I like hoods.  This should not come as any sur­prise to me since I have always appre­ci­ated a win­ters toqué, feel­ing the thick wool press against my fore­head, trap­ping my curls all while muffling all sound around me.  There is some­thing com­fort­ing when I feel a tight­ness against my head, almost a cocoon effect, help­ing to silence all those ram­bling “what if” thoughts that so often accom­pany me through­out my day.

Hoods for me do not rep­res­ent a mask for I do not believe I am hid­ing beneath the arti­fi­cial skin, on the con­trary.  I find that when a hood is stretched over my cheeks, con­sum­ing all traces of flesh, I allow a more nat­ural, more innate part of myself to explore, to play, to be exposed. For me, there is noth­ing as free­ing as a hood over my face and the more the hood cov­ers, the bet­ter.  There are times when a hood which allows me to see is neces­sary; how­ever, my favour­ite of con­trap­tions are ones that per­mit only the slight­est air to escape my nose; the ones that tug and pull on my flesh to the point where I have to remind myself that the outer shell is not my own; that the latex, the leather cov­er­ing me is merely an exten­sion of me, not phys­ic­ally attached.

When I don a hood some­thing inside of me is unlocked as though the shiny cov­er­ing grants me per­mis­sion to par­ti­cip­ate in all that I lust, all that I fan­tas­ize about.  Everything about me changes, from my pos­ture, to my voice, to the tone of my moans and growls. The trans­form­a­tion is all con­sum­ing and even I am stunned at just how vocal I become, how express­ive I am not only with my words but also with my body.  There is almost noth­ing I will not try when wear­ing a hood.  In fact, it is when my breath­ing is chal­lenged, when my skin is slick with mois­ture, when my eyes are blanketed, when I dis­ap­pear into a smooth, face­less object, that is when I beg for the most dec­ad­ent, for the most devi­ant of all sexual delights and I am not sat­is­fied until I am pushed to every extreme imaginable.

I have numer­ous fantas­ies regard­ing hoods and being placed in them for hours on end, some­times even for entire week­ends, sleep­ing, bathing, liv­ing in the hood con­tinu­ously, ensur­ing I am an obed­i­ent, ded­ic­ated and use­ful fuck object.  I have had thoughts of not being able to hear or see or speak and yet I am very aware that my goal is simply to stay in whatever place I am put; to move in whatever man­ner I am instruc­ted; to obey regard­less of what is hap­pen­ing to me.  Those desires only come to light though when I ima­gine myself coated in a tight fit­ting latex hood, when all human­ness dis­ap­pears and the only word to describe me is: object.  There is a sense of free­dom to that meta­morph­osis and although I do not exper­i­ence it often, when I am given such a priv­ilege, I am excep­tion­ally grate­ful. Grateful and greedy.  Always greedy for more.

~His

(Photograph cour­tesy of Deity, a fel­low writer and hood aficionado.)

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