fetish

Hrm.

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In an interesting twist of events, I’ve got an opportunity to go to a foot fetish party and basically get paid to let people play with and lick my feet. It’s really good money and I wouldn’t use my real name, but I’m not sure if this is something that could bite me in the ass one day.

Thoughts? Anyone have experience with this sort of stuff? Anecdotes? Tips?

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So, maybe you all can settle a little debate I’ve got going on with Craftsmate.

He says it’s easier for him to cum when he can see my feet.

I call that a foot fetish.

He says, no, it’s not because it’s not that he needs my feet to get off or he wants to fuck my feet. He just finds my feet cute.

And, as he describes it: “It’s not like I can jack off to just feet. It has to be a holistic visual experience.”

So, we decided to turn it over to you guys. Foot fetish or not?

Quickies in New York: Mean, Nasty, and Filthy

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Quickies in New York: Mean, Nasty, and Filthy

See, I have a major infidelity fantasy, if you will. And in my head it goes a lot like this. Except, executing it seems nearly impossible, potentially dangerous, etc. I’m sure there’s ways to do it, but I don’t have a consistent partner right now that it would make sense with or anything.

I don’t know. I’ve got a few fantasies I have trouble articulating or reenacting outside of my head. Mostly because they’re, uh, kind of really risky.

But, damn, doesn’t QNY make it so fucking hot?

quickienewyork:

She called me to tell me she had fucked the waiter.

This was before poly, before honesty, and before understanding. It was before graduation when self-awareness was still something we’d do when we got older.

I asked if he had left and she said just barely, so I was out the door before I knew…

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This movie itself was indication enough as to what was to come. And I’m sure if everyone had paid better attention to how I was reacting, they would be able to guess right off the bat how I would turn out. It’s probably why my mother wasn’t surprised at all when I came out to her. She almost seemed relieved that I had finally gotten up the gumption to get it over-with. 

Who Framed Roger Rabbit? was my favorite movie as a child. I remember spending hours parked in front of the television, just watching it over and over. I was so taken with it. There was the animation, of course. There was the humor, most of which was over my head and, when I went back and watched it recently, found sometimes hilariously brilliant (the 50 year old baby’s comment about having a three year old “dinky”? How was that allowed to creep into a “family” movie?).

But, most of all, it was her. Jessica Rabbit. She started just about everything. I can’t remember the first time I saw the movie, but I do remember how I would feel when she first came out on the nightclub stage to sing. There was something inside of me that got tugged so hard I thought I would snap in two. The narrowness of that waist, unnaturally balanced with that round rear and her breasts. It was the epitome of everything sexual, everything that could make a woman so desirable and awake something so primal within me. And, for God’s sake, she was a cartoon.

And then there was the scene where she was tied up. By the coils around her neck, the guy who drew her was clearly a fetishist (or at least trying to appeal to them). I used to sit in front of the VCR and rewind and replay that scene over and over. In first grade, we had to pick a book and learn to read it. I found the Who Framed Roger Rabbit?  picture book buried in the shelves. 

During reading time, I would just retreat to the back of the classroom and stare at the page that showed Jessica Rabbit tied up for the entire time. I wouldn’t do anything but stare. Just take her in and wish I were there with her. Tied next to her. Sometimes I even wished I was just her. I didn’t know what was pulling at me do be this way, to obsess over her image. 

But, I guess, in a very quiet way, I always did sort of know.