| Diary of a Madwoman - Mrs. 'Crow's Blog of Evil |
Phoebe: The FurvertDisclaimer: This story is about Phoebe Phrodos, a dirty old lady who isn't me. - 'Crow ;)How I Became a Disgusting Furvert - Jul 9th, 2004 1:53:49 pm EST I know this entry is going to upset more than a few apple carts, but I don't care. It’s not an illegal activity, just very weird in the eyes of most individuals. I need to share. I have mentioned before that I consider myself to be a "furry" (or, a furvert to be more precise and to avoid pissing off the non-erotic component of furry fandom.) Lovers often have complained that my fetish is revolting. It might be, but there are reasons for its existence. In 2004, people throw the word fetish around like flying discs at a frisbee golf park. This word is often used to indicate any kink that a person enjoys. In my opinion, whips, chains, leather and latex do not necessarily make one a fetishist, just aptly attired for sex. At its narrowest medical definition, a fetish is:
I have mentioned before that it is physically impossible for me to have sex without my plush cat ear headband. That’s not entirely true. I just need something furry like a tiny stuffed toy on a necklace or plush boots with tiger stripes. It can be anything to keep me in touch with my feline nature. Most times, I hide my furry toys under a sweater, a shirt, a hat, or even a wig, because people simply don'’t take a middle-aged woman wearing plush very seriously. Furry living is not a mere kink for me. It is a true fetish often interferes with my sex life in fundamental ways. It is a sickness, a cute and loveable one, that often border on endearing. So how does someone fall in love with dressing like a furry animal during sex? I remember my first boyfriend from the gymnasium, Knut. We dated steady for many years, but we didn't do anything until I was eighteen. He really pressured me to have sex, so I figured, why not. He never raped me or treated me badly. He just sucked in bed. Whenever we’d have sex, I would pass the time by looking at the ceiling or trying to think about how I was going to rearrange my bedroom. I only remember this guy's sexual prowess because he was so insanely dull and short lived in the sack. I would ask him to kiss me more or eat me out. That would only make things worse. His dick was pathetic and he didn’'t know how to use it. Alas, he was the most popular football (meaning soccer) player at the gymnasium, so I could ill afford to dump him, being that I was the most popular girl in school. Even worse, my parents adored him. Grandfather was the only person who felt that Knut was not good enough for me. One day, when Knut came over my house, I forgot to put my toy plush kitty away. I had always cuddled with my doll, Misha the Cat, since I was a little girl. It was old and worn, full of mending scars, but it was my favorite toy and a safety blanket of sorts. It brought me many happy memories on my way to dream land. I considered it to be the embodiment of a secret imaginary friend. I felt disgusted when Knut ungracefully stripped my clothes, spread my legs and fucked me right in front of Misha. I felt so humiliated. I didn’t want Knut to think I was crazy, so I didn'’t mention anything. Misha just stared at me with its big plastic eyes. I wanted to cry when Knut flipped me over and my hand squished my toy kitty. I felt so wrong being pumped from behind in front of my childhood companion. He came almost immediately afterwards. I collapsed, red-faced, and instinctively held on to my plushie. Knut rolled over and fell asleep. I whispered apologies into Misha'’s non-functional ear with tears in my eyes. I felt bad for squishing it and for doing things my parents would have been mortified about, in front of it. I spoke softly, afraid of Knut'’s reaction. I quickly kissed my toy’s face and noticed something that touched me. It would never stop smiling at me or looking at me with vacantly non-judgmental eyes. No matter what would happen Misha would always be my friend. Misha didn’'t care that I was being an immoral, godless slut, as my parents would eventually come to know me. In my furry friend’s eyes, I was okay no matter what. I cuddled with my toy and felt better about myself. Even though this was not a living thing, I felt unconditional love from it. From that day on, I allowed Misha to watch me whenever Knut came over to nut me in five minutes or less. Sometimes while I suffered through the painful short screws, I would caress my toy the way I wanted my boyfriend to caress me. I took care to do it in such a way to avoid notice. When Knut left, to go out with his friends or to return home, I would take my experiments even further. I would kiss Misha and pretend that he was an idealized version of Knut: passionate, loving, tender and willing to listen. Sometimes I would rub my toy kitty against my genitals, wondering what it would be like to be eaten out slowly, softly and deliberately. Knut even sucked at cunnilingus. He paid too much attention to my clit and he just licked it with the same boring repetitive motion. Knut thought I was too demanding for wanting more out of him. I felt completely isolated. I couldn’t talk to my parents about it, Knut didn’'t want to hear it, and my friends told me I was expecting too much and to be grateful to have met a prodigious football player like him. Grandpa would have understood, but he was old and I didn’t wish to burden him. Only, Misha, my secret toy lover served as a receptive audience for my theater of loneliness. I distinctly remember when it became a fetish. I no longer wanted to have sex with Knut anywhere but in my bed. I was too afraid to bring Misha anywhere else. Being as popular as I was, I risked being labeled a freak if I started to carry a stuffed cat around the school, so I didn’'t. Instead, I brought my boyfriend to the source of my passion. As my insensitive jock copulated with me, I subtly caressed my toy and fantasized about a fantastic cat-man. It was like Beauty and the Beast, only I was a cat-woman, instead of a princess. I imagined having sex with a creature that looked like a cross between Misha and Knut. I felt lustful and vibrant in my reveries. I needed that softness and understanding. Instead of boredom and harshness, Misha brought me joy and softness. Sex became a wondrous thing. Unfortunately, I made a mistake that cost me everything I held cherished as a popular eighteen-year-old girl. One day, Knut was fucking me from behind. I petted Misha like usual, but I stopped caring about being caught. I rubbed my breasts against it until something came over me. I kissed my toy kitty with my mouth open wide and I screamed, “Oh Misha,” just before I did. Knut saw me doing the deed. He stopped before he could come and his dick flopped down right away. When he pressed me on what had just happened, I could not answer. He quickly dressed and berated me at the top of my lungs, calling me any ugly name he could think of. I begged him to keep it down because my parents were asleep. He did not. The expression on my father’s face when Knut opened the door wide with me still naked on the bed, still haunts to this day. Knut made it worse by telling dad what I had done. I knew that Knut would tell everyone in school. My reputation as the sexy and brainy fiancée of Knut Ulander was completely ruined. In a matter of seconds, I became the freaky pervert who fucks stuffed toys. Mom and dad threw away all my plushies, even my beloved Misha. They threatened to send me to a shrink and made me call my minister to tell him about what I did. All of the people I had called friends left me save for two. One of them didn'’t want to be seen in public with me. The other was an especially compassionate girl who didn’'t care about other people’s opinion's. Unfortunately, her parents knew my parents, so they cut me off from her companionship. The first three schooldays of my new status were sheer hell. I wanted to kill myself, still unsure of why exactly I had done something wrong. I wondered how this was this any worse from masturbating with a machine like vibrator. I felt completely confused. When I visited my shrink, I was full of dread. I thought that she was going to tell me how awful I was. Visions of being forced fed medications danced in my head. Providentially, Dr. Eriksson turned out to be the best thing that ever happened in my life. After listening to me, she bluntly stated that there was nothing wrong with me having sexual fantasies or masturbating with inanimate objects. "“Sex is a normal thing, and I would rather see a smart woman using her creativity to pleasure herself with something silly like a plush toy, than risking pregnancy and disease with a stuck-up football player who doesn'’t respect his lovers."” She then proceeded to tell me about different science-fiction/fantasy clubs and conventions in the Netherlands where I could meet tolerant people and other “furverts” like me. She dismissed me by saying, “"Remember dear, if you are discreet, you'’ll have fewer problems,"” and telling me that I wasn'’t crazy. I gradually made new friends at the gymnasium before graduating onto college. I stopped caring about the opinions of the ignorant. I started wearing kitty ears in public to signify my newfound sexual identity. I felt no shame for being a sexy catgirl in the body of a blonde athlete. I became accepted by a new set of peers who were far more fun than the popular kids were. Geeks, anachronists, perverts, furries, gamers, hackers, mad scientists, eco-terrorists, nerds, the perpetually naive and other outcasts were not only enjoyable to be around, they also outnumbered the so-called elite. I had so much fun, and school kept me so busy. I discovered many new ways to pleasure myself. One of my new friends, Viola, happened to be a fellow furry fan. She introduced me to joys oral of sex with chicks wearing catgirl outfits. I loved being unpopular. I enjoyed my new life so much, I even walked up to Knut to thank him, as I held Viola in tow. He donned a priceless expression of frustration when I told him, “I love pussy,” and proceeded to make out in with my friend, in front of him (and most of the school,) wearing our catgirl outfits. We were both disciplined for our stunt but it was worth it. I figured that if I was going to have the reputation of the slutty pervert who kisses fake furry beasts, I might as well enjoy it. This was how I came to develop my sick furry fetish. I’'m sorry if I upset anyone, but I simply had to share that silly memory. I know that there is no need to explain myself. I just like doing so. 1:53 PM - Friday, July 9, 2004 - post comment
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