Pan Am delights with a splendid girdle sequence!

Busy week…and on top of it, it’s my birthday today…a big one that starts with 6 and ends with 0. Maybe I shouldn’t say that, announce it to the world? But what the hell. Whatever 60 is supposed to feel like, I don’t feel…except in the mornings, and late at night sometimes.

Most of the time I feel either 14, 18, or a solid 39 (like Jack Benny). And maybe with a smattering of 49.

When I was a kid I used to read the biographical dictionary for fun and subtract the people’s dates to see how long they lived. I somehow arbitrarily decided if a person lived to only 59, he or she died young. If they made to 60, they were officially old. So there, I’m an old guy. But, a dirty old guy. I got an assignment this week to write a short regular column for Domme Dose, a femdom site at dommedose dot com (for adults only). So I guess there is still some juice left in the old boy. Because when I see some of the cute dominatrixes at Domme Dose, I feel solidly 18. Or 19. (Although when one of them named BellaDaisy teases with shots of her awesome iconic cleavage, I feel a solid 14, in the full flush of goggle-eyed adolescence.)

I have to admit that if I have any lingering adolescence left in me, I keep it well-hidden.

Meanwhile…onto subjects I can illustrate with nice looking women.

After all my fantasies about Christina Ricci enslaving viewers by sashaying in her well-girdled Pan Am stewardess duds on the ABC Sunday night show of that name, it turns out that Margot Robbie is the one I’m daydreaming about.

I’m starting to feel about gloves the way those 19th century Viennese fetishists did, the ones Krafft-Ebing wrote about.

Margot plays the girl who gives up marriage to see the world via Pan Am, and she’s got the perfect figure for the fashions of the era. On top of that, she looks like a Playboy Playmate from that era too. And they looked different back then, a certain more generous curviness…

I loved when at the end of the last episode, she stood on the street looking for something in her purse.

I envy that sweater…

Who needs nudity when women look like this in clothes?

Miss Robbie’s playing is delightfully straightforward and affecting, sometimes soulful, sometimes comedic. I think she has movie star quality. And of course I reacted with joy when I saw the series reserved the honors of its first big girdle scene for Margot, two weeks ago:

Women took naps in girdles. I’ve been marveling over this since 1965.

The sweet slumber of the stewardess…

Later in the show, Margot and Christina deal with the issue of a lizard that has crawled into their hotel room. Christina finesses the lizard, but when she screeches that there’s a SNAKE in the bathroom, Margot jumps on the bed…

The lizard was vanquished, but soon Mr. Snake would make his presence known!

Margot does this really cute little move when she finally bounces off the bed…

She better get dressed before any more reptiles show up!! Like ye ole Uncle Irv!!

Whenever Pan Am lays on the female empowerment stuff, like with Christina Ricci beating guys at pool and dominoes and betting at Indonesian cockfights, it’s kind of ho-hum. But I think the show remembers what side its girdle is buttered on, as this sequence proves! I hope Pan Am gives us lots more time-traveling glimpses of mid-20th century girdle tease! May it run for a hundred seasons! I won’t be here, but I’ll set the DVR!

One final word to my fellow fanciers of erotic female empowerment–aka, femdom. Here are two shots of Margot as a sexy office worker, ready to bring any slackers back in line.

I nominate Margot Robbie for Chief Administrator of My Fantasy Life!

Obviously in Margot’s case, it’s the girl who makes the uniform, and not the other way around. As James Cagney said of Virginia Mayo in White Heat, “Baby, you’d look good in a shower curtain!”

Men become asses when girls like this wear glasses! 😉

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The lost Times Square culture of solitary sleazitude…

The other night on Twitter I got into a fun little back-and-forth of reminiscences with WR from the femdom site Domme Dose (http://dommedose dot com) about the old days in Times Square, recalling the Triple Treat Theater where they had porn stars and dominatrixes, and Show World Center with its fantasy booth girls. For the aficionado of commercial erotic adventure, the current 42nd Street and Times Square are a total bore compared to the old days of sleaze. I mean, to be fair, there are still a few strip clubs and adult bookstores here and there, but mostly on the fringes; and the area overall is “family-friendly,” in that phrase beloved of tourist guidebooks.

Upstairs, "one-on-one" booths where girls would entertain you behind glass for $1 per minute.

I got the above image from an article at the Gothamist website, where you can see several more great glimpses of the bygone glories of NY sleazitude. And go to a site called Bald Punk’s Paranormal NYC to see a funky video that gives you a nice feeling of Times Square in the 70s.

I knew most of the theaters, peep shows, bookstores, and strip clubs in the area. That’s what the area is missing today–places where men who enjoy the solitary culture of sleazitude can get their thrills cheaply, unpretentiously. I love the Internet, but sometimes you like to be alone amongst liked-minded strangers.

I remember the walk-in $10 massage parlors–the door was a curtain of beads, or sometimes there was no door at all–down on 42nd Street between 9th and 10th Avenues, which is now “Theater Row.” Girls would be sitting on folding chairs in loose summer frocks. “Hi, honey, wanna massage?” “Yes, ma’am!”

Left: the Carter Hotel, where famous poet Delmore Schwartz died. Right, Roxy Theaters, where hot strippers writhed.

I got the above shot from a site called NYC Architecture. Go there for more amazing pix of the area, and edgy photos of ladies on the streets.

Now, do you remember the shoes that were so popular in the late 70s, Candies slides? Whenever I see pictures of them, I think of a girl I knew back in 1977 in an incall brothel apartment on the East Side in the 50s.

I can still see her butt, plumped up when she was standing in this brand of heels.

Not too long after I got back to New York following my father’s death that summer in Chicago (my hometown), I found this cute girl through an ad in Screw newspaper and visited her for six months for $25 a session. Although she was comparatively short, she had really nice legs and a round butt, and she often wore pantyhose which sexily accentuated her curvy shape. And she also always wore Candies’ slides, the same style as these vintage ones from 1978 that I found in this photo from the Esty site here.

She was one  of the first girls I ever got into femdom scenarios with, even though all I basically did was kiss her legs, feet, and butt. She was a friendly little blonde Jewish gal in her early 20s from Queens. She never worked on Friday nights, because that’s when she had Sabbath dinner with her relatives. At least that’s what she told me, and I liked the idea of it so I believed her. Maybe it was true, or maybe she was playing me because I was then, still, a “nice” Jewish boy. Even if she was playing me, it doesn’t matter, because it was the right myth to please me at that time.

She got me through a lot of lonely months with nice conversation and roleplay when I was still thinking a lot about how awfully my father suffered (a quick, catastrophic neurological disease), and how young he died (forty-nine). Eventually I started thinking it would be nice to see her on the outside, but although she didn’t mind me calling her at the brothel just to say hello, dating wasn’t possible. Ruefully I said, “I wish I’d met you in a different place, like in a museum, coming up to you and giving you some corny line.” I usually tried to pick girls up at the Metropolitan Museum in front of the Dutch paintings, which in their homey humanism lent themselves readily to quips. “Yeah, that would’ve been different,” she said. But that wasn’t how we’d met, so we just continued as “trick and tart” until eventually I couldn’t seem get through to her anymore at the whorehouse just to say hello.

For a long time I liked to think it was like something out of the poem by Andrew Marvell, The Definition of Love:

Therefore the love which us doth bind,
    But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
    And opposition of the stars.

I was a romantic fool then. Still have a touch of it today.

She called herself Kitty, and when I first saw her, she was sitting scrunched up in the corner of a couch, just like a kitten. “Who would you like?” the madam said. So I nodded to the kitten in Candies.

 

Dreams and mind-games that ladies sell…

My last post got this blog more than three times my usual number of visits, thanks to its re-posting on an adults-only site called Domme Dose at http://dommedose dot com, which deals with such “mind-fuckery” as erotic financial domination–which was the topic of my piece. I was glad to share “Teases & Temptations of the Twitterdommes” there and get the word out about my various jottings whether on this blog or in my erotica ebooks like Learning to Be Cruel, Toes Are For Sucking, and Spell of Dominance–all of which can be readily found when you visit my page on Amazon here. At Domme Dose, I also got some interesting comments from dommes and subs alike about what I said; and since all writers crave feedback on their public musings, this was especially welcome.

The subject of financial domination got me thinking back to the ways in which both mistresses and strippers have manipulated me into spending money over extended periods of time. Without boring you with lengthy and mundane anecdotal details, let me sum up by saying that I’ve realized explicitly in the last few hours that my most skillful “fantasy facilitators” picked up on a very important thing about me: I don’t like to spend money for women’s company, I’m actually ashamed of it, but I view it as a necessary evil in order to interact with the females I am most drawn to.

That's me...wanting something I can only pay to have.

These “commercial” women I’ve known, whether strippers or dommes or call girls–all facilitators one way or the other of my fantasy life–are generally out of my league because of my lack of confidence, savoir faire, wealth, hair, muscles, and youth, and also because of my full supply of bookishness, shyness, and general introversion. I’m not a bad guy, and in fact I am not shy with people I know and am comfortable with–but I have always had trouble clicking with the ladies I most desired, even when I was young and hairier. Ergo–strip clubs and dungeons and incall brothels have been my haunts for a long time.

What the most insightful or clever of my paid distaff companions did was make me feel that I was “more” than a customer, not quite a friend perhaps (because they sensed I was too cynical to fall for that) but something more valuable than just some joe who gave them enough money every couple of weeks to pay their utilities bill.

This feeling of wanting to connect with women who don’t want to connect with me is so deep and primal in my personality than even though I would always consciously remind myself that these “relationships” were not relationships, were shallow acquaintanceships and financial interactions, I stuck around until inevitably they simply played themselves out. I would have a good time and not feel I had wasted my money (well, maybe a little), but there would always be the lingering question, “Why can’t I just find this without paying for it?” Well, I knew the answer: because I didn’t want to. Maybe because I wanted, as the old saying goes, to pay them not for lapdances or roleplay or actual sex, but to leave.

Pulp art not only expressed men's anxieties about gals who sell erotic dreams, but fulfilled those dreams a little too.

Remember the fellas who used to ride behind the victorious Roman generals in triumphal marches, holding the laurel wreath above their heads? Those guys used to whisper in the generals’ ears: “Remember, thou art only a man” in order to remind them not to think of themselves as anything more than that. Even if you conquered friggin’ Gaul with its berserk axe-wielding dudes in pigtails, you were not a god. Similarly, I would have a little guy sitting on my shoulder reminding me, even when I had great times with strippers or dommes or hookers: “Remember, thou art only a customer.” Although sometimes I would make it sound more harsh and say, “Remember, bub, thou art only a trick.”

In a way, the mind games make it impossible for the stripper, domme, or callgirl to ever entirely leave the customer’s head until the “relationship” is ended. I know that the lingering hope that I might get to hang out with a stripper or a domme in the “real world,” like going out together for dinner, kept me entangled with her.

Scoop me in your arms and rock me like a baby...

If, as F. Scott Fitzgerald said, the proof of a first-rate mind is the ability to hold two ideas in it simultaneously, then my mind is razor sharp. 😉 True, the women I spent the most money on did seem to like me to some small degree, even if only in the confines of the club or dungeon. But in my mind I both knew the ladies were manipulating me into believing there was a possibility of more, yet I was able to see the interactions for how limited and hopeless they really were. Perhaps that’s where the body comes into play, the male body with its urges and testosterone; pushing aside the fussy warnings of the observant brain in the quest for yet a few more sensual thrills.

 

Teases and temptations of the Twitterdommes…

Over the last couple of weeks I’ve started using Twitter as a means of promoting both my erotica ebooks and my blog, and it is really fascinating and more than a little addictive. I am a longtime “browser” of books and libraries and the Internet, so of course Twitter with its mix of links is catnip to me.

I “follow” a mix of people on Twitter in my usual eclectic fashion that reflects my interests in erotica, literature, entertainment, and current events. I’ve particularly been commenting on the tweets of like-minded purveyors of femdom erotic fantasy, all of whom are women who run websites and video “clip stores” that convey their brands of domination over submissive males. Some of these women call their slaves “losers” and many of their slaves like that. They tease them for having “small dicks” and threaten them with the horror and pleasure of humiliating cuckoldry. These women call themselves goddesses and princesses and humiliatrixes, among their various self-bestowed appellations, and many photos and videos show them vivaciously and with gleeful cruelty giving the finger to their horny acolytes. Or making the “loser” sign by forming an “L” with their thumb and forefinger. Many of these Twitterdommes also urge or command their admirers to buy them gifts in a practice known as “financial domination” which is shortened to “findom.”

"I'll drain that little dick wimp dry and it'll make my pussy wet!"

Now, I have my own fetishes, like preferences for an attractive face and good legs and round butts and pretty feet; and I like all sorts of femdom roleplaying, where the woman is the temporary master of the man. Be my stern mistress, or my corrective governess, or my seductive college student, or my teasingly trampy neighbor, or my evil spanking landlady–I love it, in fantasy play that doesn’t put me into hock.

"Worship me. Recite little poems about how you will serve!"

But one fetish I have never had–or perhaps it can better be described as a compulsion–is to give women money. I get no special thrill out of that. I don’t like to be drained of my dough and be made to feel like a fool…or a loser. For example, I have always disliked and distrusted arrogant strippers whose attitude clearly is, “What is MY money doing in YOUR wallet?”

In strip clubs and whorehouses, money was only a means to enable me to have some time with the lady. It wasn’t used to show the girl that I was a sucker and that she should laugh at me for wanting her, or that the idea that I would want her was so ridiculous that she should “punish” me for it. I was never a wild spender. I wasn’t ungenerous, just cautious given my always comparatively limited means. In titty bars, I have never been to the champagne room, if you know what I mean. Having a drink and lapdance with a girl out in the main area of the club was always enough for me.

But if I was friendly with a peeler, I would always tip her well and, for example, get her a small Christmas gift just to show my appreciation. Or buy her a book I thought she might enjoy. I used to run out and pick up cigarettes or sodas for fantasy booth girls of whom I was a regular customer. One time I cemented a friendship with a dancer–within the strip club, that is–by running out and buying her the first order of sushi–California rolls–that she ever had.

However, if guys get off giving their money to the financial dommes, that’s their business. And I have to admit the creative bitchiness of some of these dommes, demanding to be “spoiled” and treated like royalty, is entertaining and sometimes arousing. As is clear in my own erotica like Learning to Be Cruel, Spell of Dominance, and Toes Are For Sucking, I am turned on by bitchy women, but for me it is a fine line that these “findommes” tread between being stimulating and disturbing. No doubt about it, though, some of them are most temptingly attractive…and out of their lips, sometimes even the word “loser” sounds as endearing as any sweet nothing…and they get my little willie winking, God help me!!!

The greatness of man is that he can go "arf-arf" for a woman yet still create civilizations. 😉

 

Mysterious gal in a girdle!

Well, the nine-day 99¢ special sale is over now for my book SPELL OF DOMINANCE, and I’m happy to say I sold a bunch of copies. And now I’ve adjusted the price back to its original $3.99 for this collection of five femdom stories totaling around 10,000 words of sexy fiction. I hope you’ll give it a try! Go to my author’s page at Amazon to get more info about all my books, including free samples you can read right online before instantly downloading for your Kindle, or for a Kindle application on your computer.

Meanwhile, it may be Columbus Day for most people, but not for this freelancer. I have to start the week’s porn work…

But let’s start the week off right with a sexy picture of a girl in a girdle, shall we? Here’s one in a vintage Vanity Fair ad from 1962. Vanity Fair the lingerie company, that is, not the famous magazine. Wouldn’t you just like to run your hands over this mysterious gal, who covers her face so coyly?

The hand over the face makes the image even sexier to me! A kind of facial tease, you might say...

 

Special sale! 99¢ for SPELL OF DOMINANCE!

I’m having a special 99¢ sale in the Kindle store at Amazon.com! From Saturday October 1st thru Sunday October 9th, my new Kindle ebook collection of five femdom stories SPELL OF DOMINANCE is available for only 99¢, instantly downloadable to your Kindle or to your computer with a Kindle app.

10,000 words--five complete stories--of kinky ladies taking charge! Only 99¢ for a limited time!

The book is regularly $3.99 but I thought it was time for a Special “Let’s Get Acquainted with Uncle Irv’s Kinky Stories” Sale for those of you who may have been sitting on the fence about whether to plunge into my fictional universe. It’s available for 99¢ in the U.S., and for comparable prices in the U.K. and Germany. Click on the links below, and enjoy!

Amazon US:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005JFV0OG

Amazon UK:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B005JFV0OG

Amazon Germany:

http://www.amazon.de/dp/B005JFV0OG

It’s never too late to “kink up” your weekend with a SPELL OF DOMINANCE!