phrodeau
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2002
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A food fetishist confesses:
© Rake Publishing, Inc. | www.rakemag.com
Motley Krüse: Nudies on the Net? [December 2002]
No thanks, I have my own old-fashioned fetish.
by Colleen Kruse
After a couple of accidental clicks of the mouse the other day, I realized that I have officially seen enough naked people in my life. This does not mean that I never want to have sex again, or that I don’t want to see the person who I currently see naked all the time naked any more, it just means that I don’t want to see any additional naked people. I have too much information, and I am done.
I am as surprised as you are, because you’d think that naked bodies might be endlessly fascinating, but they are not. Kind of boring now, actually. When I walk past the magazine rack at Target and I see the latest seminude cover of Maxim featuring Tara Reid staring me down through a thick smear of eyeliner, I’m most likely to cluck and think, “Honey, wash that crapola off, you’d look so much prettier.”
I miss the sense of anticipation. Back in the day, when a person wanted to see another person naked, it involved an elaborate period of give-and-take usually referred to as “courting.” You would have to pass many different levels of social acceptance before you were able to view the object of your curiosity undressed. Or, if you were unable to maintain a working relationship with this person, but then decided that you still needed to see people unclothed, you had to get into your car and drive to the bad part of town to pay for the opportunity to see strangers naked. Both ways required a certain amount of risk and effort. This might be the St. Paul side of me talking, but doesn’t everything of value entail an expenditure of effort?
I don’t understand the idea of nudity on credit. Or even the “buy a boob, get the second one free” feel of pop culture. Video scamp Pink says in an interview that she got her nickname because she blushes easily. Gosh, I’ve never noticed. In her last video, though, I think I saw a cervical polyp that she should probably have a doctor look at.
The other thing that gets to me is that I don’t recognize naked people as naked people anymore. They all look the same to me. Like Disney character versions of naked people. Smooth and bouncy, sort of wholesome even. I prefer my naked people hairy and disconcerting, like my husband. These other non-naked naked people represent a frightening hybrid species that exist only to be manipulated to serve passing desire and then tossed back into the abyss they sprang from. Sure, it sounds like fun, but hey, there’s a reason they put a three-minute limit on a Tilt-a-Whirl ride. Too much fun plus more too much fun equals trouble.
Now that nakedness holds no thrill for me, I’m afraid that I have developed perversions, cultivated strange tastes in order to compensate. I’m into a little thing I like to call Cake Porn. While I have seen all the pictures of naked people I can stand in one lifetime, I have not even begun to see enough pictures of cake. One of my big suppliers of Cake Porn is women’s magazines. Every week, there are new glossy beautiful layouts of spongy moist cakes to tempt me.
Pictures of great-looking cakes hit me on two levels. Number one, I would like to eat the cake. Number two, I would like to be the kind of a person who could make that kind of magazine-perfect cake, with five or six hours of spare time to pipe the perfect crotchless, buttercream teddy onto my lemon poppy-seed nine-inch round. Rather than the kind of person I am, the kind of person who remembers my kids’ birthdays at the last minute, rushing out to the 24-hour grocery at midnight to buy a plain sheet cake, gouging the name in with my house keys while waiting for stoplights on my way to the party.
Just the other night on the Food Network they featured a segment on a man’s 100th birthday gala. At the end, waiters rolled out the most magnificent five-foot high monument to Cake Porn I have ever seen in my life. Ribbons of icing, blazing with the light of a hundred candles. Before the celebrants were finished singing, I had to snap the television off for fear of a pixelated naked person jumping out and ruining my fantasy.
© 2002 Rake Publishing, Inc.
© Rake Publishing, Inc. | www.rakemag.com
Motley Krüse: Nudies on the Net? [December 2002]
No thanks, I have my own old-fashioned fetish.
by Colleen Kruse
After a couple of accidental clicks of the mouse the other day, I realized that I have officially seen enough naked people in my life. This does not mean that I never want to have sex again, or that I don’t want to see the person who I currently see naked all the time naked any more, it just means that I don’t want to see any additional naked people. I have too much information, and I am done.
I am as surprised as you are, because you’d think that naked bodies might be endlessly fascinating, but they are not. Kind of boring now, actually. When I walk past the magazine rack at Target and I see the latest seminude cover of Maxim featuring Tara Reid staring me down through a thick smear of eyeliner, I’m most likely to cluck and think, “Honey, wash that crapola off, you’d look so much prettier.”
I miss the sense of anticipation. Back in the day, when a person wanted to see another person naked, it involved an elaborate period of give-and-take usually referred to as “courting.” You would have to pass many different levels of social acceptance before you were able to view the object of your curiosity undressed. Or, if you were unable to maintain a working relationship with this person, but then decided that you still needed to see people unclothed, you had to get into your car and drive to the bad part of town to pay for the opportunity to see strangers naked. Both ways required a certain amount of risk and effort. This might be the St. Paul side of me talking, but doesn’t everything of value entail an expenditure of effort?
I don’t understand the idea of nudity on credit. Or even the “buy a boob, get the second one free” feel of pop culture. Video scamp Pink says in an interview that she got her nickname because she blushes easily. Gosh, I’ve never noticed. In her last video, though, I think I saw a cervical polyp that she should probably have a doctor look at.
The other thing that gets to me is that I don’t recognize naked people as naked people anymore. They all look the same to me. Like Disney character versions of naked people. Smooth and bouncy, sort of wholesome even. I prefer my naked people hairy and disconcerting, like my husband. These other non-naked naked people represent a frightening hybrid species that exist only to be manipulated to serve passing desire and then tossed back into the abyss they sprang from. Sure, it sounds like fun, but hey, there’s a reason they put a three-minute limit on a Tilt-a-Whirl ride. Too much fun plus more too much fun equals trouble.
Now that nakedness holds no thrill for me, I’m afraid that I have developed perversions, cultivated strange tastes in order to compensate. I’m into a little thing I like to call Cake Porn. While I have seen all the pictures of naked people I can stand in one lifetime, I have not even begun to see enough pictures of cake. One of my big suppliers of Cake Porn is women’s magazines. Every week, there are new glossy beautiful layouts of spongy moist cakes to tempt me.
Pictures of great-looking cakes hit me on two levels. Number one, I would like to eat the cake. Number two, I would like to be the kind of a person who could make that kind of magazine-perfect cake, with five or six hours of spare time to pipe the perfect crotchless, buttercream teddy onto my lemon poppy-seed nine-inch round. Rather than the kind of person I am, the kind of person who remembers my kids’ birthdays at the last minute, rushing out to the 24-hour grocery at midnight to buy a plain sheet cake, gouging the name in with my house keys while waiting for stoplights on my way to the party.
Just the other night on the Food Network they featured a segment on a man’s 100th birthday gala. At the end, waiters rolled out the most magnificent five-foot high monument to Cake Porn I have ever seen in my life. Ribbons of icing, blazing with the light of a hundred candles. Before the celebrants were finished singing, I had to snap the television off for fear of a pixelated naked person jumping out and ruining my fantasy.
© 2002 Rake Publishing, Inc.
