Fishnet fetish

Alison Tyler reminded me of a story I wrote for her book F Is for Fetish called "Fishnet Queen." Here's an excerpt, and see her blog for more fetishy goodness:

First thing I see are her legs, clad in the kind of stockings that make me hard just by thinking about them: fishnets. Her legs are long, and in her mini skirt, which rides up her thigh, I can see her pale skin augmented by the tightly woven black pattern that seems made just for her. She doesn’t just wear the fishnets, she owns them. I've seen women try to rock fishnets who simply can't pull them off, who wear them as if they were any other kind of stockings, tugged on hastily during a rushed morning, ripped in spots, slammed into sneakers, used and abused in the most careless manner possible.

There should be some kind of test when purchasing such delicate garments, I think, like an ID for cigarettes, but in all things fishnet, the test should be for class. I can always tell when a woman really cares about her fishnets, when she's the type who shakes them out before holding open the hole and sliding her foot into it, aware of every nuance of sensuality involved. I can tell when she makes sure that the seam up the back is perfectly even, forming a straight line right up to her ass, one I love to trace with my tongue, when she cares enough to buy the kind that have a seam. I can tell when the mere act of donning a pair of fishnets sends a rush of blood to her clit, when she morphs from gorgeous to goddess in the act, when she lets them transport her from ordinary to sex goddess. The rest of her outfit doesn’t really matter, nor how tall or short she is; a woman who wears fishnets like they’re her birthright is the kind I want to fuck, the kind whose fishnets I want to kiss and stroke and caress before ultimately peeling them down and plunging my cock inside her. Fishnet girls are all about foreplay, leaving me on the edge of arousal for as long as we both can stand it. That's the kind of woman I look for, who wears her fishnets not simply as artifice or armor but amour, who steps into her dominance one foot at a time.

What's funny is that while I remember in some way all the stories I've written (I think I'm probably up to 100 or so by now, will have to count at some point), I don't always remember the details of the content, but I remember other things. I wrote most of this story at the Starbucks on Delancey on the Lower East Side. I remember where I was sitting, remember thinking the story was too outlandish and over-the-top in its fetishism to work. I tend to gravitate toward the places where a piece of writing clicked, hoping I can pull it off again. Sometimes it even works!