I didn’t know what a fetish was when I found myself falling into the psychedelic-like sexual trance at a gay pride parade. I’m not gay, but seeing leather men made me wetter than a water slide. By the time we returned home with my then boyfriend, I felt like climbing the walls. In less than five minutes, I stood naked in the entry hall. To my boyfriend’s horror, I rammed three fingers into myself and climaxed within minutes. When I suggested he use his leather belt to tie me up, he protested. He used my parents as an excuse to take control of the situation. I reminded him that my parents were away for the weekend and that I wanted him to fuck me senseless. We were eighteen. It’s true, girls do develop faster than boys.
I see leather and a zealous primate is let out of its cage, ready to test the very limits. It can make shoe shopping with the opposite sex difficult. Friends don’t fully comprehend my appreciation. My fetish makes dating vegans impossible; they cannot merge with my sex drive. The leather acts like a thicker skin, coming between us every time and if I’m away from my primal accessories, I feel half-sexed.
The texture of leather is brutal, sensual and enticing all at once. Its brutality stems from its animal origin. My curiosity skittered until I spent long evenings researching leather. From the kill to the tanning process. I’d spend afternoons in department stores, browsing leather accessories. Then I’d finish up in the bathroom at my work, finishing the job I started and it didn’t require much effort. Using my fingers to masturbate, I’d come within minutes, only to finally get myself together and traipse into the office, ready to take customer calls like nothing elapsed; another day, another dollar.
Adding leather to sex can be fun, but it can be an odd topic to broach. It isn’t simple finding like-minded partners. Those who I do have sex with aren’t suitable for relationships. I’m at the stage where I’d like a long-term relationship without the complications of having an open relationship or swinging. It’s just not me, and those whom I do meet, who have fetishes also subscribe to the view of being in, either, a polygamous relationship or an open one.
Using leather as an accessory alters me or enables me to entertain fantasies that don’t come out to play during my nine-to-five hours. I own two leather masks that I use with men who like to experiment with their submission. I get off on resting my hand on their scalp, which is the leather of the mask; tapping and caressing the leather, I don’t need anything else to become aroused. They will, on request, be silent and kneel, and all I need to be ready for sex, is the feel of leather on my fingertips or the sight of their obscured face – as though the leather is their actual skin. It works into the idea of the faceless fuck that sometimes becomes the home intruder fuck.
On other occasions, watching films with masked executioners fills me with an icky arousal; I can’t rationalize the fantasy of screwing a masked executioner, except to say that the extreme fantasy may have links in my previous life as a medical professional, seeing finality before my eyes and being left with additional questions that I knew would never be answered and yielding to the uncertainty that life holds.
From the submissive angle, I prefer to have my hands bound with leather. I prefer it to the silk scarf or fluffy handcuffs; the fluff turns me off. Even something as simple as a naked man using a leather flogger on my ass cheeks, when I’m on all fours is thrilling for me. I don’t think a similar scene would work without the leather, with a bare hand slapping me. If I desire wearing my other investment, thigh high boots, it’s to tease and be a role playing bitch to my partner; I get turned on by the power, but more so the glimpse of their lips on the leather as they kiss my feet. There is a primal undercurrent present. I can’t place it and I don’t want to be technical or academic about it.
For all I know, my preference may be straight out of a Freud essay, relate to my father’s shiny patent leather shoes during my toddler years, or my mother’s fondness for leather purses. I do not know but I do know that I’d rather save my few hundred dollars spare, than give it to a therapist to explore my sexuality; my sexuality is for me to explore.
For me, delving in leather, means overcoming skittishness. I have difficulty relating to extreme vegans, PETA activists and everyone who is squeamish about steak and leather products. That doesn’t mean I don’t respect their view; it’s their life. But to step over the line, enter a sexual relationship with an anti-leather person is like entering the dark side for me. I can’t imagine sex this way.
It isn’t cheap to have a leather fetish. Over the years, I’ve refrained from purchasing a multitude of sex accessories made from leather. Even so, I haven’t stopped myself from buying leather jackets, shoes, bags, belts…anything else I can think of. I have spent thousands and I don’t feel guilty. When friends express wonderment at my latest leather purchase, I justify it. If I’m not in a relationship, I want the texture close to my skin.
Every year, I attend the annual gay pride parade just to see the leather. If I’m with a partner, then that partner will be lucky. If I’m solo, I will return home hornier than lioness on heat and sort myself out.
‘Right now, I’m single and I may be single for a little while or until I’m comfortable with a person but I’m not willing to compromise or keep my fetish in the closet,’ I said.
He blankly stared at me.
‘Why are you telling me?’
‘You asked the golden question.’
‘You’ve provided me with a month’s supply of thoughts to chew on,’ he said.