I am thoroughly depressed. If I were any more depressed I would not feel like writing this. Perhaps I should find some comfort in knowing that it could be worse. What depresses me is absolutely silly, but that's how it usually goes. I am taking the time to write about it because I suspect that if your sexual interests are anywhere as off-beat as mine there are times you feel the same way.
As I write this it is late Sunday night, December 22 - 23, 1996. I have spent the last three evenings amidst the busting crowds at the big Honolulu shopping malls, searching for Christmas gifts for friends and family. You know the drill.
For the first time in a long time I have no special lady to shop for, no opportunity to give a woman the kind of clothes that turn me on. I have been there before, but this time it has been fundamentally different. In the past year my attitude about sex has changed in two ways. First, I have come to the realization that women do not get turned on by sensuous clothes the way I do. Second, and much more painful, I find myself at a stage in life at which finding someone to love is extremely difficult.
My attitudes about women's clothing developed in a near perfect vacuum. The germinal ideas were the notion that a girl wearing a silk dress without underwear would enjoy a continuos and very pleasant form of tickling, and that light, fingertip tickling would be enhanced by the silk in ways she would find irresistible. Once the seed had taken root I had no way to explore these ideas. It was not that I was unusual, just that at the age of seven a boy does not normally engage in such intimate behavior with girls. All I could do was look at them and daydream.
As the years whet by I collected many clues that suggested that I was onto something good. Bits of conversation, ad copy, sightings of girls wearing the kind of clothes I liked playing tickling games. Still never sure if what I imagined was true I took to dressing in whatever I could find that hand some of the qualities of the clothes that excited me, and much to my surprise there were times that the result was spectacular. I also felt terribly ashamed and confused that I got so excited by girl's clothes.
In college I overcame much of that guilt through reading about other men with similar tastes. Another way I resolved some of the guilt was through a logical progression which went:
Eventually I had some success at merging what had been two separate worlds, straight sex with women and masturbating to the accompaniment of satin and nylon. Sooner or later every relationship fell apart. Not always over sex, but I see now that in most cases I would lose interest in a woman once it became apparent that she did not react as passionately to wearing sensuous clothing as I did, or was not thrilled to be tied up and tickled. Sometimes it went the other way -- she would start out pleased to wear the things I liked and would express genuine delight with some of the things I had her try, but what was at first fun eventually became an uncomfortable ordeal for her.
Thanks to many comments and several long and intimate email exchanges with women I met in alt.sex.fetish.tickling and alt.sex.fetish.fashion I finally began to re-examine my beliefs and attitudes. I even sought the help of a professional counselor. The result I can describe best as something like the separation of Siamese twins. I now accept the fact that my fetish for women's clothing is unusual in detail but not in principle to similar feelings and behaviors shared by many men, that women do not feel the same way about such clothing, that many women are uncomfortable with sex that revolves around fetish clothing, and that still fewer women can tolerate a partner who enjoys cross-dressing. In other words, I now accept my attitudes as mine and no longer assume that women feel the same way as me. It has not been easy, because it requires making the distinction between being different and being weird, sick, or perverted.
Having reached this new view of things I set myself the goal of finding a partner who was open-minded enough about sex to accommodate me without rejecting her because she did not get turned on by the same things I do. I knew that even this would be a challenge, but I was convinced that it was possible because I had had several lovers in the past who I think would have fit the bill had my expectations been more realistic. I was completely unprepared for what happened.
My first problem was that I found it extremely difficult to find a woman who had any interest in me. I was never a Casanova, but I had what I consider to be better than average success at meeting women. Time after time I would turn on the old charm only to be met with stone-cold dismissal. But that's not the worst of it. Five times in the past eighteen months or so I established a solid foundation in which I was convinced that a woman was interested in me, but every time I made the move to elevate the relationship to a romantic level I was greeted by stunned bewilderment. They really enjoyed me as a friend, as someone to talk to, but had no interest in anything beyond a platonic relationship.
This is totally new to me, and I am still at a loss to explain it. Is it me? Am I too old to be of interest to the women I find attractive? Or has our culture changed in ways I haven't noticed? The AIDS thing. The New Woman. Male bashing.
I still don't have a handle on it. All I can say is that I have gone to the plate dozens of times this past year, put the ball into play five times, and never once got a base hit. If I were a ball player I would consider retiring, but I am not ready to retire as a man who loves women.
Even though I no longer presume erotic behavior on the part of every woman I see in sensuous clothing, my reaction to seeing women dressed that way has not changed much. I have been told by many knowledgeable people to expect that. A fetish is established very early in life, and there is no practical way to re-program such well established behavior. It is distinctly different from anti-social behaviors such as flashing, peeping and child molesting in that it operates within the same boundaries as plain sex. The closest I have come to imposing myself inappropriately on other people were times that I would put on a pair of ladies nylon jersey pants and stand outside late at night in my garden in order to feel as much as possible what a woman would feel dressed that way on a date. Had a neighbor seen me and noticed that I was wearing women's pants they might have felt disgust, but that's not exactly in the same league as someone peeking into their bedroom window or raping their daughter.
Still wired for my fetish and lacking a woman to shop for, these mall outings have been pure hell. Every women's department has something that turns me on. I have documented the better sightings, but there are many more that press my button. I think the worst was passing the lingerie departments and looking at display after display of satin nightgowns and underwear.
Spotting clothes is one thing, spotting women wearing them is another. Just tonight I saw a very cute girl in her late teens bopping along in a short, bouncy black satin skirt and dark blue satin tank top, accompanied by a pair of mountain climbing boots rendered in shiny plastic with very high heels. Absolutely adorable. Fresh, cute face, long bouncy hair, bright blue fingernails. The works. A babe.
Naturally I was comatose for a couple seconds. My first recognizable thoughts were that here was an example of an ideal woman, but due to my new view of things I reminded myself that she was not wearing those clothes because they felt so good, only to comply with the dictates of fashion and, maybe, to get boys to look at her. Where I believe that most men would respond to how she looked by assuming that she dressed that way because she enjoys sex, my immediate reaction was that she dressed that way because the mildly ticklish feel of satin reminds her how much she wants to be tied up and tickled, and that makes her horny. As much as my reaction misses the mark, even the reaction I ascribe to most men is far from a bulls-eye. If men are from Mars, I am from Saturn.
I did allow myself the pleasure of imagining her strung up in my back bedroom, howling with laughter and begging me to stop tickling her while I stroked my fingers over her satin outfit. What is different now is that I no longer take pleasure in imagining her shocked delight when I slowly remove her underwear and she learns for the first time in her life how ticklish satin feels against her bare breasts and ass. I did imagine myself grasping the hem of her flared satin skirt and rubbing the underside of the fabric against her swollen clit, and the howls of agonized pleasure that would accompany her wild thrashing. That I have done to several women, and they all found it an experience unlike any other. Only one did not like it, claiming that it was too painful.
Women may not fetishize their clothes, but I have had a couple of girlfriends who found that wearing the clothes that turned me on and that I used to rub their clit was a turn-on. One admitted that when she wore a satin blouse to work she was horny all day knowing how much it would turn me on, even though the feel of it did nothing special for her. Another said that the feel of a long crepe accordion pleated skirt I gave her tickled her legs just enough to remind her of how much I liked tickling her, and she could not stop thinking about the mind blowing experience of having her clit rubbed by the same kind of fabric. Farther back in time there was a woman who loved to wear the Rina bell bottom pants I adore, both because it turned me on and because they looked and felt so sexy. Such reactions are not true fetishism, just associations with pleasurable experiences, but it made me happy that they reacted that way.
Another noteworthy sighting from night before last was of a young girl in a beautiful white party dress. She was about twelve. Her dress was a layer of shear white chiffon over white satin. The chiffon layer was woven in such a way that a series of opaque lines that looked like ribbons ran diagonally across the fabric. Her hair was decorated with ribbons, and her cute little black patent leather shoes were toped by frilly edged socks. Absolutely adorable.
My reaction to seeing her took place on two levels, as an adult and as a child. As an adult I can picture myself playing with such a girl, introducing her to the pleasure of wearing such a dress without underwear, tying her up and tickling her, then gently fingering her clit to her first orgasm. It is a very sweet fantasy, but one destined to remain forever as nothing more than that because I believe that even if a girl that age wanted to have sex with me her life would be burdened by the guilt generated by the customs of the society in which we live. How can I love a girl and want to burden her in that way? Even as that scenario played itself out in my mind another ran in parallel, one in which I saw her as I would have as a boy her age. I can recall so vividly being blown away by girls dressed like that, how for weeks after seeing a girl like that I would masturbate to fantasies of tying her up and tickling her. I would also feel very jealous and long to be a girl so that I could wear clothes like hers and be tickled all day by cold satin brushing against my skin. Sometimes I would plot ways to track her down like a Texas Ranger, and having learned where she lived hatch a scheme like the best cat burglar to sneak into her house, put on her dress and masturbate in it on her bed. My calling card would be the dress laid neatly on her bed with a big wet cum stain in the middle.
There were many more such sightings. A woman in he twenties in incredibly tight black short shorts and a tight black satin top, with legs that looked a mile long. A Chinese tourist in a long, flowing silk pleated skirt. Many long, tight satin skirts and billowy satin pants. A couple of well built women in those incredibly short, shiny spandex dresses that are impossible to sit down in. A luscious looking salesgirl in a billowy satin blouse that flowed like water. Each and every one sent the same message, a love of sensuous tickling, a dark desire to be bound and tickled and ravished by the clothes they wore.
It felt good to be able to remind myself every time I saw such a woman that she was not interested in anything of the sort, because it made me feel more in touch with reality. Even so, it was not enough, not nearly enough, to compensate for the fact that the only recourse I had for enjoying such clothes was to do it alone. Last night I did take out an assortment of satin and nylon clothes from my collection and go through the long, mind blowing drill of teasing myself with them until at last I shot my load, an hour long process in which I flit back and forth between images of being a woman being tormented that way and being myself tormented by a woman. Even before my new view of things such solo play was a distant second place to sex with a woman, but now it is even less satisfying. As when I "correct" my reaction to a sighting, I find myself less interested in fantasies about women playing with clothes. When at last the earth moves and my cock shoots forth its load of cum the intense satisfaction fades quickly, leaving me feeling extremely lonely. You see, in that past I would tell myself that someday soon I'll meet a woman who enjoys this as much as I do. Now I tell myself that it isn't going to happen, and that is a very depressing thought.
So far there is one more distinction I can make between this holiday season and others when I was without a partner. Then, almost every time, I would treat myself to something I would have given a woman had I had one. A very sexy evening gown, or an expensive silk nightgown. When I bought it I would act as though I were buying it for a lover, even to the point of having it gift wrapped. The best time was when I bought a slinky black satin nightgown. The saleswomen all gushed with admiration over what a beautiful gift it was, and when I took it to be wrapped every woman in the gift wrap department stopped to admire it. Much the same thing has happened when I bought gifts for women, but knowing that it was for me made it fun it a different kind of way. Perhaps it was because I did not have any concern about how my lover was going to react when she opened the box! This year I have found many suitable items to choose from, but have no desire to do that. Could it be that I know so well what it will feel like that makes me jaundiced, or is it that I have lost all hope in someday sharing such pleasure with a woman?