onebefore

I found the film much better, surprising in a way, since it seemed to stick quite close to the book, or as much as a read of it anyway. For reasons I have yet to understand, the film brought me to at least the brink of plausibility. Or perhaps to where I could at least understand the fantasy. Maybe because commercial advertising pushing products based on fantasy does not really come in novel format. I think that is it, because of the way the film accessed advertising fantasy, I at least understood what the appeal might be. The book was recommended to me by one of my bondage model-collaborators that I had had a long standing relationship with. She raved about it. I didn't even know she read. And it seemed to address the thing we had in common. So I BADLY wanted to like the book. I slugged on reading it long after I had lost interest or even any memory of the plot. I found the premise so unlikely, and the inner debate of the female protagonist even more implausible, I just wanted to slap her myself. And the prose didn't carry me through the suspension of disbelieve. But like I say the movie, as a sort of long advertising fantasy, You know, like you gotta pick the right hair color product when you're meeting your man on the helipad at least gave me enough to make be tolerable for awhile. By comparison, unfair comparison, but to make my point, when I picked up "Interview with a Vampire" randomly left in the hallway of my building, I had no idea who Anne Rice was, I thought the vampire sub-genre was just silly tweener stuff. The prose hooked me solid, the story addicted me, the novel slammed my psyche like a narcotic. I read it all night in a single sitting. And bought the sequel the following day.

Having seen the movie I wonder (ugh) if anyone else, like me, feels they have reacted in life like the Elizabeth Holloway Marston character.

A commentator sent me this link recently: http://sleepycomics.com/480

I love your review. Such an honest description of your personal context, for expectations and judging results. Makes the accolade, beyond merely convincing, it makes it sweet to hear. The clients here are referred to as 'devotees', but 'devotion' is exhibited here in both directions, on many levels.

Okay, a fetish story: During my twenties, I was, one time, prowling in the library of a local university, spying on women, or more accurately, their footwear, and while hiding in the stacks I somehow stumbled across this book: https://openlibrary.org/books/OL5204327M/The_sex_life_of_the_foot_and_shoe which had to have been in the first edition, as pictured. I cannot explain how it shocked me. I looked furtively over my shoulder, refocused on the title on the book spine. My head swam. I could barely hold the book in my hand when I picked it out of the line of books, feeling its actual texture in my palm, its definite weight, turning over and over to come back to read the title. It was real! I flipped through a few pages then quickly returned it to the shelf. I circled around casually browsing other books, then sneaked up on it again, and plucked it out for another peak. I could not believe it! Another human on the planet shared my secret conviction that the shoes of women were actually woman's genitals, and more shockingly, he revealed our secret in a book! Did he also know how I contrived to secretly smell girl's shoes? How desperately I sought the smooth, forbidden, weight of their leather? How many guilty times I had run my fingertips over their delicate curves, shapes that no man should be caressing, even with his eye? I blanched when I read his proposal that the opening of the shoe was the opening of a vagina, and that a decorative button or buckle, say, on the vamp of the shoe at the base of this opening was the clitoris. My brain swam as he detailed more anatomy, how a feather or fringe might be taken as pubic hair. If he said these things, he must know. He must know my petrifying secrets. He was speaking thoughts I had dared not to think. I stole it from the library, read it in secret, and returned it without anyone knowing. You all may be the first.

Fwiw, it was precisely the leather and fur in your gallery images that caused me to want to session with you first, here, Mistress Shankar I seem to recall unzipping a pair of your boots. And you appear to have a varied collection of them, Mistress. . ( I suppose that is a sort of fetish story.)

Totally! Autumn is the best season. Especially about the footwear for me.

A Dom friend of mine told me of a client who liked to have chewed up Oreo Cookies regurgitated onto his face. I thought it kind of cool in a infantile regressive sort of way. Would probably carry a political punch these days. To digress a bit from food crushing to just food, in my erotic image-making endeavors, a motif I have frequently returned to is one of a woman, wrists tied back, blindfolded and kneeling, trying to eat a piece of fruit that is dangled just barely within reach on a string. The images could be quite feral looking. The idea came from a scenario I read in a novel which portrayed such a scene as a contest for young couples, like bobbing for apples in a rural town square. Plums work good in my images. But I can imagine any of the treats mentioned above employed somehow for a game like this. One of the most enduring erotic memories I have is of flirting with a woman once, playing a sort of bar game where for some reason we had to take turns snatching gum candies from the palms of each other's hands using just our lips without touching the skin. I remember to this day, the nearly imperceptible sensation of her lips and breath on my palm. I can imagine being rewarded in such a way, from the palm, very humiliating, like a pet animal, for having achieved some other humiliating thing. 1B4