First and foremost:  I believe everyone that has decided to explore some kind of “alternative living” is standing and applauding Sean Penn this week for having taken home an Academy Award from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (otherwise known as an Oscar) for his dead-on portrayal of slain civil-rights leader, Harvey Milk.  In his acceptance speech, Mr. Penn said ,”It is a good time for those who voted for for the ban against gay marriage to sit and reflect, and anticipate their great shame, and the shame in their grandchildren’s eyes, if they continue that way of support. We’ve got to have equal rights for everyone.” I personally do not believe anyone could have said it better, or so eloquently. Wherever you are, Harvey – be proud.

A few months back, Your Humble Narrator did draw some attention to the life and the time of Harvey Milk. One of the bit-players in that all-too-real life drama was the woman who took a violent, filthy and foul little creature off the very streets and decided (despite the best efforts of those around her, I might add) to give that Dodger-like rascal a life. She raised him as were he her own flesh and blood and, in so many ways, allowed him to live a life that indeed would have been cut all-too-short due to the very nature of an existence living from garbage can to garbage can.

That Artful Dodger … was me. Her name was Papillon and though I have not been to San Francisco or her second home in the Canadian Rockies for years, I daresay the mere mention of her name must bring whispered reverence amongst those who not only knew her, but could proudly count her as amongst their best of friends (if not, perish the though, family).

What I wish to focus on is somewhat of a transformation – and the transmutation itself revolves squarely around the feel … the scent … the near obsession … with rubber. Let’s use the more fashionable term for ther remainder of this piece, shall we? I freely admit that I had thought latexwear a little odiferous, looking uncomfortably tight and seemingly a nightmare to maintain, judged by comments made within the house and by latex-enthusiast guests within it. I therefore had little use for the stuff.

However, latexwear personally was introduced to me completely by accident: I was charged one day with having to clean out some older cabinets and closets within one of the Chambers of the Chateau – and I won’t soon forget that overwhelming essence that permeated throughout the room the moment I unlocked and then pried open the top drawer of a somewhat old chest of drawers. What the hell is that? I remember thinking quite clearly as my nostrils were filled with the aura of … well, what smelled like an old bicycle tire collection … loving folded into individual black plastic bags. I had caught a whiff of rubberwear at a party or two, of course – but this was truly overpowering. There must have been over one-hundred latex garments in that one drawer alone.

Being still somewhat young, and curiousity being what it is (an indiscreet murderer of inquiring felines of all kinds), I gingerly reached into the very first bag and withdrew the item within. It very quickly unfolded itself – into a three-quarter length mini-dress, made from fairly thin black latex. It had a deep cut across the breast area but a fill back, and the arms appeared to be about three-quarter length (just below the elbow, I think) as well.

What I had also managed to do was create quite a mess: I had no idea what the hell all this fine white powder was that was now silently and delicately wafting around me – and seemingly all over the room. To the best of my knowledge my Lady certainly wasn’t one of the premiere suppliers of “consumable white powder” in the neighborhood – so I made the (correct) assumption that it must be a biologically-friendly latex protectant.  That powder continued to spill merrily from the upturned black bag until my senses snapped back to attention and I managed to pull the gaping “mouth” back to a normal, upright position. Minus, of course, almost every last residue of that powder. How can one small bag hold that much powder, I thought? While I still held this wondrous little black rubber dress cautiously in one hand, with as much grace as I dared I put the black bag on the countertop of the chest of drawers – only to have it immediately drop forthwith from the ledge and plop with a small, cloud-like thud onto the carpet below. Whatever remained up until that time in the bag, was now free to travel the known universe.

Now, naturally, Gentle Reader, one thought kept going through my mind the entire time:

She is going to kill me.

Frantically, I looked about the room for something – anything! - that could immediately scoop up and hide the merry little evidence of my curious stupidity that now swirled about happily in the dimly-lit room. This being not quite the age of the ‘Dust Buster”, my immediate thought was, of course, to casually seek out Good Old Reliable Mr. Hoover (the vacuum cleaner, kids – keep up with the tour!) – but in my panic I could not for the life of me remember where it was. I also realize with horror that to move about the room … would be to create little powdery footsteps behind me, anywhere I went. I could not leave that room … I could not even move about in that room, in truth, and a secondary thought just went through my mind, over and over again:

She is going to kill me. I’m doomed.

Now, you must understand one thing about the Lady Papillon, my friends: This was not a woman who abided other people’s messes. Her own? Sure! She was perfectly at home traipsing in and out of the kitchen with dishes piled as high as Mount Sinai itself: as long as each and every one of those dishes had been placed there by her. Just like a certain credit card always states, “membership has its privileges” and being counted in the Dominas “R” Us club certainly ascribes an identical idiom. There’s always some servant or six to clear the mountains of plates, after all, n’est-ce pas?

Regardless, Dear Reader, as my terror mounted, and in oh-so-too-short a time, I heard the distinct sashay-sashay  of my Lady’s long silk skirts and the gentle click-clack of her booted heels walking through the library area – and inevitably, excruciatingly and methodically towards the open door of the inner Chamber. I closed my eyes, waiting for the inevitable banshee wail that was sure to follow the moment she passed the threshold …

… except that two of the three household felines, at that very moment, decided to investigate the proceedings first. Your Humble Narrator will not go into a long, detailed description of exactly what it is like when two cats, intent on playing a rousing game of ZOOM! decide to take their delightful game directly through your silkenly-dusted general area. But, allow me to say this much: it isn’t pretty.  One pure black cat became near white! One brown and white cat became even whiter! Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer themselves could not have caused more mayhem! One cat tail zigged wildly to the left! Another cat tail zagged drunkenly to the right! Mushroom clouds of latex protectant are forming right before my terrified eyes, and yet another, tertiary thought raced through my mind as I watched the tail-swishing horror unfold before me:

She is going to kill me. I’m doomed. But … at least the garden is far too small to effectively hide a body.

For one, precious, but brief moment, I remembered where Mr. Hoover was currently stashed. I thought all I had to do was quietly pick the two rambunctious kittens up, silently drop them into the bathroom right next door until such time as I could sponge them down, creep down the hall, retrive the vacuum cleaner, and deflty eliminate any evidence of my powdery, Clouseau-like buffoonery.

Alas, my feline housemates had other ideas. The moment I even gave a hint as to bend down and pick one, if not both, of them up, they immediately made a bee-line straight towards the door. Oh well, I thought, I’ll just have to figure out something else. So, Your Humble Narrator doth cringed the tightest cringe I believe yet foreseen on this good, green Earth and pondered just exactly where my remains would, eventually be found.

Especially when the cats went hissing and flitting out the door directly underneath the skirts of one very annoyed, boot-tapping Domina now standing firmly entrenched between the room – and my extermination.

What a scene, that must have been to behold in her eyes, O My Cousins and Only True Friends.. As the two beloved household felines continued their mad romp and dash through the house, leaving a trail of white powder with each swat, leap and roll on anything and everything in their path, my own beloved Mistress of the House simply raised her infamous brow … very deliberately placed her slender, tendril-like fingers upon her hip in a dignified yet dramatic and commanding curl, tapped the toe of her black leather boot once – just once – for maximum effect … pointed her other hand and one very elongated finger at the dainty rubber dress I now held clumsily in my hand, and said:

“So, boy. I see you’ve been a little busy. Would you like to try that on?“

That was my first exposure to the wonderful world of latexwear. I do not need to tell you, I look terrible in a latex mini-dress. Pray tell: What was your first experience like?

Kardynyl SynysTyr

 “Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a wonderful way of working together.
 And some of the time you would say it was luck, and some of the time you would say it was weather.
 They would go through the house like a hurricane, and no sober person could take his oath
 Was it Mungojerrie – or Rumpelteazer? or could you have sworn that it mightn’t be both?”

~ The Immortal T.S. Eliot, “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats”