THE GENESIS OF MY GLOVE PASSION

[amadou]

Earliest memories - longing for a lost nesting

My first memories go back to my preschool. By the different working hours of my parents there was an hour for siesta, which I had to spend alone and asleep in the parents' bedroom. The housekeeper ironed in the kitchen downstairs. She rarely looked at me. I can not say that I felt lonely, perhaps I have covered this feeling quickly with adrenal-controlled "field research", that is to say, in my environment, to seek maternal warmth and security. I see myself, the deepest drawer of the white wardrobe in the bedroom open and amazed by their content: in addition to a stock of real skin colored nylon stockings, corselettes and bra’s, there lay the pair of white, elbow length leather gloves, so often seen on the framed wedding photo of my parents. My mother, greeting the photograph and the wedding-company, there was an understatement in this gesture. They wrote the year 1958.

Physically, one could have kept my mother for a sister of jackie kennedy, whom I had often admired in a French illustrated book with black and white photos in our bookshelf. Still today I feel this early childhood in love when I see pictures of this remarkable woman. And even then I wondered why female beings covered their fingers, hands, and arms with exquisite leather, without any rational reason to wear them, neither coldness nor dirt or protection could be the reason. Soon the question arose as to why it was reserved for the women to adorn themselves. And soon afterwards the bigger question: do they consciously or unconsciously put me under their spell (respectively me: the boy)?

More and more I fixed myself on this one detail, long white or dark leather covers, into which the tender women's hands and arms disappeared. A oversized love to fashion-conscious women and couturiers, to feminine accessoires, began to persist to this day, but above all an insatiable demand for soft and long leather gloves.

With 5 I had discovered my first pair of gloves, soon afterwards also their immense attractiveness and the essence of the ritualised try: at the beginning of the siesta I stripped the supple-soft nylons over my juvenile skin, pulled the long gloves up to the shoulder high and crawled naked into bed. A feeling of happiness flowed from these garments and the feeling of the lonliness dissolved. Everything seemed miraculously fulfilled. I was alone and happy.

With the time I drew more circles in the parental house and broke the housekeeping of my aunt who lived above us. She was single and had inherited from her mother's entire wardrobe. She kept it in a small room, calle „Käfterchen“, the little box, with a smell of leather, fur, and dust, and from then on became increasingly my hunting-tail. I found three long boxes on the bottom of the mirror cabinet, and in these three long boxes lay peacefully and neatly folded over two dozen long gloves, some made of cloth or very fine felt, but most of them were made of finest goatskin. The length ranged from underarms to the shoulders of an adult lady. For me, young boy, they were never-ending - a circumstance which made me aware of the magic beauty of wrinkles. Most of the long leather gloves had the obligatory slot on the wrist, and with the missing pearl buttons I learned to sew. I immediately fell in love with a shoulder-length ivory-colored pair, but in the background several black pairs, but also bloody red and green, were waiting to be kissed by me.

Over this treasure hung various fur and long dresses. Behind me were the boots and sandals of my aunt, jewelery I found in a wooden casket, veils and ladies' hats on the top shelf of the mirror cabinet. There was a nearly religious atmosphere. I have rarely enjoyed femininity as solemnly as here, in the little box.

I gradually took the courage to take some of these coveted objects to my room, to hide them under the mattress, and to put them on at night after the good-night kiss of my parents. The wooden floor and the bed were not allowed to creak. The old house was badly soundproofed. I developed a catlike ability to sneak silently, to remain silence and to dive into my world.

I was pure feeling, enjoyed the warmth, the fragrance, the softness, the suppleness, the magic aura of these long leather gloves. What did I do? I remember how the fear of getting caught mixex up with the pleasure, being naked, in nylons, a silky night shirt, and long leather gloves over my little thin arms. But this fear increased the charm to play with the fire: I read even before the good night kiss with gloved hands keeping the book, or switched the light in the middle of the night to self-love my leather-wrapped arms, hands and fingers, to look at them, sniff the fragrance of a mundane world.

The older I became, the more took up this obsession. I kept my treasure behind the big books, which really did not lack in this household. With the time I joined to the inherited gloves garments which I gradually took off from female relatives and girlfriends of my parents. Each time, when I came across a new gold mine, I felt the precarious situation with a beating heart, and wondered how I could best take home the new trophies. In addition to the gloves of nobler households, it was mainly nylons, pantyhose, lingerie and even tricots from the girl's wardrobe at the gym. There I also found danced ballet slippers, long worn, with blackened toe prints.

I felt the heavy burden of taboo from the beginning. I could not talk about it with anyone. My passion often made me self-confident and I began to prefer my company to others. I went hunting, glanced through fashion magazines and illustrated books, cut out ruthless portraits of gloved ladies, leaving a traitorous hole in the valuable books. I read a lot of novels and fashion books across the horizon, hoping to stumble over keywords like: leather gloves, gants longs, gloves, ..., copied whole passages of text when they came close to the descriptions of my erotic world. I wrote stories, imaginary love letters of a boy to a girl. And I could feel both of them in me, that of the languishing, hot-enamored boy, as well as the girl, who was partly naive, partly conscious of her clothes. I went with the gloves to school, hid them sometimes in my panty, drew them for the way back, practiced my finger exercises on the piano or learned to write in glove.

After a childish, ivory-colored phase, I began to love demonic black: at that time I fell in love with a black, unlined pair of French provenance, which, with amazing wrinkles, came up beyond the elbows. The smell of animality, of leather, fur and sin made me crazy. They were my best friends. I trusted them, I gave myself completely to them. I kissed them, smoothed the surface, honored them with all my attention. They warmed my body and my soul. I felt so rich in gifts: they gave me the feeling of being something special and lent me the opportunity to dive into a magical parallel world, which promised stressless, indefinite, promising pure lust.

I often slept in gloves just to see my leather-clad hands and arms next to my head the next morning. My hands felt warm, the leather embraced every finger and followed every tiny movement. I began to pay attention to details, to the wrinkles, the brilliance of the moonlight, to the delicate seams in the inner, to the different ways to wear them, from very tight to loose. And when I had to undress her in the morning, I enjoyed the sight of the seams around my naked fingers.

Besides the gloves I had also a strong addiction to pantyhose and nylons. At first I wanted any I found in wardrobes or drawers, but with the time I recognized enormous quality differences. I began to wear them every day under my clothes, with the exception of the days when I had gym. I took a look at the empty dressing room of the girls, fished out of the basket wool tights,thrown away because of their ladders or dirt. In addition I noticed this indescribable odor of girls and woman dressing rooms, which I could take so with home.

I remember I took with me the complete wardrobe of a femme fatale, protagonist in the drama-play „the misanthrope “by hans magnus enzensberger, and that before the general rehearsal. My bravery knew no limit. It consists of were high-heeled black sandals, a mini leather skirt, a tight glittering top, a real fur jacket with leather hemline, a push-up bra and black pantyhose with black dots. I wasn’t really interested in the long satin gloves. But the idea that the beloved main actress touched with them different objects or subjects, and perhaps had sweated in them made my heart beat faster. I took them with me. I was 13 years old. I hurried up home and hid my trophies until the night came. After the good night kiss I pulled on, with hurry and caution, the black dotted pantyhose - how beautiful the shimmer of my tender skin - the sandals, my own long black leather gloves and the fur jacket over it. I took a sniff to the satin gloves and instinctively began to play with myself. I was my own lover, stroked my dick, caressing my trophies, did five careful steps on the high heels - my little feet slipped out of the straps, the ground creaked. Breathlessly I remained in the position. I felt the heart beat, so strong. The door of the parental bedroom opened - in preemptive embarrassment I remained frozen in the middle of my room. There was only one step to the full drama: door opens, light goes on and the pubic shower, the shock in the face of my horrified parents ... but my father only went to the toilet. I knew his habit. After the silence came back, I lay down on my bed, fingered my body, my sex, my breasts, my face. And then I did not understand the world any more: a brandy pain in the feet, and soon after a white liquid shot out of my cock. My young body surrendered in long painful convulsions. Unenlightened as I was, I looked at the wet bedcloth, the pantyhose, from which the white cream swelled - I was terribly afraid that I was sick. Never in life had I heard of orgasm or sperma or stuff like this. As much as I could I caught the cream in my black gloved hand cup. The sight set the crown on all: fresh seed on black leather. I will never forget this sight. I put the hand on the mouth and tasted this new product of my body: it tasted like javel water and had a nutty note like chestnuts in the spring. And I had experienced my very first orgasm.

The fear disappeared, remained this triumphant experience of an incredible gathering of first orgasm with black leather gloves and black lace pantyhose. Before I fell exhausted into my pillow, I stowed my most intimate witnesses and „mama’s little helpers" under the mattress. The next morning I perceived the rest moisture and the odor became branded into my mind, for ever. In a way it was my first wedding night, the mystical wedding of woman and man in my person. And the long soft kid leather gloves were my maids. And from then on essentials.

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