Arts and Entertainment
by andrea nemerson
DEAR ANDREA: I'm married, but I can't get enough of women wearing girdles, garters, and stockings. When I see a women in a skirt or dress, I can't help wondering what she's wearing underneath. Sometimes I have to time a lady getting into her car or going upstairs just to sneak a peek. This does not seem to cause any problems. Any thoughts on this? I just love garters, girdles, and stockings.
Love, I Love Girdles and Stockings
P.S. My wife won't wear any of them for me.
Dear I Love, etc.:
What was it you love again? I'm not sure I heard you. Girders? Gardeners? Dirndls? Look, it doesn't matter. You have my blessing.
Without knowing more about the relationship, I don't know what your wife's objections might be or what you could do to mollify her. Quite likely, she just doesn't feel like dressing up like Blaze Starr, and that's that. It's also possible that she'd be amenable, but she finds your enthusiasm slightly dare I say "creepy"? Perhaps if you weren't quite so insistent, she might be more willing to indulge you. And what is it that causes me to suspect you of some faint creepiness? It's that business of skulking around "timing" strange women, angling yourself for a free peek as they go about their business, innocently pondering what to make for dinner or whether they'll get that promised promotion. In a word, ick. Feel free to let your imagination roam where it will; impure thoughts never hurt anyone. But when it comes to following people up the stairs so you can look up their skirts, buddy, you'd better watch it. That's not fantasizing; that's a crime. Cut it out.
For god's sake, buy yourself some magazines or membership to some Web sites and stop following those women around. Even if no one catches on and maces you to the ground, it's just plain rude.
My wife was turned on to the erotic side of taffeta by a former boyfriend who showed her how to have an orgasm by rubbing or dragging taffeta over her nipples. She turned me on to it by rubbing one of her taffeta slips over my penis like her old boyfriend taught her to do. He taught her to experiment ... she taught me! The softer taffetas are really sexy in feel and sound. Now if a women enters a room and I hear the rustle of taffeta, I'm on alert ... in a good way!
Love, Call Me Rustle
For those readers who came in late, I should explain that I once received a letter from a taffeta fancier whose oddball innocence ("Do fabric saleswomen puddle with pleasure at the sound of taffeta rustling?") so tickled me that I ran the letter, even though I assumed at the time that the subject matter was of no conceivable interest to anyone else. Well, I stand corrected (although my posture could use some improvement).
You are luckier than some previous correspondents, in that your wife not only indulges your odder impulses but also is, if anything, odder than you are. May you two rustle away to your heart's delight. Just to be fair, though: should one of you suddenly lose interest, I ought to point out that the one left behind may not go following taffeta-bearing women down the street, trying to cop a, uh, listen.
What do you call the fetish of blowing cocaine up one's partner's anus?
I don't know that this actually counts as a fetish. I'd call it a "practice" if I had to call it anything at all, and I'm not sure it warrants a name of its own. If it does have a name, I don't mind admitting that I don't know it.
You can reach Andrea at alt.sex.column, Bay Guardian, 520 Hampshire St., S.F., CA 94110; firstname.lastname@example.org; or www.sfbg.com/asc.