The RubberNaut

2018.0415-0600 The Anatomy of a Fetish: A Letter from the Hahnestery

SUMMARY: Thalia’s letter to Marla explores the essence of Deep Rubber Fetish (DRF) as a lifelong, archetypal urge for total latex enclosure, describing it as both a curse and a comfort. She reflects on the physical and psychological allure of latex, her personal rituals, and the duality of her life at the Hahnestery—balancing her role as a caretaker with her private devotion to latex. The letter blends introspection, humor, and vulnerability, offering a raw, honest portrait of her relationship with DRF and her quiet, solitary existence.

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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, the ones you’ve seen before: ancient, bleach-stained track pants and a once-green t-shirt with “PRONGHORN XC INVITATIONAL” on the front, both long since surrendered to the ravages of time and Polly’s relentless shedding. But that’s not why I couldn’t sleep.

My mind has been gnawing on your last question: “Could you explain, in your own words, what Deep Rubber Fetish is?” I’ve circled it a dozen times, each attempt dissolving into frustration. So, I’ll try again, this time as both a confession and a report, and see what emerges.

The 100%/100% 'Urge'

Deep Rubber Fetish, or DRF, isn’t merely an attraction to latex or rubber clothing. That’s the surface, the tip of the iceberg. No, DRF is an archetypal, lifelong need—a compulsion, a calling—to be 100% enclosed in latex, 100% of the time. I call it the 100%/100% rule. You’ve seen it in the way rubberists escalate: a pair of gloves, then a catsuit, then total enclosure with hoods, gloves, socks, gasmasks, inflatable suits, lockable garments. The line between clothing and prison blurs, and for some of us, that’s the point.

Of course, 100%/100% isn't feasible in the real world. Wearing a full-cover suit with hood for 4-5 hours is not bad if all you are doing is sleeping or writing in a journal but when there is activity -- such as housekeeping -- the hood makes me sweat too much. The big problem is that the sweat gets into my eyes and wreaks havoc. When I doing something that burns calories -- like vacuuming -- the latex makes me sweat profusely and over heat.

I also need to bathe about twice a day. I shower quickly and then languish in a soaking bath for 1/2 hour or so. Then I summon the chutzpah to put my suit back on. My body doesn't want to do it at first. James calls that 'acedia' which means something like 'weariness of the soul'. But once the back on, I feel 'home' again and ready for another day or night in it.

The 'secret' to Living In Rubber is 90%90%!

90% of 24 hours is 2.4 hrs. This means I have a little over 1 hour for each bath time. I can soak in the tub for 30 minutes and have about 20 minutes before and after to take my suit off and then put it back on. Sometimes time is a bit tight, so I try to have all my clean garments ready by bath time. James also rigged a large fan in the bathroom that helps me dry off more quickly and completely -- that helps a lot. It also cools me down so that I'm not sweating when I put my suit on. This makes it go on easier and does not put me in 'sweat mode' right away.

I wear my latex catsuit, gloves and socks -- but no hood -- (i.e. 90% coverage) nearly all the time. Having my head free in 'aerobia', ('with air') let's my head stay cool. Getting sweat in my eyes is not a problem.

Why do I do this?

The answer is both simple and infuriatingly slippery. Latex feels incredible—like a second skin that amplifies every sensation, every movement, every breath. It isolates you from the world, creating a space that is at once sensual and meditative. But that’s just the beginning.

The deeper truth is that the fetish urge never fades, even now, when I haven't had a period in two decades and am simply not oriented to sex much anymore. It doesn’t matter how much latex I own, how many hours I spend reading about it, or how much time I actually spend inside it. I always want more. I want to live in it, sleep in it, breathe in it. If it were socially acceptable and physically possible, I would never leave it. To call it a compulsion is accurate, but incomplete. It’s more like a gravitational pull, a home I’m perpetually trying to return to.

Most of the time, I function as a normal human. I know my brain is simply wired this way, and I’ve made my peace with that. But there are moments—when I’m dusting, or waiting in line at the post office, or walking Polly—when the urge blooms in my chest like a firework. Suddenly, I’m calculating how quickly I can retreat to my room, lock the door, and slip into my armor.

There is also the 'Latexistentist' aspect. It's complex. I'll examine it for you in another journal entry.

The Sanctuary

Let me show you my world. The Hahnestery’s “master bedroom” is a misnomer—a cavernous space last updated in the late ‘80s, more college gymnasium than boudoir. There’s a king-sized bed (a slab of memory foam, nothing fancy), a gas fireplace that roars to life with the flip of a switch, and built-in bookshelves deep enough to hide a child. But the crown jewel is the balcony: double glass doors open onto a platform perched above a creek and a waterfall. On mornings like this, the roar of the water seeps through the doors, a constant reminder of time carving its path through stone.

My desk sits beneath a dormer window facing east, its ancient glass warping the trees outside into melting paintings. Here, I keep my “work” things: dusting cloths, a battered laptop, a tape dispenser with a cartoon sheep. But the heart of the room is the dresser—a five-drawer oak beast inherited from the previous housekeeper. The top drawers hold mundane things: socks, old running shorts. The bottom drawer, though, is my reliquary.

You know about my collection, but I’ve never described it in detail. Five full catsuits in varying states of repair: black, pink, metallic blue, clear, and a “natural” skin tone that makes me look like a living Oscar statuette. Three gasmasks, each with different filter styles. A couple of hoods. Four pairs of gloves—two opera-length, two standard. A pair of ballet boots that make me feel regal, even if I can only wear them sitting down. And my latest addition: a sleeveless catsuit with double dildos. (Yes, I clean them.)

Most of it isn’t practical for daily wear. Full enclosure is sweaty, uncomfortable, a private weather system of fog and rain beneath the skin. But every night, without fail, I don at least some of it before bed. I rotate through the suits like a priest cycling through vestments. At my age, it’s less about sex and more about devotion. I’m not sure there’s a better word for it.

The Dual Life

I spend a lot of time alone, even when I’m not in the suit. The Hahnestery is vast, and while Lorraine and James are warm and welcoming, they’re often absorbed in their own worlds. Lorraine’s rolling command center looks like it was stolen from NASA, all monitors and ergonomic armrests. James’ den smells of pipe tobacco and old soldering irons. We gather for meals and “family hour”—TV, board games—but otherwise, I’m left to my own devices.

This is exactly how I like it. I never thought I’d enjoy being a caretaker, but it turns out I’m a natural. Give me a list of chores and a little solitude, and I hum along like a well-oiled machine. The work is never overwhelming, the pay is fair, and sometimes I wonder if the Hahns keep me around as much for the company as for the labor. I hope so. It’s nice to feel necessary.

But even here, in this fortress of tolerance, I can’t help but divide my life into the “real” and the “rubber” worlds. By day, I’m efficient, capable, wholesome—jeans and flannels, banana bread from scratch. By night, I’m a latex-clad revenant, prowling the silent upper floors, reading fetish blogs on my laptop. I don’t think the Hahns know. If they do, they’ve never let on. Maybe that’s the greatest kindness of all.

The Crow and the Waterfall

I’m not sure if this is what you wanted—a taxonomy of perversion or 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. There are days when I’d sell my soul for a cheap bottle of wine and a night wandering the bars. But more often than not, I’m at peace here.

Is that what growing up is? Learning to make peace with your own weirdness? I hope so.

There’s a crow who’s taken up residence on my balcony. It leaves shiny objects on the railing—bits of foil, pop tops, once a small metal spring. Sometimes I wonder if it knows we’re kindred spirits. I named it Persephone. It seems to fit.

Yours, somewhere between the waterfall and the wardrobe,

Thalia