The Perfect Man

Almost Divine, from Tony Love Heart's collection of Cute Boys

One of the side effects of being into feederism is the ability to guess someone's weight just by looking at them. FA*s, like tailors, learn through looking at hundreds of profiles listing height and weight what to expect, and after a while certain numbers become more important than others. There is a kind of man who will begin to stiffen and leak upon reading the stats "5' 5", 200 lbs." before he's even seen a picture, and I myself am not immune to this phenomenon. 

For me, the magic number is 170 lbs. (My ideal height for a man is a little shorter than myself--say 5' 8".) I'm unusual in wanting something so low, but much over 170 lbs. and a boy's frame will begin to look overloaded. The fat will begin to fold over and bloat him out, overbalance him. Under 170, all his muscles will stand out and his belly will be flat. But at 170, the extremes are perfectly in balance. If he has muscle definition it will still be visible, perhaps slightly softened, but the main difference will be in his belly. The extra flesh will have a round, tight look to it: he'll still fit in his clothes but form-fitting t-shirts will pull across his tummy like a slut's dress. This, in feederism parlance, is called a "ball belly", and I zero in on it the way an ass man looks at pictures of Beyonce. 

It is this set of parameters, as unforgivingly specific as the demands of height and weight for a Vogue model, that seem to set me apart even in what is already an unimaginably rare fetish. I am forever trying to get my cyber-beaus to slow down when they want to speed up--when boys talk lustfully about reaching 200, 300 lbs. I'm urging them to stop right where they are. I want them to be gluttonous, but also go to the gym, maintain. If I could just freeze them in time I absolutely would. 

And, thus, I jinx myself. Most boys I've talked to just want to give their gluttony and lust free reign. What I want is much harder. I want soft hardness and restrained indulgences, I want their bodies to be everything to me, all at once. When I told Cee that I was going to stop looking so hard for a feedee and start trying other things because if I didn't I would be very, very lonely, he said, "Don't you want to create your ideal man?"

And that's the intoxication for every feeder's heart: the ability to mold someone into exactly what you want. Every modern retelling of Pygmalion makes him out to be a shallow, silly cunt, but really, who wouldn't want this power? When our robot overlords get good enough to marry I'm not so much going to want to program a boyfriend to do whatever I want (because who wants something as unchallenging as that?) but mix and match billions of skin and hair and bone structures so he looks exactly how I want. High cheekbones. Skin like marble. Black hair and blue eyes and a round porn star's ass and long fingered hands and a small, perfectly rounded belly. If there was any personality programming going on I'd install a desire to maintain his body that rivaled any starlet's (or would he be a Real Doll-like model that was stuck looking exactly one way?)

But the thing that keeps me from becoming a shining example of how women can have as insanely specific desires as men is that I'd can't imagine how I'd have the right to impose my standards on a real live human male, one that I'd sleep next to and make dinner with. Do I have the right to demand that my lovers shave and wax themselves when I hate doing it myself? Should they always look perfect when I seldom care to put any work into my appearance at all? It's a long and detailed list that would stress anyone out, and if they weren't naturally endowed with the "proper" bone structure it could drive them to despair**.

Nevertheless, I think of this description as the core of my desires. Sometimes it influences my sexual choices, sometimes not. It's true I've had several partners of the dark and delicate-boned variety, and all the feedees I currently cyber with fit that mold. But it's also true that their charms can lose their power over me if they're inarticulate, needy, or just plain mean: the ones I've kept in contact with for over a year are all smart, interesting, and mostly happy boys with their own style of language. And sometimes I just want someone completely different: my first love was a conservative with a body that made one think more of WWF wrestlers than dancers or jockeys, and when I look at the endless parade of boys on my Tumblr I'm constantly surprised how one physical attribute will look quite different on one boy than on another. (I've told Jefferson he'd be more attractive if he shaved his kiwis, but have found myself buried in DC Boy's far hairier crotch and loved every minute of it.) And there's a whole other as-yet-unwritten branch of my sexual desires where the men always come in pairs, with matching appetites but exactly opposite bodies. Perhaps the key to my desires isn't hungry brunettes, but  contrast?

So at the end of this long rambling post about my ultimate desires I've come to the conclusion that there are some things I like a lot, and some things I almost like, and some things I like that I had no idea I liked before I saw them. The fact that hardly anyone has all these things or none of these things guarantees that even if you don't fit my core desires exactly, you don't have to worry I'm "settling" for you. (And neither, thank God, do I.)

Which doesn't erase the fact that if a boy came along who was mostly sane and had the right bone structure I wouldn't go absolutely mad for him. The six weeks or six months it took to change his almost perfect body into my ideal perfect body would be the most intensely sexual of my life. Even if we didn't fuck I might be able to cum just from watching him eat, or work out, or whatever else I had demanded he do to mold himself. If he was slightly dumb I would put up with it, if he was really dumb I'd feel humiliated, if he was a sub I'd push him around and if he was a domineering asshole I don't know what I would do, but no matter what personality he had a part of me wouldn't be able to say no to him. He'd have more power over me than I'm comfortable thinking about, and if he were wired the way he'd have to be wired for this to be in any way consensual, I'd have the same power over him.

There's a movie called Original Sin. It's been many years since I've seen it, so it may in fact be horrible. But it's redeemed in my memory because it has Antonio Banderas and Angelina Jolie in it. They were two of my favorite actors for a long time. I have no idea what's happened to Mr. Banderas, and this was long before Miss Jolie became the woman every straight girl wanted to fuck. I just had an innocent awe of the fact that such alien lips were part of a real human being.

But to cut to the chase: Mr. Banderas sends away for a mail order bride, and gets Jolie in return. After he meets her, falls for her, and fucks her she leaves him (something about her really being a thief who posed as a mail-order bride in order to steal his fortune.) Apparently, she didn't really care for him at all. There's a few minutes of montage where it shows Banderas going into many different brothels, with many different types of women. But they all have the same physical characteristics, the slender build and the long dark hair, and he makes them smoke cigars as she did. 

I know what that's like. I know all too well. 

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*FAs: "Fat Admirers". It's feederism speak for chubby chasers. If you're a female chubby chaser you're supposedly an FFA, but why do we need another F in front of it telling people the admirer is female? 

** Or drive him to get very expensive and painful plastic surgery just for me, but that's another post altogether.

BHM Crushes: Dan Dreiberg

I'm sure after the movie's been out for a while I won't have so much of a time trying to find photos of Nite Owl naked, but until then enjoy this pic of him and Silk Spectre looking all lovey dovey, courtesy of Shipperwar.

They fucked up the sex scene.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to BHM Crushes. This is the part of Stuffies where I wax eloquent on one of the poles of my desire--for what I like, at least in terms of the male body, varies both toward the tiny etherial boys who aren't over 5 foot nine all the way over to what I call, for want of a better term, chubby linebackers.

Thus, I give you my very first BHM Crush: Dan Driberg.

Tho I don't think I'm supposed to like him "that way". Example:

I'm a huge fan of the comic, but if you can pull yourself away from the source material long enough to look at the flick from a purely cinematic point of view, you'll see that the movie serves as a pretty profoundly fucked-up meditation on not only superheroes, but also on the people who dig superheroes. This is all subtext in the 'Watchmen' comic, but it wasn't until I saw all of these characters on the big screen that I realized that each of the heroes is crippled by an archetypal personality flaw endemic to a lot of comic book fans: the well-meaning but outta-shape/impotent Nite Owl, the too-smart-for-his-own-good Ozymandias, the rage-filled Rorschach and the all-knowing-but-tragically-disconnected-from-humanity pile of protons that is Doc Manhattan. It wouldn't be too hard to see these same characters stuck together in high school, unable to get dates or get along with anyone else while the Silk Spectre II bumps uglies with the school's quarterback.

But really, even with all that, how can you not love a man who named his flying machine Archie? And he can make all his own toys!

This article also conveniently forgets that Miss Jupiter ends up bumping uglies with that same impotent man, and honestly seems to like it. Sometimes multiple blue dudes that taste like batteries just don't do it for you, and what you really need is a good old fashioned fuck delivered by a hot geek with arm muscles, holy god, I so need a still of that scene where he's on top of her on the sofa and he's not sure what he's doing but his arm muscles look so gloriously capable. And then there's a close up of her undoing the belt on his pants and you can see his soft tummy even and there's never ever been a sex scene like this in a movie that I've ever seen and then it was over. But it was ok, I knew he'd get a second chance. I'd read the book.

Speaking of which, isn't Nite Owl supposed to have a fetish too?



I'm pretty sure the creators of the original comic put the fetish sex connotations in to say something about how being a superhero was a unique kind of fucked up, but you know what, I don't care about that any more. So what if the man has a latex fetish? There are much worse fetishes to have, I assure you...

Costumes. Oddly, one of the things the book and the movie never explained how he was supposed to fit back into his costume. Wasn't he supposed to have gained weight? But you know I don't care about that either because she's taking his mask off and there's something so hot about a man with a naked head when the rest of him is covered. And then he picks her up and starts to pound her right there on the bulkhead and whoa, this looks like a real sex scene! He's thrusting and they both look kinda awkward but also hot and we have this nice close up of her boot pressed up against his side and then the music.

The horrific music.

Was the sex scene supposed to be stupid all along and I just missed it? Ok, the bit where the fire shoots out is kinda silly...but it's tipped over into agonizing absurdity with this song, which will simply not go away or be faded out so I have to hunker down in my seat and simply breathe, focus on Dan's arms, don't let it entirely ruin it for me. It's like my fetish in general, I thought, you just gotta block out the bad parts, focus on the good...

Anyway, when Watchmen comes out on DVD I can scroll to this scene and watch it with the sound off. Just like a real porno.

Movies That Squick Me

If I did one of those year end roundup things like everyone else does, I probably would have done one on Useful Words I Have Only Read on Sex Blogs. Among the nominees for terms for things that I knew existed by had absolutely no words for, there's "mimbo", "guh", and "subspace". But by far the most useful word that I have yet to see in everyday life has been "squick".

There's a certain scene in a certain movie that everyone talks about in Feederism. Perhaps you've seen it?



This movie squicks me. I first saw it when I was a teeny kid and watching the scene filled me with a horror that I still can't quite describe--Turn it off, turn it off, please please turn it off!

Which, according to some things I've read, is exactly why I'm interested in the things I am now. It's probably in a very general top ten of "When I Realized I Had A Fetish" stories. As one of my feedee acquaintances past explained it to me, What you fear becomes that which you most desire, and so--! One wonders if the makers of Willy Wonka realize how many little children had all their sex synapses fire off at once simply from watching their move. After one showing, hundreds of little inflation fetishists were born!

But the problem with that theory is, the movie still squicks me. It's not that I secretly want it and have deeply repressed it, it's that it doesn't excite me in any way at all. It gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach--or, if I actually force myself to watch it (to prove to myself that I am a normal person and the fact that these images of entirely fantastic expansion shouldn't really bother me) a feeling that something terrible will happen when the tension is finally released. There is a deep part of me that is simply terrified of watching the buildup of pressure that leads to an explosion, and it is this strange quirk of my makeup that will guarantee that if I ever cross paths with a looner, I will hail them as a cousin.

Granted, this peculiar quirk doesn't have much affect on my life. It doesn't inhibit with my everyday functioning, unless you count my media consumption. I didn't even see the second half of Willy Wonka until many years later, when there was a community showing of it that I attended with my friends. I went to the bathroom during the "Blueberry" part, and came back when it was over. I did the same thing during the pig scene in Sprited Away. And that stuffing scene in Cool Hand Luke. And this one bit in Brasil that you will probably watch and feel nothing for at all. It's why I still haven't seen Wall-E.

Oh, yeah, and Akira.



I saw Akira originally because I wanted to watch more anime, and it was recommended to me as a classic. I haven't had much of a desire to watch any anime since.

If I want an explanation for why I feel this way, it's really very simple. I am horrified at losing control over my body to that extent. The possibility of my body's cells going berserk in quite that way is highly unlikely, but nevertheless lurks in the same space as my fear of deep water or airplane crashes. And I feel the same sense of unease when I read about someone who on my fetish forum who has the goal of reaching 500 lbs.

I kind of like my fear. It's how I separate myself from other Feederism fetishists. I imagine myself to be more virtuous in that I draw strict circles around what I'm attracted to, and what I'm not, what I'm willing to do, and what I'm not. In a seemingly limitless fetish, I have limits, and it's this that prevents me from doing harm.

Quickie: Strange Things

A "quickie" is a fragment of story that doesn't quite fit anywhere else. But if you read them, you'll find that they might illuminate a few points of the larger story.

* * *

A constant source of marvels to any of his lovers or acquaintances was Mr. Six's seeming inexhaustible libido. Sometimes, when they had nothing better to do, they would sit and mythologize about it, as if Mr. Six were a movie star or a historical figure and not someone they shared their bed and house with--adding to it, speculating, embroidering truths. it was true, however, that once at a dinner party the topic of the very strangest things to get off to came up...and Rufus found himself blushing as Mister Six had begun to slowly, subtly...then not so subtilely, to lead up to that time in the garrett when he had forced Rufus to drink six bottle of--

"Is there anything you don't get off of?" Rufus cut in, so abruptly that people laughed.

It took the table a moment before they realized Mr. Six had actually taken the question seriously. The silence lengthened.

"Chewing gum," said Mr. Six at last. "the noise it makes. And I hate the flavor."

* * *

"He gets off from watching The Thing--"

Rihanna had yet to see the movie.

"There's this bit in it where a doctor is giving this guy a shock treatment and the guy's stomach caves in and grows teeth and bites off his hands..."

Rihanna's eyes widened. "He gets off from that?"

Rufus had been laying with him on the sofa in the half-dark, as usual. "And I have my head in his lap, right? And all the sudden I realize he's popped a stiffy!"

Rihanna laughed at the phrase he used and immediately regretted it when she saw how distraught Rufus looked. "Maybe it was just you...", she tried to soothe him, thinking that the weight off Rufus' head on her mound, all that silky hair, would be enough to get anyone off.

"He wasn't even looking at me! You know how he gets, right? The Look..."

Rufus had been shutting his eyes. He himself was "sensitive", with a private list of movie scenes he could hardly bare to look at--everything from Violet Beureguard in Willy Wonka to the last thirty minutes of Akira--when he'd noticed Mr. Six's growing "problem".

"And I said, are you getting off? And he said, 'His stomach caves in,' very simply, like if there's a tummy in it he just "has" to get off! But there's this other bit, where the head kind of oozes off the table--"

"Stop!" said Rihanna, laughing and putting her hands over her ears.

"--and he's still hard! I mean, I'm a pervert too, but I'm not perverted like that!"

Rihanna began to laugh again, this time at Rufus' mix of awestruck and indignant.

"I've just never thought of what the inside of his mind is like--tentacle porn and medical texts and The Cell and all that vore by mamabliss... it's all gotten mixed up in his head until I just can't imagine what he's envisioning when we're having sex. How can real life sex be enough for him, anyway... sometimes I think he's lost all sense of boundaries when it comes to fantasy..."

"Maybe he likes the idea of kissing your lips when the rest of you is someplace else. Maybe he likes the idea of your morphing into a lot of tentacles to pull him closer, or splitting down the middle so he can get his whole body inside you. Isn't there that scene in Alien where he puts his tail up her ass?"

Rufus just shook his head.

BBW Monday: Breaking News

All photos: creaturetheatre's Superhero Set on Flikr

Max and I went to go see The Dark Knight yesterday; everyone and their cat has blogged about it already, but as I settled back and watched the Watchmen trailer unfold I found myself grinning.

"Yes, we were crazy, we were kinky...all those things that people say..."*

Yeah, he'd pegged us: but good. Everyone knows Catwoman is a dominatrix with ears; Mr. Wayne's very expensive garage isn't that much different from some descriptions I've read of the cybergeek who goes out at night dressed in black rubber. When I had shown the Colt my latest stuffer story, how Mr. Six was fabulosly wealthy, spent his time with fetishy beauties and tore up the night in a black car, he had exclaimed: He sounds like a superhero!



This is what we all want (minus the risk of sudden death): to make our own strange, creepy, sexy worlds with all the passion of a movie director. Only we live it, refusing to see the boundary of what most people think of as "fantasy"... we do it every day in our own bedrooms, with handcuffs and riding crops and Mentos and bottles of soda... we turn ourselves into creatures out of dream.



Thoughts of the Colt, his thigh-highs and fishnets hidden beneath his suit, of the bulging and stretching of the human body, Rorschach's mask shoved up over his lips and delicate garters all blended and buzzed in the back of my mind as the knife play and explosions danced across the screen; I subtly shifted my weight, pressing my freshly shaved pussy against the seams of my skirt, pressing it into the seat.

When the lights went up tho, I exclaimed to Max, "So Batman is Jesus now?!"

He laughed. We went out and while I waited for him to finish up in the bathroom I began idly texting, my fingers framing cheerful messages to boys I never expected an answer from: the Roman, the Colt. Two weeks and counting since his last text message...

We were waiting for the bus when my phone throbbed in my hand.

Omgoodness thank you for messaging me! I had my new car stolen up in [state halfway across the country] and lost a lot of my stuff :< I hate it here!

"Oh my god!" I yelled.

Max: "What is it?"

"It's this... boy... I know..." My stuffer boy, who I've yet to meet in the flesh. "I haven't heard from him in a while."

"The UK boy?"

"No, another one..."

Cyberslut.

The whole time my fingers were moving: Do you have any idea how worried I've been?!

I could guess :<

My wayward Colt had returned. Was I happy? I didn't know.

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*A quote from Watchmen, of course.