My Sexual Peccadillos - Part One

I can’t work out why, evolutionarily, women are far less prone to fetish than men. That many women would admit to preferring a prospective lover with a flat stomach and ripped pecs probably has to do, on the level of instinct, with his probably being a mightier protector and provider. Similarly, the common male obsession with big tits is probably to do with their offering bountiful nourishment for offspring. But the incidence of female arousal by the sight or even thought of cufflinks, let’s say, is infinitesimal in comparison to the corresponding incidence of male interest in high heels or garter belts.

I’ve got enough fetishes for four or five of me. High heels. Nylons (preferably seamed, with reinforced heel and toe). Garter belts, or better yet, open-bottomed girdles or corsets with garters. Opera-length gloves (like stockings for arms, I’ve always thought). False eyelashes. Extravagant eye makeup, pale foundation, and red lips. Early-60s-style bouffant hair. Big earrings, preferably diamante. Va va voom!

Big tits I can take or leave.

I have only a very sketchy idea of where most of this came from. Some of it, like the bouffant hair fixation, is obviously to do with my having become sexual at the height of that wonderfully unlikely style’s popularity. As for high heels, it's indisputable not only that they make a woman much taller — and I do love an Amazon — but also make her feet appear smaller, elongate her legs, and tilt her into a position widely recognized by zoologists as signaling availability in multiple animal species, with both breasts and ass protruding. Va va voom!

There was nothing I didn’t love about…making out with my first girlfriend in the back of the car I borrowed from my dad in the hills high above Broad Beach in northernmost Malibu. There was nothing I loved more about it than sliding my hand under her skirt and touching the glorious area above her stocking tops. I also greatly enjoyed unhooking the four garters.

In public, I will notice high heels from great distances, and make excuses to get a closer look at the women wearing them. I’ve had a couple of very short-term romances with young women whose taste in footwear were their most (and in one case only) attractive feature.

In Harold Robbins’ The Carpetbaggers, of which my parents had a paperback copy I wasn’t supposed to know about, there’s a passage in which a male character is so crazed with lust that he can’t wait for a female character to remove her stockings before, you know, he plunges his rigid manhood into her overflowing honeypot. Just before capitulating to her own passion, she murmurs something about how only a tramp makes loves with her stockings on. God, how that passage inflamed me as a 15-year-old! Inspired by it, shaped by it, I have always encouraged my lovers to leave their stockings on — as well, if at all possible, as their high heels, garter belts, gloves, false eyelashes, and big diamante earrings. There’s something about making love to an elegant woman, dressed to the nines, whom I’ve taken the time to relieve only of her outermost layer, that so works for me.

And wigs! I have heard it said that unfamiliar pussy is a universal male need, that we have it in our DNA to want to shoot our seed into as many prospective producers of offspring as possible. A wig, especially one of a radically different color, makes this need satisfiable even within the bounds of monogamy.

My avid fetishism hasn’t served to endear me to that most forbearing of communities, my gals. Even those who’ve embraced with considerable delight the whole notion of costumed sex in the beginning have come over time to find my expectations onerous. My offer of reciprocation, of wearing special things of my own — a leopard-print posing brief — has always been moot, as women care more about technique and gentleness. A woeful conundrum!

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