "but you will be angry with me."

"Do with me what you will," she whispered.

"Well, then whip me, or I shall go mad."

"Haven't I forbidden you," said Wanda sternly, "but you are incorrigible."

"Oh, I am so terribly in love." I had sunken on my knees, and was burying my glowing face in her lap.

"I really believe," said Wanda thoughtfully, "that your madness is nothing but a demonic, unsatisfied sensuality. Our unnatural way of life must generate such illnesses. Were you less virtuous, you would be completely sane."

"Well then, make me sane," I murmured. My hands were running through her hair and playing tremblingly with the gleaming fur, which rose and fell like a moonlit wave upon her heaving bosom, and drove all my senses into confusion.

Well, when he puts it like that, you can understand it, can't you? I can and it's not even my fetish.  "Make me sane" indeed.

So what is my particular fetish? I've been thinking about it over the last few days (in between taking dissertation notes of course of course) as I've been reading certain blogs whose authors sometimes write in dialect (and yes if you happen to be reading this, you know I'm referring to you!)  I must pause here for a moment and doff my little black velvet cap, yes, hats off to the rarest of rare who can pull off written dialect.  It is the hardest thing on earth to do, and if done well it is absolutely fucking brilliant.

Brilliant and, well, delicious.

So there you have it, I love accents.  Not just any accents of course.  Specific ones.  Certain accents, and correlatively, certain dialects, have become inanimate objects of my desire.

An old boyfriend, whom I wrote about here, hailed from the deep, deep South where the men apparently drawl all over their girls.  Each night of our courtship, he would call me long distance from South Georgia, and read to me over the phone--I don't even remember what it was he read--poetry probably, and Pogo, and other things which I didn't really pay attention to--so carried away was I on the cadences of his voice.

As for my other fetishes, well, that's a story for another time.

Are you a fetishist?

Pretty Princess Porn

So, porn.

Obviously not just for the fellas. But "they" say that men are visual and women are, well, something--aural? emotional? wordy? Women like erotica, not porn?

It does seem that men like their none-too-secret stashes of visuals (magazines/photos/internet downloads). True to stereotype, I don't dig this stuff at all--put it right up in my face, and nothing happens except that I might have a sudden craving for bangers-and-mash--I do, though, love naughty drawings (R. Crumb anyone? Tijuana Bibles?). I'm not sure why.

Also true to stereotype, I like "emotional" porn--as I've said before, I love heavy-duty home-made fan fic, of the boy-on-boy variety (girl/boy is fine too). But it needs a story line: character development that makes the payoff believable. I'm perfectly willing to read through several chapters of plot and character before anyone even makes it to to the hem of a skirt. However, unlike a pretty princess, I draw the line at men who are sensitive with nothing else to recommend them. I need not elaborate, for anyone who has ever visited my bloggish ramblings knows too well my at this point tedious penchant for men with icy demeanors and misleadingly prudish Victorian frock-coats.

Literature can be lovely too--ironically, one of the best erotic passages ever was written by a man, James Joyce in "Ulysses":

"Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft warm sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me."

Yes, it's quite a book. Erotica, not porn. For the ladies (?), written by a man. I'll never, for better or for worse, be free of that image of sharing chewed cake, mouth to mouth.

Obviously, sexuality is complex and individual. I sort of hate to say that I fit the stereotype more than I don't. So what do you think? Does it hold up? Or do some of the gents like a plot and character build-up, erotica, James Joyce, suggestiveness not always followed up by action, and do some of the ladies like centerfolds, Cinemax After Dark, right to the point?

So Sexy

Now this, to me, is incredibly sexy:



and this



and this

God, I'm Boring; Have I Nothing NC-17 to Write About?

I guess not.

Cut or Uncut?

Mistress MJ held a contest to determine the owner of an enormous disembodied penis. I, in my brilliant deductive powers, guessed correctly. Yes, I did, and I'm proud of it.

Said penis was uncircumsized, which got me thinking about the whole question of cut or uncut. In my girlhood, I only once "experienced" an uncircumcized one (I say girlhood because my time as a peripatetic, and yes, that's a noun too, ended when I met Sarge nearly two decades ago!). Needless to say, it seems a little exotic and even peculiar to me. I suppose in England and generally abroad, where circumcision is more rare, the opposite is true, but being the American girl I am, well, the plain and unadorned version is most familiar and preferred. I guess it's really whatever you're used to.

So when my old boyfriend first revealed his be-foreskinned penis to me, I must say I was quite startled, even though he had at least had the presence of mind to warn me (had other girls before me been surprised and not always pleasantly? Perhaps he learned from bitter experience). I got used to it, sort of. But it always seemed like extra work to get to the actual object, and I always worried that somehow the act of peeling was painful; it seemed unnatural to peel; separating skin from skin is usually only done in a ripping fashion...eurgh...of course that's all suggestion, not reality...

so I'll leave anyone who stops by to ponder: cut? uncut? preferences? predilections? or familarity by default?

The Winner is...

Too Little Time!

In a random drawing, you, my dear, have won yourself a handmade tiny toy in a wee matchbox!

Thanks to you ladies for participating--it was fun!

Stop by soon!

xoxo

Our First Time

The first time you had sex, willingly, with someone besides yourself (badum-bum). A memory sometimes sweet, sometimes gruesome and shameful.

To celebrate first times good bad and worse, I'm holding a contest here in tandem with my sock contest. The prize will be a tiny innocent non-naughty toy, handmade by me, in a wee little matchbox. To enter, all you need do is leave a comment here describing your first time in ten words or less. I will hold a random drawing on Wednesday, September 17th.

I do hope you'll enter! (badum-bum)