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About dnstuefloten

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    Expert member
  • Birthday February 14

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    http://dnstuefloten.com and http://evidenceofalostcity.com

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    Art and literature, and strange women in stockings...
  • Favourite hosiery brand or style
    Fully Fashioned
  1. Muses and artists have always belonged together. An artist without a muse is a rather forlorn creature—as I can testify—but a muse without her artist is a bit lost also. My last muse was Yasmeen, a strangely beautiful creature who had also been my girlfriend about 25 years earlier. We had lived together then in Patzcuaro, a village in the mountains of Michoacan. I wrote one of my novels, The Queen of Las Vegas, about her, and a short story—“Kali”—which I later illustrated and published as an e-book. Yasmeen died a year ago, in a rather brutal car accident in Las Vegas, where she lived. This was terrible for many reasons, of course. But her death started me on a long, sad, meandering rumination about the muse, and stockings. Yasmeen was a very bright woman, and an artist herself—a dancer who made a living for years touring Persian nightclubs, and a painter whose murals are on many Vegas walls. We could go out to dinner and talk, and talk, about art, and life—and stockings. There was something very strange, she told me, about these stockings. In Mexico, 25 years earlier, she’d worn RHTs. At first she didn’t like them. Like other women I’ve known, she felt they were too “fiddly”—and not “natural”. But soon that changed. She began wearing them every day, and often slept in them. She’d show them off—find opportunities to lift a skirt and adjust them, or sit with a carefully careless display of stocking top. After a couple months of this magnificent inspiration, I began writing The Queen of Las Vegas, and she suddenly started some new drawings—misshapen, phantasmagorical figures that actually frightened her. She worked furiously on them. I figured she was expelling inner demons. She had never done drawings like that before. They exhausted her, but excited her too. We were both excited. My novel flew from my pen. In Vegas, a quarter century later, I bought Yasmeen Cuban- and Manhattan-heeled FFs. She began wearing dresses again, and high heels, and makeup. When I visited her—I live in California, so there was always a bus trip involved—she started lolling about in the evenings, wearing just the stockings, some mules that she loved, and perhaps a silk nightgown. All this was inspirational for me, of course. I began a new illustrated story about her, “The Temple Dancer”, and started working out how to include her in my new novel, where she could play a character I call the Nocturnal Wife. That’s when she told me there was something strange about stockings. The stockings did something to her. It wasn’t just their erotic nature. They affected her mind, her imagination. Sometimes they disturbed her, made her very uncomfortable—as her old drawings had done. The stockings couldn’t be ignored—she always felt them, they were there, on her legs, tugging and twisting at her like an importunate lover. We began imagining things together—traveling by train in India, for instance, a sequence I included in our new story. We imagined it together: selecting the correct stocking to wear—“Oh, Manhattan heels, I think—with a red dress!”—and how she would sit in the dining car, with one leg stretched a bit into the aisle. I just wrote it down. Her imagination came clawing out of her unconscious, like a beast. What I feel is that an artist without a muse will atrophy. But a muse without an artist will atrophy too. Yasmeen and I revived each other. I suspect that the women here who love wearing stockings are all muses in some mysterious way. And this must have a powerful affect, not just on the man in their life, but on themselves. They don’t just drive desire, or lust, but in some odd way art too. Imagination. Transformation. Creativity. Is that true? How many of the women here experience this transformational quality? That sense of art appearing magically around you? And how much of this can be attributed to these wispy, flimsy, translucent things we call stockings?