I have been meaning to describe the rest of the evening we had when we went to an art exhibit the other night. We went out to dinner first and this time, as my hood has a zip closure over the mouth for convenient gagging, I was able toactually have dinner with Sir.
We enjoyed a nice chinese meal (no shortage of asian restaurants in San Jose) and chatted a bit about his upcoming trip, my requirements for discipline and ritual bondage while he was gone, and other household topics like having the yard people in to clear some dead brush and trees.
I brought him up to date on some of the research I've been helping my friend with and then we talked about what wardrobe he would pack for a trip to Europe in October (catsuit, two hoods, pair gloves, slacks, boots, and blazer for the curious). he always overpacks and this time took his long rubber trench coat which he tells me he has not needed as it has been beautiful weather.
You must be aware by this time, that I sitting in the restaurant, covered in the burqa, wearing the dress, hood, gloves, etc you see above (yes, I DO wear some jewelry under the burqa...I just do not feel dressed without pearls sometimes), I have reached a point where this feels the most normal and comfortable.
Thinking back, I did not even notice the act of bringing my bowl up under the burqa to eat, the looks from other diners (which were actualy very few despite a full restaurant), or any 'difficulties' with the act of eating and drinking.
Dark mentioned in a comment to an earlier post about the difficulty of living in gloves. I just do not find it anymore. I recall isues when I first started, but now, having two pairs on (visciously tight, I should point out...my gloves are very thin and tight like surgeon's) seems the proper and normal way to touch things.
I have developed a whole set of reflexes regarding picking things up, holding them, placing them, all geared around being unable to actually touch with my skin. It took a while (I have never blogged some of the silly accidents I had in my very early days of rubbering...years before the total enclosure regimen), but now I do not even notice when I am blinded as I was for much of dinner.
The hood has zip-shut eyes as you can see. Sir allowed me to be blind on the way to the restaurant, sighted as we went in and sat, blind through dinner while we chatted, and on the way to the exhibit, then sighted while we wandered the gallery. He placed my hands on each bowl and plate of dinner and I actually managed chopsticks blinded with two pairs of gloves. My friend who is both seriously sight impaired AND a rubberist will be quite proud when she reads this. I oened and closed the zippers as he told me to.
The hood has a double zip over the mouth and I carried an inflatable gag with me, placing it in my mouth and zipping the hood shut over my lips. The only time i was able to speak was during dinner. I do find it terribly erotic to actually, in public, reach up and gag myself. It feels like the deepest sort of total surrender to Sir and to the rubber enclosure.
The most remarkable thing, however, was that I, for one, simply do not recall noticing anything strange. Being blind or bound for dinner is normal now.having myself fed by maid while strapped to a chair and sealed in several layers of latex is normal now. So many aspects of rubber fetishism which seem so extreme when seen in photos or described in posts seem compeltely normal after this much time.
After dinner, we rose and exited the restaurant, then drove over to the gallery. I was allowed to open my eye zips once we were inside, but had to leave myself gagged. Of course the burqa covered all.
The art was nothing spectacular. Dark, dreary paintings by a young artist who thinks he has experienced life's pain and has something to say about it.
Mostly an earth toned pallette and absolutely nothing I should want hanging on my walls. But the artist himself was shocked by the appearance of a black burqa clad woman in his exhibit. I, on the other hand, was happily surprised to see two muslim women wandering the gallery, one tall in full veil (wearing heels), the other, a shorter, older looking woman, in hijab and following a man I presume was older woman's husband from the look of him. I suspect the veiled girl of being the daughter, but it is hard to tell. You do not often see fully veiled muslimahs in San Jose, although hijab is quite common.
The artist came over as I was looking at one of his larger pieces, a triptych all in black brown and grey. He stood beside me a moment, then asked me what I thought. I put my hand up in front of my burqas mouth and shook my head. It took him a moment to understand that I would not or could not answer him.
Sir was watchig from the sidelines as he often does. he said later that the real show was watching everyone watch the artist. And the Gallery owner, sensing a disaster, virtually running over to intercept him before something horrendoous occurred in her space. All of this is speculation on Sir's part, but I do not doubt she was concerned as she came rushing up beside him rather out of breath.
He explained that he was just asking my opinion, and she started to relax visibly, when Sir walked over. "She can't answer you, I'm afraid. It is not alllowed. But I'll bet she thinks the piece is interesting but too large for our living room."
I (starting to giggle into my gag...has anyone else ever had a case of the giggles while gagged?) nodded vigourously under the burqa. The artist, sensing a commission, asked if a smaller version might interest us and he and Sir started chatting about sizes while I wandered on to the next piece. By this time I was nearly doubled over giggling and found a bench to sit on for a moment.
Now, San Jose certainly has its colorful nightlife and I am relatively drab all swathed in black rubber cloak compared to the goths who were also wandering the gallery. A girl standing over 6 feet tall, thin to the point of anorexia, hair three shades of henna and purple, black flowing dress straight from a gothic vampire novel with makeup to match wandered by accompanied by a Sid Vicious look alike (not a very good one). It is nice to know that punk isn't dead, it's just embalmed.
I watched as they looked at pieces, looked at me, looked at the patrons, all the while effecting very bored expressions. but then she started whining (and I DO mean whining!) about wanting a smoke and they quickly wandered outdoors, she first with him in tow. Ah relationships...so wonderful to see young people forming bonds.
A little while later, Sir collected me and asked if i had seen enough and was I ready to go. I nodded and we headed for the door. But on the way he directed me over to the where the artist was talking with one of the few willowy blondes in the place (SJ is NOT LA and brunettes abound here). he broke off a moment and said, "I'll call in a few weeks and we'll arrange the sitting?"
Sir responded, "Yes, I'll expect to hear from you." Then he turned to me and said, "You're having your portrait done...sort of." He and the artist laughed and Sir said goodnight (I bowed as I usually do) and we headed for the car.
On the way home, Sir explained that the artist wants to paint my picture, but in burqa. Sir explained some of our lifestyle to him and he wants to have me sit for him. Not sure why, but it should be interesting.
All in all a pleasant evening. and a good way to send Sir off on a long trip. I am missing him terribly what with the cat being gone as well, but maid keeps me company and we are keeping busy. I need to do some shopping tomorrow, just to get out of the house.