2017.0202—What Deep Rubber Fetish Means to Me
(c) 26.0607-1202.30 by AtaraxiA, licensed under Creative Commons CC BY-SA
SUMMARY: Thalia writes from the Hahnestery at dawn, grappling with Marla’s question about Deep Rubber Fetish. She describes it as a lifelong, archetypal urge for total latex enclosure—the 100%/100% rule—and reflects on its meditative, comforting, and sometimes compulsive nature. She tours her sanctuary, detailing her collection of suits, masks, and gloves, and admits to dividing her life into “real” and “rubber” worlds, though she feels at peace with her weirdness.
Dear Marla,
It is an obscenely early hour here at the Hahnestery. The only light in my suite is from the halogen lamp clipped to the edge of my writing desk—everything else is black as the inside of a gunnysack, except for the faint pale blue that slides in under the balcony door.
I’m still in my pajamas (not what you think—these are my ancient, bleach-stained track pants and a once-green t-shirt with “PRONGHORN XC INVITATIONAL” on the front, both of which have long since lost the battle with time and clinging dog hair). But that’s not why I couldn’t sleep.
My mind has been chewing on a question you sent in your last letter: “Could you explain, in your own words, what Deep Rubber Fetish is?” I’ve tried to answer that question a dozen times, always thinking I had it nailed down, and always feeling it slip away as soon as I put pen to paper. So I’m going to write this like a science report or a confession, and see what comes out.
The basics: Deep Rubber Fetish (DRF) is not just an obsession with rubber clothing, or even a fixation on the look and feel of latex. That’s surface stuff. I think you already know that, though—our conversations have never shied away from the deeper, weirder layers of desire.
For me (and I am pretty sure for the many others out there, because I’ve met them in the shadowy online corners where these things gather), DRF is an archetypal, lifelong urge to be 100% covered in latex, 100% of the time. I call it the 100%/100% rule, and you can find echoes of it in the way that every truly “infected” Rubberist ends up escalating: first a pair of gloves, then a full catsuit, then total enclosure with a hood and gloves and socks, then (for the truly advanced) gasmasks, inflatable suits, lockable garments, and custom gear that blurs the line between clothing and prison.
Why? The answer is both obvious and maddeningly elusive. On the simplest level, latex feels incredible: it hugs your skin, it amplifies every movement and touch, and it isolates you from the world in a way that is at once sensual and deeply meditative. But that’s just the beginning.
The deeper truth is that the urge never really goes away. It doesn’t matter how much rubber I own, or how many hours I spend reading about it, or how much time I actually spend inside the stuff—I always want more. I want to be in it all the time, even though that’s basically impossible if you have a job, or a partner, or a circulatory system.
I know you think I exaggerate, but I swear: if it was socially acceptable and physically feasible, I would spend every waking and sleeping moment sheathed in the stuff. To call it a compulsion is not wrong, but it’s incomplete. It’s more like a calling, or a home planet that I keep trying to return to.
Most of the time, I manage to function as a normal human being, and I know that my brain has simply been miswired for this particular pleasure, and that’s fine. But every so often, usually when I’m doing something boring or repetitive (dusting, or waiting in line at the post office, or walking the dog), I get an urge that blooms in my chest like a secret firework. The next thing I know, I’m plotting how soon I can get back to my room, lock the door, and slide into my “armor.”
Even here, in the Hahnestery, where I am surrounded by tolerant, creative, and slightly mad people, I keep my fetish mostly hidden. Not from shame (I got over that years ago), but because I don’t want it to consume my entire existence, the way it did for a while after Frank kicked me out for being a ‘fucking pervert’ (his words).
I guess what I’m saying is: DRF is a persistent, ever-present hunger that, even when sated, always comes back. It is both curse and comfort. Sometimes it feels like the only honest thing about me.
Let me show you my sanctuary. When I took the job here, I was given the “master bedroom,” which is a funny term for a space that was last updated in the late 80s and is mostly remarkable for being about the size of a college gymnasium.
There is a king-sized bed (not a fancy four-poster, just a gigantic slab of memory foam), a little gas fireplace that chuffs to life with a whoosh when you flip the wall switch, and a set of built-in bookshelves so deep you could smuggle a small child in them. But the best part is the balcony: double glass doors open onto a tiny platform perched above a creek and a real, honest-to-god waterfall. On cold mornings like this one, you can hear the roar of the water even with the doors closed.
Sometimes I just stand out there in my pajamas (or, yes, in full latex) and listen to it, trying to imagine the years carving out that little chute in the basalt.
My desk sits at the far end, under a dormer window that faces east. The window glass is so old it makes the trees outside look like they’re melting. I keep my “work” things here—dusting cloths, a battered laptop, and an old-school tape dispenser with a cartoon sheep on it—but the real heart of the room is the dresser.
It’s a five-drawer oak beast that I inherited from the previous housekeeper, and while the top drawers are filled with socks and old running shorts, the bottom one is my secret reliquary.
You already know about my collection, but I don’t think I’ve described it in detail. There are five full catsuits in varying states of repair (black, pink, metallic blue, clear, and a “natural” skin color that makes me look like a living Oscar statuette); three gasmasks, all with different filter styles; a couple of hoods; four pairs of gloves (two of them opera-length, the others standard); a pair of ballet boots (I can only wear them sitting down, but they make me feel, I don’t know, regal?); and my most recent addition, a sleeveless catsuit with double dildos.
Don’t make that face. I clean them.
Most of it I can’t wear for long, especially during the day—the suit underclothes work, but the full enclosure stuff gets sweaty and uncomfortable pretty fast. Plus, latex does not breathe, so if you move around too much, you become your own private weather system, generating fog and rain and the occasional thunderstorm under your skin.
Still: every night, without fail, I put on at least some part of it before bed. I rotate through the suits like a priest cycling vestments for the liturgical calendar. At my age, it’s not all that sexual most of the time, not exactly—it’s devotional. I’m not sure there’s a better word.
It’s probably obvious that I spend a lot of time alone, even when I’m not in the suit. The Hahnestery is a big place, and while the Hahns themselves are friendly and fun, they spend most of their time in their respective work spaces. Lorraine works from a rolling command center that looks like it was stolen from NASA, all monitors and ergonomic armrests, while James has a den that smells like a combination of pipe tobacco and old soldering iron.
I see them for meals and during the “family hour” when we watch TV or play a board game, but otherwise I am left to my own devices. This is exactly how I like it. I never thought I would enjoy the role of caretaker, but it turns out I am a natural at it—give me a list of chores and a little space to myself, and I will hum along like a well-oiled robot.
The job is never overwhelming, and the pay is honestly more than fair. Sometimes I wonder if the Hahns keep me around as much for the company as for the work. I hope so. It’s nice to feel necessary.
But even here, in this fortress of tolerance, I can’t seem to stop myself from dividing my life into the “real” and the “rubber” worlds. During the day I am efficient, capable, and, for lack of a better word, wholesome housekeeper. I wear jeans and flannels, and I make banana bread from scratch. At night, I turn into a latex-clad revenant, prowling the silent upper floors and reading fetish blogs on my laptop.
I don’t think the Hahns know, but if they do, they’ve never let on. Maybe that’s the greatest kindness.
I am not sure if this is what you were looking for—a taxonomy of perversion, or just a travelogue from the borderlands of fetish and daily life—but it’s the most honest answer I can give. I miss the city sometimes, and I miss you, and there are days when I would sell my soul for a cheap bottle of wine and a night spent wandering the bars, but more often than not, I am at peace here.
Is that what growing up is? Learning how to make peace with your own weirdness? I hope so.
Yours, somewhere between the waterfall and the wardrobe,
Thalia
P.S. There is a crow that has taken up residence on my balcony. It leaves shiny objects on the railing for me—bits of foil, pop tops, once even a small metal spring. Sometimes I wonder if it knows we’re kindred spirits. I named it Persephone. It seems to fit.
