Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
There are a variety of fetishes in this story, including consensual violence and verbal abuse, raceplay, and watersports.
This is a tale of a different age, a time so long ago and yet not so long ago.
Cell phones did voice and nothing more. There was no Facebook, no social media. We still used the Yellow Pages, read news in the paper, and viewed porn in print magazines and DVDs. We talked to each other online under false names, making up this or that pseudonym and playing the field. It was a different culture on the net, one in some ways freer and more liberated than today.
This is a tale of those times.
2001 it was. Spring.
Phil saw another handle enter the room. Nycsubf, she called herself. He had learned to be wary of obvious come-ons in female names. Far too often they turned out to be men.
Hi, how are you? he messaged. Always keep it polite. Don’t mention sex until she does.
On he went, with the usual introductory banter. My name is Phil. I’m from San Jose, California. Twenty-seven years old.
whats ur ethnicity, she asked. Assuming it really was a she.
What makes you ask that?
just tell me, she replied.
Calm down, he reminded himself. Stay positive. But how could he? In dating rooms it was this that often finished him off. Black or white? they’d ask. Sometimes they simply vanished on hearing his answer. Other times it was the photo that sent them packing.
I’m Asian, he wrote.
oh great whats ur skin color
What did this mean? People in China or Japan or Korea are white, if the actual pigment in their skin counts for anything. But someone with black hair and narrow eyes doesn’t count as white, in the sense that people now use the word. Race is a social construct, not biological.
Of course, not everyone who asked that question wanted a white answer. He’d occasionally run into women with a fetish for big black cock, which irritated him. Goddammit, the average black man’s cock was only half an inch longer than the average white man’s! And hadn’t Masters and Johnson proved that, blindfolded, women can’t even tell what size a cock is?
I’m brown, he wrote. Is that a problem?
Oh no, not at all! Can you send me a photo?
This was not going the way he planned. Phil didn’t send photos until long after the woman had shown signs of attraction, which never happened before his strong points came out: his intellect and his writing skill. His looks were something he’d learned to keep hidden as long as possible.
Still, Phil noted that, suddenly, the girl was punctuating sentences correctly. Almost as if she was taking a greater effort to talk to him than her no-doubt endless other suitors.
I’ll send you mine if you send yours, he wrote.
To his surprise, she complied.
It wasn’t a large picture, but it was a good one. Not model looks, but undeniably sexy. Clear brown eyes, plastered with thick makeup. Medium-length straight brown hair, but with a glossy look, as if a lot of product had gone into it. Pouty red lips, again with heavy lipstick. She looked made up, done over. It was attractive, yes, but it was not appealing.
Nonetheless, Phil didn’t choose women on whether they were appealing, he chose them on whether they thought he was appealing. He had a photo that showed only his face, hiding his worst parts. He doubted that a hotshot like this would go for a visage like his. Unless her photo was fake, which could never be ruled out.
He sent it. This was the worst part, waiting for a response. More often than not, this was when the messages stopped coming.
Handsome devil, she wrote.
What? Nobody said that who wasn’t a blood relative.
Do you have any more pics? she asked.
Yes, do you?
I’ll email them. What’s your address?
There had been some occasions when Phil had been incautious enough to give his email address to what turned out to be a bot. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
First tell me some more about yourself.
I’m 26, live in NYC, work in consulting. I’m a sub. I have a thing for overweight Middle Eastern or South Asian men.
What in the world?
He’d never run into anyone with a fetish for brown-skinned men. Even some brown-skinned women did their best to avoid his sort. And he had never heard of any woman, anywhere, any time, with a fetish for the overweight.
There were men with such a fetish, he knew. There were men with every fetish one could imagine. Every major porn site had its “big beautiful women” category. He’d often been told that was the body type he should go for, one that would match his own. But he’d found approaching the overweight no easier than the thin and beautiful. Nor had he been any more successful.
My name is Sue, she continued. Email me. She filled in her email address.
Her screen name faded. She’d signed out.
Now what? Well, she had sent him the address. Either this was one hell of a practical joke, or he had hit the jackpot. ikitelli escort bayan He sent a few more photos.
1997 it was. Fall.
Until his graduation from university, Phil had avoided dance clubs. He loved classical music and easy listening, not the loud throbbing music of a dance club. But you have to get out there, people told him. That’s where you go to meet girls.
It was a long wait in line. There were plenty of beautiful girls, but most were already with a guy. Or in mixed groups. Was he supposed to approach girls when they were with a guy?
Inside, things were no better. The music was so loud! Some people were dancing, others were holding drinks and talking. How did they hear anything? Confused, Phil stood there, not sure what to do. This place was so strange and alien. How on earth was this hookup business supposed to work?
Finally, he saw one girl sitting by herself. Not very pretty, but what did that matter? Phil breathed hard, trying to remember his exercises from therapy. He forced one foot in front of the other, fighting back panic. Just keep walking. One step. Next. What’s the worst she can do?
The girl noticed him gingerly stepping towards her, and looked at him, an expression of cool contempt in her face. The music fortuitously paused, between songs.
“Don’t even try it,” she said icily.
Phil felt his stomach clench, felt the knots tighten, felt the knife twisting inside. He turned away from the girl, his face twisting to avoid tears. Soon he was running, running as fast as his legs could carry him, out of the building and out to safety. To the nearest massage parlour.
It was a few more days before Phil ran into Sue again.
Hey. I loved your pics, she typed. Do you have any more? Maybe wearing sandals?
Phil didn’t even own a pair of sandals. They tend to be worn at a beach, or poolside, two places he avoided going to as much as possible. He was ashamed to show his body in a public place.
I can probably arrange something, he wrote back. How about you?
I’ll send you some more soon, she wrote. So what brings you to these rooms? What are you into?
I come on here because it’s easier than in real life. Nobody has to worry about what they look like.
The first thing men ask me is my photo. Or measurements.
I don’t, Phil wrote.
Girls typically find that the most attractive thing about me 🙂
He’d had a few women call him for phonesex, and they’d raved about how hot it was that he never bothered asking what they looked like. What did it matter, really?
1995 it was. Winter.
Keith had a triumphant expression on his face. “Listen to this,” he said to Sue. “I knew this Internet thing was just another passing fad.”
He showed her an article in his copy of Newsweek.”No online database will replace your daily newspaper,” he read. “They say we’ll order airline tickets over the network, make restaurant reservations. Stores will become obsolete. So how come my local mall does more business than the entire Internet?” Keith chortled in vindication. “A network chat line is a limp substitute for meeting friends over coffee. And who’d prefer cybersex to the real thing?”
He went on in that vein, but Sue wasn’t listening.
Later that night, she spent some time browsing through Usenet groups. There were several she enjoyed reading, such as alt.sex.stories and alt.sex.bondage. She’d emailed a few men. She hadn’t had cybersex yet, but it sounded even better than the real thing.
Phil had, of course, started out seeking real sex, not virtual. He’d first tried local rooms. One girl seemed quite taken with him and promised to come to a coffee shop the next morning, but there was no such place at the address she gave. Another he spoke to on the phone remarked what a good conversational partner he was, but vanished after he admitted he was only five foot five.
After a few months, he had to admit that there was basically zero chance of local chat leading anywhere.
He began exploring more sexual rooms, sometimes vanilla, other times BDSM, chatting with women from anywhere. Younger women, he soon found, were seldom worth talking to. They had only contempt for the notion of online relationships. Older women — it took a lot of persistence and patience, but you could sometimes have fun times. Many had been through at least one marriage and divorce and were often at the point where they preferred virtual to real relationships. He even confessed his sexual history to some of them. They at least weren’t so free with the word pathetic.
We come across that word a lot, don’t we? Pathetic. The man without a partner, or who pays for a substitute, is jeered at, dismissed, a laughingstock. A woman without a partner is admired for her independence, her self-reliance, her ability to make it on her own without being clingy or needy. A man without a partner is kartal escort bayan a loser, a failure, an object of derision, someone worthy only of contempt. No woman would ever pay for it, preferring to go without than to purchase an imitation.
Even masturbation has its stigma. A woman who masturbates proves she doesn’t need a man. A man who masturbates proves only his failure to attract a woman.
Along with the contempt comes the advice. Oh, the advice. You just need to get out there more. What on earth does that even mean? You’re looking in the wrong places. What are the right places, then? There’s someone for everyone. Who? Maybe you’re driving women away. That was certainly possible, but how? And more importantly, whom?
1992 it was. Fall.
Now that he was in university, Phil had made his way over to the school’s free counselling service.
“I think I’m a sex addict.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I keep trying to stop reading pornography, but I can never stay away longer than a few days.”
“And how does that interfere with your life?”
“Jesus said whoever looks at a woman to lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”
“What does your clergyman say about that?”
“I could never admit to something like this. That’s part of my addiction.”
“Do you think you’re the only one who reads porn?”
“No, but that doesn’t make it right.”
“What makes it wrong?”
“You can’t just stare at women like they’re pieces of meat.”
“Do you ever stare at pieces of meat?”
“No, I mean — women aren’t supposed to be sexual playthings for men.”
“Have you ever treated a woman like a plaything?”
“Yes, I’ve told you I’ve looked at porn. It’s degrading to women.”
“All porn, or just some porn?”
“All. I guess hardcore is worse. They show… they show women forced into performing fellatio on men.”
“They claim it’s voluntary, but I don’t believe it.”
“No healthy woman would go down on her knees, to the level of a toilet, to put a man’s penis in her mouth.”
“Have you ever asked a woman if that’s true?”
“I can’t ask something like that, that would be sexual harassment.”
“I see.” The counsellor frowned. “I’m curious — if you have such strong feelings about it, what makes you buy porn?”
“I don’t. Well, a few times I have, but I always throw it out after. But most of the time I just read it in the store.”
“Don’t the stores object?”
“I get kicked out a lot.”
“But back to my question. What makes you read it in the first place?”
“I usually get triggered when I see a girl in a miniskirt or other tight outfit. Or a bikini on TV.”
“Do you think those outfits are degrading to women?”
“You’re not supposed to value a woman’s looks. Only her mind and personality.”
“What would it mean if you found a woman physically attractive?”
“That would be shallow and selfish.”
“Women suffer body image disorders because of men like me.”
“What would it mean if a woman found you physically attractive?”
“Because I’m not attractive.”
“Do you think that might be a body image disorder?”
The counsellor shook his head in disbelief.
It did not take long for Phil and Sue to have cybersex. Phil had had cyber-relationships before, but all vanilla. Sue was the first BDSM.
She wasn’t one for the BDSM rituals popular in chat rooms. Nor the paternalistic “the dom loves and cares for the sub” bit. Sue just wanted to be degraded and used. She pushed him to get creative in how he did that. Soon every long-buried taboo fantasy in Phil’s psyche was finding its way to the surface. He once mentioned he’d tried to watch the film The Story of O, but had found its violence hard to take. Before he knew it, Sue was asking him to chain and whip her, just as O had been.
Her biggest fetish was watersports. Phil hadn’t even heard of such a thing. He secretly had a few fantasies in that department, of course. The flow of urine is like a stronger version of cum, and touches some of the same nerve endings. Especially when standing at a urinal, it is hard to avoid a mild euphoria coursing through the body while pissing. But it was Sue who opened his eyes to the full sexual possibilities.
Phil had never expected a woman to want to be on the receiving end. But Sue did. Her fantasy was to be taken by Phil and a gang of his buddies, made to crawl on the floor, taking their piss, drinking their piss, even licking it off the filthy floor, degraded and dehumanized beyond belief.
Her favorite was one day he and a dozen or so imaginary buddies stuffed her in a locker, cut a hole in it, took turns urinating through it, and then gang-raped her. Phil didn’t find this arousing at all. In fact, he’d gotten kadıköy escort bayan the idea from when he’d been badly bullied in Grade 6, though that had been just one guy, and just the piss, no rape. There are some guys into inflicting rape, but not Phil. He had a morbid fear of rejection, and his fantasies were about girls who said yes, not no.
But Sue was in seventh heaven after that. For months afterwards she talked about it, often asking him to re-enact it with minor variations.
I love having cybersex with you, she wrote one day. You have such a creative mind. Most of the time, it was Sue, not Phil, who got most aroused by their chats.
As a partner, Sue wasn’t all that reliable. Occasionally he tried to set times to chat, but she couldn’t be relied upon to show up. Nor would she agree to speak by phone, not even with her number hidden.
Even online, she sometimes disappeared without warning. If Phil was aroused enough, he’d turn to a porn session — or, if he couldn’t stand it, a commercial phonesex call or even visit to a prostitute.
But there were a few occasions when Sue was very accommodating, patiently typing out blowjobs. She asked him for dick pics, but he was nervous about sending them. Especially since, whenever he asked for more photos of her, she always sent the same one.
One day, Sue gushed that she had changed her email password to Phil’s screen name, so taken was she with her “best master”. It was not long before he succumbed to the temptation to log into her email. He found little personal there. Most of her incoming missives were from men, many with Arabic names, asking for her picture, and her replies, all containing the same photo.
He wondered about the mental health of a woman who claimed to love licking piss off the floor. But aside from these fantasies, Sue seemed entirely normal. She had friends, she had a job, she liked hard rock music, she went to concerts, she traveled.
Phil practically had to squeeze this information out of her. She didn’t like to talk about herself that much, preferring to go straight to sexual fantasy.
Besides, Phil’s own mental health was hardly something to brag about. He went to a succession of therapists and support groups for depression, social phobia, and obesity. His depression had lifted enough for him to live independently and have a successful career, but the other two remained stubbornly resistant to change.
He tried using telephone dating services, but never got far. Girls seldom bothered responding to his messages. One time a girl did talk to him, impressed that he visited the gym regularly, but Phil felt compelled to explain that he was doing that to lose weight. She didn’t call again.
Sue had little to say about this, other than the usual platitudes. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find someone someday. You’re so handsome and smart.
You’re just saying that because you have a fat fetish, he’d write back.
And the problem with that is what, exactly?
Phil didn’t have an answer. Still, he wondered just what had made her the way she was.
1979 it was. Winter. Sue and Jack were naked in her bed, touching, fondling. Jack’s cock was as hard as a rock. Sue knew and loved its taste very well, but she wanted him inside her.
He wasn’t her first, but she gave little thought to the prideful boy who had popped her cherry and spent the next week bragging to all his friends. Jack would be the first who counted.
He felt wonderful inside her, young and innocent and beautiful.
Lost in orgasmic bliss, Sue missed the sound of the door opening.
Jack’s cock was squirting into her. He was cumming — she was cumming—
and a fist slammed into her face —
what was happening —
and she heard the sound of kicking. Her father, black with rage, was pounding Jack’s side with his heavy boots. Blood was pouring from her boyfriend’s face.
“No, Dad! No!” she screeched. She grabbed her father’s foot, interposing herself between him and Jack. “You’re going to kill him!”
“What makes you think I won’t, bitch?” he snarled.
“Then you’ll just have to shoot me first,” she said in a scared voice. This was not an idle fear. Her father sported a fully licensed gun at his side.
“Get out of my way,” he said instead, smacking her so hard it knocked her screaming to the floor. Jack struggled to get to his feet, but Sue’s father flattened him with another kick in the stomach. He pulled out the gun and cocked it, aiming directly at Jack’s temple. “You fucking touch my daughter again and I’ll fucking kill you. You got that, asshole? You fucking got that?”
“Yeah,” Jack panted, voice shaking with terror. “I got that.”
“Get the fuck out of my house.”
Jack grabbed his clothes and fled without even slowing to put them back on.
Sue’s father turned to his daughter, his face curled in revulsion and contempt. “And as for you, slut, you’re gonna get what whores deserve.” At least he had to put the gun down to take off his belt.
Sue closed her eyes and tried to focus on something else, some vital emotion to blot out the blur of physical pain. Soon that crystallized on hatred. She hated her father. She hated his brutality, his puritanism, his tyranny. He was a man who tried to crush her spirit, deny her freedom, block out all chance of happiness. His was a home filled with bondage, not with love.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32