My Valentine's Day

Not much has changed since Christmas. Friday was Valentine's Day, and once again I went careening through the dismal experience of being alone.

All week the hoopla about Valentine's Day had been bugging me. By Friday afternoon I was a complete and total grouch. I had no plans for the evening, but rather than sit around the house after work I decided to get out and enjoy the sunset from Koko Marina. As I had expected the place was fairly deserted, but what I hadn't counted on were so many groups of people going to dinner at the restaurants, being so far from Waikiki. I never saw so many old ladies in red dresses!

I was sitting at a table by the bay watching ducks frolic when who should show up but an old friend, a woman who had never been my lover but in who I had confided about my passion for sexy clothing. She had always been very curious and understanding about that part of me, and holds the honor of being the first woman to enlighten me about the difference in the way I imagined women enjoyed sexy clothes and the way most women felt about them.

I had always believed that many women got as turned on by the feel of sensuous clothes as I did, only they were very reluctant to admit it. It was she who, with the utmost patience and kindness, pointed out that the relationship between women and their clothes was based on adornment. Her theory is that it is how a woman looks that is important to them. Their arousal is a response to their partner, and other circumstances, but not to how nice their dress feels. That may make perfect sense to you, but it was a revelation to me.

She was wise enough to understand that knowing this would not change the way I reacted to sensuous clothes, that a fetish begins at a very young age and gets reinforced by years of repetition. Her advice was that I should continue enjoying my feelings about clothes while accepting the fact that women do not share my feelings.

We did the usual greeting rituals, the focus being that it was Valentines Day and we both had no one to share it with. There we were, two friends without lovers watching the sunset, when along came a young couple who seemed to be waiting for their table at a nearby eatery.

The guy was, well, plain looking, but them I'm a lousy judge of what is attractive about men. The woman, on the other hand, was outstanding. Besides being quite lovely she was wearing a tight black satin top a long, brown satin skirt and those chunky platform shoes I find so alluring. She had a great set of tits, and her satin top molded itself to them like a female comic book superhero's outfit.

Usually when I see a woman dressed like that I react to her as if she were the most desirable woman in the world, but this was one of those times that I reacted with anger. My friend saw her the same time I did, and looked at me inquisitively. When she saw my reaction she just smiled.

My anger seemed to be based on several things, as if it were a dissonant chord played by an ensemble of musicians.

My anger subsided a little, and the couple hung around our table long enough for me to take a stab at enjoying the view. I did what I always do, imagine her naked under her outfit, bathed in the sensual pleasure of the fabric, aroused to the breaking point by the unstoppable pleasure. I am not especially fond of large breasts, but I could not stop thinking about how nice it would be to tie her up and tickle her big, firm breasts.

Even though I indulged myself in such thoughts, my enjoyment was tinged with something like sadness. Was that all it was, or had guilt crept back into my life? I stopped feeling guilty about such desires many years ago, but at that time my accommodation had relied on my belief that I was right about women enjoying the things I did. When I saw a woman like this and ran through the gamut of my sexual fantasies I clung to the belief that if I only had the chance to share them with her she would enjoy herself tremendously. My new awareness, that women do not get aroused by the ticklish feel of satin or from being tied down and tickled into a state of frenzied hysteria that way I do, might be causing me to deny myself, resulting in guilt.

It didn't help when her date put his arm around her waist as they leaned against the railing looking out across the water, then lowered his hand and swept his fingers over her ass. She let out a tiny squeal and twisted away from him, her voice trailing off into a brief, musical peel of laughter. A single word repeated itself over and over again inside my head. "Shit!" My friend saw them, turned to me and chuckled without saying anything more.

That night I masturbated to an unusually harsh fantasy based on that woman. I had her strung up by her wrists, dressed in her satin outfit, and tormented her by tickling her, all over her body but mostly her breasts. Her long, tight skirt gave no access to her cunt, and I used this as an excuse to withhold touching her there. The whole thing was based on driving her mad with desire and not giving her any release combined with the torment of continuous tickling. I really wanted her to suffer.

Saturday dawned fresh and bright. Determined to lift myself out of the mire I had been wallowing in I vowed to devote a sizable part of the day to self pleasure, doing the things I liked to do, things guaranteed to culminate in satisfaction.

I started with a trip to the mall, to check what was new in the way of fetish fashion. I was immediately struck by the profusion of Valentine's displays. A result of display personnel not getting around to changing them yet, or a last ditch effort to entice the men like me who tend to play by "better late than never?" Who can say, but at once I felt a downer rolling in. I held up for almost an hour, until my frustration at having no one to give a silk nightgown to threatened to spoil my day.

I set off on a tour of thrift shops, my favorite place to buy clothes to play with. Not only does it save money, but I find things there that never turn up in retail stores, like satin holokus. Alas, it was one of those days when there was nothing interesting. Most of the time it's like that, and then there are times when I am forced to choose between many hot items or take a big hit in my budget.

Just when I was about to throw in the towel I came upon two lovely dresses. Both were made of 100% silk, and at under $10.00 each a whole lot cheaper than had I purchased them new. Both looked too small to wear, but for me cross-dressing is not nearly as important as fondling them and masturbating with them.

Silk is a magical word for me. As a boy I always labeled the clothes I liked as silk. When I began to seriously explore women's clothing in college I discovered that the things I liked best were made of slinky nylon jersey or silky polyester. Genuine silk was only used for scarves, and those did nothing for me. Only in the past year or two have I found dresses made of silk, but usually they do not feel nearly as nice as they look.

These two dresses were very much an exception. The fabric was like a satin charmuse nightgown, except a bit heavier. The one that I liked best was pleated all over in front. The back was very smooth and shiny, while the front, pleated portion had a jacquard pattern woven into it. I love dresses like that because I like to imagine a woman wearing one without a bra and enjoying the sensation of the pleats tickling her breasts. The other dress had more shape, with a very full skirt.

Shopping for fetish clothes usually turns me on so much that even when I don't find anything I can't wait to get home and play with what I already own. When I find something it becomes the centerpiece of the action, but still I take out a bunch of things I have. It's like a kid with a new toy who takes out toys long forgotten to enhance the enjoyment of the new acquisition.

When I got home it was too early to play, so I went outside to watch the sunset. Standing on the sidewalk I caught a glimpse of movement up the street out of the corner of my eye, a shimmer of brilliance such as might be given off by satin. When I turned to see what it was I spotted a pair of female legs protruding from the open door of a car. I cursed my luck, assuming that she was getting in to drive away, subduing my anger at having missed a good sighting by noting that she might not have been wearing satin at all.

A few minute later I was treated to a wonderful sight. She emerged from the car, and yes indeed she was wearing satin. A simple, knee length dress that looked too much like a nightgown to be out in public. Brilliant, shimmering silver-blue, it fit loosely enough to flutter in the light breeze. The odd thing was that overall she did not looked dressed up. Her shoes were simple, flat sandals, she was not wearing much make-up, and her hair was rather tangled. I found it very appealing that she was willing to wear such a dress in so casual a manner.

I experienced none of the negative feelings that had so polluted my outing the night before. She was lovely, and alone, and in my neighborhood. I wanted to meet her, thought I had a chance and felt very warm and happy at the possibility. I was almost at the level of relief, as in "At last, someone to ask out!"

I smiled pleasantly at her, and was answered with a look of hostility. I have seen that look a thousand times before. I suppose it could simply mean that she realizes that she is in a situation in which I might hit on her and she does not want to be hassled, but it seems to happen most often when the woman is wearing something generally considered sexy. A skimpy bathing suit at the beach, spandex work-out attire in the supermarket, or a slinky gown at a club or party. Perhaps I only notice it more in such situations because I am more apt to pay attention to women dressed that way. Perhaps I leer too much at women dressed in my fetish clothing. Whatever the cause, I recognized the look and decided that it was not a good time to rush over and say hello.

There we were, fifty yards between us, me trying hard not to let the saliva dribble down from my mouth while she stood by her car looking terribly self-conscious. A few minutes passed, the two of us frozen in our silent struggles, when along came a young, hunky-looking guy in a very nice pickup truck. He stopped in front of her, and immediately she yanked open the passenger door. Already feeling deflation approaching and trying not to let it overwhelm me, clinging to the hope that one day soon I would get the chance to make her acquaintance, she turned to look at me one last time, her eyes dripping distaste, and tossed her head in that terrible, smug way that says "You don't have a chance!" or "Not in your wildest dreams!"

Okay, so it might have been "What the heck are you looking at?" My interpretation at the time assumes that she knows that she is dressed provocatively and feels uncomfortable with the attention it causes. Actually, in the past, when I was confident that women experienced the same pleasure from such clothes as I did, I believed that such reactions were based on the woman's fear that I knew how turned-on they were, almost as if I had seen them masturbating. The shift to her perception of how sexy she looks is a rather recent development for me. If I apply my newest perspective, that worst women have a hard time understanding why guys like me get so excited about what they are wearing, it opens up the possibility that in this case the woman had no idea why I reacted the way I did. Her dress was not very short, or at all tight. No plunging neckline or high cut slit in the side. She probably thought it was cute, fashionable yet conservative, and not at all sexy. In other words, the significance of the material was lost on her.

At any rate, this last interpretation came later. At the time I was operating out of my deeply established fetish space, in which I believed that she was enjoying the pleasure of her dress teasing her skin and that her scorn was a reaction to my intrusion into her privacy. I had had just enough time to push beyond that point in space to a more realistic reaction, that she knew she looked sexy and resented my interest in her. An intellectual reaction takes much longer than a conditioned reflex!

The result was that I was crushed. It was almost a repeat of the previous night. There went a young man with his girlfriend dressed in satin, and there I was all alone. The thing that hurt the most was my belief that he had had nothing to do with her choice in attire. From my very first date I longed to show up at my dates house and have her appear dressed in something that turned me on, and not once has it happened. Not unless I bought it for her.

Later that night I had to push myself to get out my fetish clothes and play. You know the feeling, like when you know you should eat but just don't feel like it. I think I spent an hour giving myself a pep talk, the central themes being:

It turned out rather nice, though. I managed to set aside my considerations and allow myself to enter that special world in which I imagine how good it could be. This is nothing new for me. Basically I act out the role of a woman in one of my fantasies.

I found that I could just fit into both dresses as long as I didn't zip them up, although the one with the full skirt fit better. I forced myself to wear it for an hour while spending most of that time standing in front of my big living room window with all the lights off. The idea was not to be seen, yet to go beyond the experience of "Wow, I'm wearing a silk dress!" and get as close as possible to being a woman wearing it in public. I allowed myself to run my fingers all over the silk, acting out being tickled even though tickling myself is not very effective, but I forced myself to avoid my crotch. (Often when I tickle myself I experience it as me tickling the woman. Sounds strange, doesn't it? My body is the female, receiving the stimulation and getting aroused by the tickling. My fingers are mine, enjoying the act and sensation of stroking a woman dressed in silk. Talk about control, I am in command of both sides of the situation!)

After acting out the ordeal I had so cruelly wished upon the woman the night before I finished by casting myself as the woman I had seen that afternoon. The action involved my trusty Sunbeam vibrator, which I applied to my cock through the silk dress I still wore, never too long at a time, engulfing me in pleasure while making it impossible for me to reach orgasm. It is a fiendish torment that I have used in several variations many times on women with extremely positive results, and which I have been treated to on several occasions, minus the dress, by women. My fantasies about tickling receded into the background, my attention sharply focused on the actual feel of the silk and the mind shattering pleasure wrought by the vibrator.

One of the things that creates an impassable gulf between me and women is my habit of imagining clothes that feel far more ticklish to wear than any actually do. What started in childhood as something akin to Superman's superhuman powers or wizards casting fantastic spells grew rapidly into something approaching a belief. It did not seem to matter that my intellect doubted the ability of silk to tickle girls the way I enjoyed thinking it did. When I saw a girl dressed in silk, or just picked out a pretty girl and imagined her dressed in silk, my mind responded instantly with a great outpouring of desire. The more ticklish I imagined the silk felt to wear, the more it excited me. Where was the boundary between fetishism per se and my desire to tickle a girl? A silk dress was a means to tickle a girl, a means to an end, yet it symbolized so much more. Its unique properties aside, it was a symbol of femininity, like long hair and ribbons and patent leather shoes. From my earliest recollections it was this quality of ultra-femininity that I was drawn to. Could it have been the other way around? Did I find ultra-feminine girls more attractive because they were more likely to wear silk dresses?

Whatever the answer to that question may be, the situation this lead to was that I would feel disappointed when partner did not break down and giggle uncontrollably when she wore something I had given her. Just as disappointing was to learn that she was not turned on by being tickled. My sexual pleasure was based on unattainable situations, only for many long years I did not know this. I truly believed that if I liked it, lots of other men and women must like it too. Even when my intellect stepped in and noted that my belief in the power of sensuous clothes may be ill-founded, my conditioned reflex triggered emotional reactions that I was unaware of. Simply stated, if a girl did not find wearing silk the most arousing, mind-blowing form of tickling she had ever experienced she was flawed. The conflict between the positions reached by my intellect and my reflexes was suppressed, perhaps because I felt so ashamed of my special desires. I thought everything was fine, except that I no longer saw her as desirable. I became Ahab, and my Moby Dick was a girl who loved to be tickled by the clothes she wore. King Solomon's mines and the Holy Grail come to mind here, too.

That night, my session with the vibrator was unusual in that much of my association between silk and tickling was not a factor in my play. I was very aware of the feel of the dress, but only to the extent that it felt good and extremely feminine. I don't think it is possible to disengage entirely my fetish response to it, but there was something very different the path I followed.

It reminds me of a girlfriend I had had many years ago. She was strictly a jeans and T-shirt type, having shunned all forms of silk and nylon lingerie and sexy clothes. I was drawn to the possibility of turning her on to something new and wonderful, not to mention that she was very cute in a little girl sort of way, a wonderful person, and wild about me.

I gave her a short, black satin nightgown, which I intended to be the first step in transforming her into an addict of sensual dressing. She accepted it and wore it to bed, but it was painfully obvious that she only did so to please me. I had yet to divulge the depth of my attachment to it, but I did say that it meant just as much to me to imagine that she enjoyed the feel of it as it did to see her wearing it.

Much to my surprise she wore it the next time we had sex, and again the next, without a word from me. As we began to play she confided in me that she enjoyed the way it felt. She said that being naked with a guy had been her greatest turn-on, but that the feel of the silk was so nice that she liked it just as much as being naked. She even admitted that she liked to wear it to bed when I was not there, because it reminded her of me. I hoped that meant she had discovered how good it felt to masturbate in, but I was too shy to ask.

That night I wanted to see her and touch her silk nightgown more than I could when we just had sex, so I guided her into a position with me sitting cross-legged on the bed and her sitting on my thighs with her legs wrapped around my waist. That was the first time I revealed my passion for tickling, through action rather than words. I had her place her hands on my shoulders, and told her to try as hard as she could to keep them there. I set about running my fingers very lightly over her silk nightgown, mostly up and down her sides and over her breasts. She began to squirm, but she did not laugh. I asked her if it tickled, and she said it did a little only it felt really good. Of course I was ecstatic!

After a minute or two of that I began to play with her cunt, and she was soaking wet. Her clit was big and hard. I began to flick it very gently with my middle finger and she seemed to melt. I kept diddling her clit with my right hand while tickling her very gently with my left hand, never tickling so much that she wanted it to stop. I tried as hard as I could to judge how hot she was, and whenever she seemed close to orgasm I stopped stroking her clit. This went on for a long time, long enough for my thighs to begin to ache from the weight of her even though she was very petite. Suddenly she exclaimed, in a soft, horse whisper, that what I was doing was driving her insane. Fearful of spoiling her pleasure I stopped pulling away, and in no time she was thrashing around in a frenzied orgasm.

A kind of blood lust swept over me, and as soon as she had stopped shaking I began to diddle her clit again. She complained rather meekly and tried to pull away, but I clutched her to me with my left arm while continuing to play with her clit as I encouraged her to keep going. She did, and came again. Still I did not want to stop, and she came yet again. Finally her objections to any more sounded sincere, and as she sagged limply against me she admitted that she had enjoyed herself very much, which man me feel very happy.

That became our favorite sex play, so much so that I gave her two more nightgowns. The one variation we tried was for me to tie her arms behind her back, and she said she liked that even better because it made her feel helpless to make it stop. I brought out a vibrator one night, one of those wicked looking Japanese jobs, and we tried it once but she said that my finger did a much better job.

She said that there were many things about that scene that she enjoyed. The feel of the silk. The way I tickled her so gently. The power of my body so close to hers. The enjoyment I got from it. The frustration at being so close to orgasm and having it snatched away, followed by unrelenting pleasure that made her feel as though she would die if it did not stop. The sense of helplessness, which the bondage made sharper. Sure we made love in other ways, but that was our favorite.

I finally revealed more of my feelings about women being tickled by their clothes. Her reaction was a wonderfully simple dismissal. She thought that it would be marvelous if it were possible, except that she doubted that she could stand it out in public the way I described it. Her discomfort with dressing up for dates was the very thing that came between us. I tried to let it go, but she knew how much it meant to me yet could not bring herself to be seen dressed that way. It was the fatal flaw.

I did not have her in mind when I tortured myself with my vibrator, but I think that those nights we spent together contributed to my enjoyment. The woman I thought about was the one I had seen that afternoon. Several scenes came to mind.

In one she was standing in front of me, her arms and legs held open by cuffs and ropes and a spreader bar. She was naked under her dress expect for a tight fitting rubber dildo panty. The dildo was not one of those wimpy, battery powered egg things. It was very thick, covered with sharp rubber spines, and the vibrator inside was as powerful as mine. A long wire ran from it to a variable speed control box which I held, and from there it plugged into the wall. A cluster of soft rubber spikes molded into the inside of the panty carried the vibrations to her clit. When I turned on the switch the sensations wear so strong that she screamed in agony, but when I switched it off she moaned in frustration at not being allowed to orgasm. Her satin dress did not tickle her so much as bath her in delicious pleasure.

The second setting had her riding around in her boyfriend's truck, the dildo panty plugged into the cigarette lighter. Her arms were tied behind her back. He drove to Waikiki and cruised along the main streets, blipping the button that controlled the vibrator while she struggled to look unperturbed.

My orgasm was like a shuttle launch, but as satisfying as it was I still fell back to earth to find myself alone. There is nothing better than to return from the heights of pleasure and snuggle with the woman you love, especially if she is the one wearing the silk dress!

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