Snapshot of My Dynamic: Latex Shopping

Let’s just say, latex is not my thing.

Personally, I can’t imagine anything worse than painstakingly squeezing myself into a rubber casing. I can safely say I won’t be adding to my one teenage memory of experimenting with latex. Power to any domme who rocks the look and loves it, but personally, I feel about as comfortable and dom-like as if I were wearing a swimming cap over my entire body.

My sub on the other hand is something of an enthusiast – the texture, the feel, even the smell, all just automatically push his brain down to space and his cock up. And those are both things I thoroughly support.

Which is why I have generally been quite happy to support his aspirations to wear it. That said, other than his reactions, I was generally quite ambivalent about the latex itself until our recent acquisition.

To be fair my ambivalence may, in part, be down to the fact our acquaintance with latex has been relatively casual – some latex shorts and similar bits and pieces.

That is, until a few weeks ago, on something of a whim, I decided we should go latex shopping. In the real world, no less.

Unconventional, I know.

The shop we set out for…

…occupies a Victorian basement in Soho, accessed down a flight of ancient break-neck stairs covered in red velvet, which open to a room, with a low ceiling, warm lighting and double layered racks of latex.

It is all in all quite a pleasant and welcoming place. But for an enthusiast, seeing all of the good stuff at once, it was quite overwhelming. He said it was the smell which really hit him. And I enjoyed that – him wandering around following me, with a rabbit in headlights look.

We had a browse. Or rather, I had a browse, flipping through the packed racks, metal scrapping on metal as the masses of colourful, shiny latex flew past. He followed me, not entirely sure what he was looking for or at.

I fished some things out. A pair of stockings, a few shirts, a latex hoodie, and we headed to the changing room.

The shop assistant stopped us to politely inform that the changing rooms had a max of five items. ‘You can come into here to try on your stockings,’ she said brightly to me, gesturing to the adjacent changing room.

‘They’re not for me,’ I laughed.

‘Oh,’ she said, with a small laugh. ‘Of course.’

We really started on the easier end of things – a latex shirt with a front zip. Despite the helpfully provided talc, the initial attempt was slow and painstaking. B was cautious with it and the first shirt did not go on easily, sticking across his chest and not sitting where it should. But with more talc and some tugs here and there, we adjusted and the process was streamlined from there.

The next several hours were passed in a whirl of my bringing things in and out, him navigating garment after garment. I was in and out, not really paying attention to whether the curtain was closed or not.

It was after all the kind of place we could be comfortable being ourselves.

The shop assistant, in her dungarees and pigtails, with a stuffed animal attached to one side, chatted enthusiastically about her gripes with the occasional adventurous vanilla folk who wander in. We laughed about how they expect contrived custom orders to be made on a day’s notice. 

Various people came in and out. A clearly experienced couple in their 50s, with specific aspirations to match a harness to an outfit. She wore a collar and carried herself with a precise rigid posture. Some adventurous non-kinksters, looking for an outfit for Torture Garden, giggling and tentatively browsing with a mixture of trepidation and awe.

A gay couple catsuit shopping – a younger dark-haired guy and his older fair submissive. An out of context ‘good boy’ drifted across when they occupied the changing room next door.

We both heard it and took note, even though it was in the background to our own conversation and, later, at dinner, we talked about it, how it felt. I imagine vanilla people feel that way a lot more often, seeing as their romantic ideals are scattered all over the place.

There was a warmth, a familiarity to that sentiment we both recognised. I have never really felt the ‘aww, that’s sweet’ in relation to much of vanilla dating, but this struck a cord. Maybe it’s just because my romantic ideals aren’t really out and about that much. Maybe it’s just because it’s easier to see myself and my own relationship in it, a familiar expression of something I have felt.

Amidst the haze of talc, I can’t really remember how we got on to the catsuits.

The first one I picked out was simple – black, with a zip all the way down the centre, no feet.

I wordlessly handed it to him and sat back on the powder pink poof inside the changing room. It was a very hot day and I was exceedingly glad it was not me trying to navigate the sleeves and the talc.

That said, I enjoyed watching him. Watching him struggle is, after all, something of a hobby. But it was when he finally succeeded and first looked at himself in the mirror… Well, that was worth the whole trip, really.

That look. A touch of surprise, a hint of a smile, and that wide-eyed guilelessness.

I sat and watched him watching himself for a good few minutes. Then I stood up and ran my hands over him. I brushed against his nipples and he pressed against me. That moment of connection never gets any less…  Just… any less. Sparks and butterflies. I kissed him and he stifled a moan.

Several catsuits later, we were interrupted by the shop assistant, who very apologetically informed us that clothing could not be tried on later than half an hour before closing.

We had narrowed it down to two catsuits by then: 

a full coverage, all-black model with feet and a zip at the shoulder, and a variant featuring red zips on the shoulder and crotch sans feet. I was not opposed to either.

‘So, which one do you want?’

‘Well, I don’t know, which one do you want?’ he threw the question back at me. Sub brain was running the show and sub brain, as usual, was looking for what would make me happy.

‘I have provided you with options I liked, eliminated the ones I don’t like. So, if it helps your choices have already been very limited,’ I said.

He reached back.

‘What are you doing?’ I said.

‘I wanted to check the price.’ An easy way out and I wasn’t having it.

‘Why? That’s my concern, not yours. Now, what do you think?’

He hesitated, looking at me, looking at the catsuit. Time was ticking and we only had twenty minutes or so until closing time. I wanted him to choose because it’s his predilection, not mine, after all. Of course, don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t buy something I don’t like – let’s not get carried away with this being magnanimous malarkey.

(This by the by, is a perfect example of how dominance and submission are not inherent in any act. The fact I can insist he make a decision is equally an exercise of my control as making the decision for him.)

‘Well, it’s not perfect,’ he said.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘But it’s a first catsuit, not the only catsuit, and if we go home, we will massively overthink and research the million options online.’

‘Well, I just don’t want to pick the wrong one,’ he said.

‘It’s your thing,’ I laughed. ‘As long as you like it, it’s not the wrong one.’

We went back and forth a bit, until we settled on the all black suit with feet.

‘And the hoodie?’ I said.

‘Well…’ he hesitated some more. ‘It’s not something I would usually pick, but you seem to like it.’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘Are you sure?’ he said.

Now I think about it, he understood a lot from that one word – what I was really saying was ‘I am making an executive decision because I am tired of standing here and we should go’.

Clearly we have been living together too long.

I gave him a look. That look.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

We had ten minutes. I grabbed catsuit, hoodie, and sub and bundled the lot up the stairs.

And I can safely say, I have no regrets.

The latex has a subtle sparkle to it, a pearlescence. The colour falls somewhere between a mauve and a lilac and, as saccharine as this sounds, I love the way it complements the colour of his eyes.

Our purchase was carefully wrapped in tissue paper and he was presented with an elegant gift bag, with thick rope handles. It was the kind of thing which you might get at a high-end lingerie shop.

I made the inevitable joke about making him put it on as we went to dinner.

When we got home, he of course wanted to change into the catsuit which I magnanimously allowed. 

And I must say, I enjoyed it. There is a certain… something about latex. Something about him in something so restrictive. The way that it is so perfectly form fitting, like he is naked and clothed at the same time. The way the light catches the curves of his body when he is under my feet. The way the taught mirrored surface feels to run my hands across….

So, my current thoughts on latex?

Well, our little trip has only further entrenched me in the conviction that I will never ever wear it so long as I live.

But more interestingly, it has made it progressively likely that he will spend far more time in its restrictive embrace. And I think we’re both quite content with that take-away.

The only problem is, it turns out a catsuit with feet and shoulder zips is more in the category of winter wear. Oh well. Like I said, this was the first catsuit. There are definitely more shopping trips to come.