I told her that I have never discriminated against gay people and I never will, and she allowed that she was of the same mind. So, this augurs well, don't you think?
Interesting that YOU were the individual who made the remarks about the photographic models in the September Archive to which I referred. It was my first day at the site; I paid no attention to names and simply devoured the material. I concur, this business of nuzzling a scarf, or pulling the neck of their sweater over their mouth, it's overwhelming. I just go nutso. You talk about women who enjoy the luxurious softness, etc, and again, yes. Last Christmas season, in the window of a women's apparel shop, I saw a giant poster featuring a girl in a sweater, and it was Christmas morning, she'd just unwrapped her present, and she was pressing a sweater against her face and smiling ecstatically. The caption read: "The Love of a Sweater." This is the absolute truth; I have not embroidered (excuse the pun) any of it. What this means is that the idea of a sweater as a love-object-not necessarily sexual-which can give comfort and joy to the recipient or wearer, already resides in the consciousness of the general populace. They simply don't have the FOCUS that we have. But they are into the program in the sense that they agree that a soft, fuzzy sweater is something to be very much desired. And this augurs well for us, n'est ce pas?
I think I said, in a note to you, that I didn't have much of an opportunity for sweater-peeping, hot as it is here in southern California, but the very day I wrote this I went out in the evening with one of my sons to a local pizza dive where one drinks endless pitchers of beer and watches sports movies on TV. Here, in this scorpion's nest, I spotted a girl in a short-sleeved pink mohair with a high neck and little white stripes around the sleeves. My son and I scoped the bettys (I'm divorced) and we assessed them all. My pronouncement was, I like that girl in pink. I didn't tell my son why. But I did say, "This girl is something like sixteen. You know that I'm not actually coming on to her. But I reserve my right as a voyeur. I'm just window shopping. You understand that, don't you?" "Sure, Pop." The beers flowed and I kept drinking her in with my eyes, the Pink Mohair Girl. I made several trips to the toilet for the express purpose of passing by her table and feasting my eyes on that beautifully-occupied pink mohair sweater. 
Later. We were pretty sloshed, so I went to the pay phone to call a taxi. Suddenly, here's Pink Mohair Girl, leafing through a chained telephone book. I looked into her eyes and nodded, she likewise. Then, in a seemingly inadvertent way, she pressed her sweatered tits against my arm. This gesture seemed to me to mean: "You Dirty Old Man! You've been watching me all night. Well, let's see what you've got! You probably can't even get it up, you old fart!"
I deftly saved face with the first words that popped into my head: "Oh, hello, Miss. Do you know, I've forgotten my glasses. Could you possibly dial this number for me?" 
Another Pink Incident, one involving a pink angora, occurred over twenty years ago. The scene is a brothel in Mexico City, and I've already "gone to the room," as they say, with two girls, when I spy a dyed blonde with big tits in a pink short-sleeved angora sweater. Soon we made arrangements, I paid my four bucks, she got her keys and her roll of toilet paper at the cash register, and we traipsed up the stairs, with me walking behind her and tickling her ass and reaching around to feel her big tits through the glorious angora sweater. Abruptly, we reached the room. I blurted out, "Por favor no quite tu sweter." But I was too late. She had already shucked off her skirt, shoes and her wonderful sweater, as if in a single movement. She flopped back on bed, her huge tits and gaping pussy waiting for my onslaught. I was so fiercely disappointed that my pecker wilted like a bean sprout. She lay back on the bed, snapping her bubble gum. She glanced at my dick, which looked more like a dead guppy than the perky penis of a young lad, and then she smirked and chuckled disdainfully. It seemed that I was defeated. But no! I snatched up the pink angora sweater and draped it over her naked torso and-SPROING!--dear old John Thomas leapt to attention. The ensuing engagement was very good if not great, with her snapping her gum in my ear and prompting, "Hurry up, Honey," in Spanish, but even if she wasn't WEARING the sweater it was at least draped across her body.
It's Sunday and I've returned from my girlfriend's house where we had our usual "conventional sex" session (I see her only on weekends). Attached to the headboard of her bed is a deep bin in which she keeps her sweaters. Her "sweater bin," as she calls it. She told me this one day after she had folded a sweater and casually tossed it into the receptacle: "This is my sweater bin." I almost died. To think that, while we writhe in the transports of naked sex, only inches away lies the potential fulfillment of my dreams. Once when she was in the bathroom, I lifted the lid of the sweater bin and peered inside. What a heaven! Dozens upon dozens of sweaters of all colors and textures, all neatly folded. I wanted to dive into that paradise of the senses and never come up for air. This Sweater Bin is in actuality far too small for me to fit into it, but for a man who fantasizes as much as I do, anything is possible. "Donald, where are you?" "Here I am, Honey (my muffled voice). I'm in your Sweater Bin. Won't you come in and join me?"
One of my fantasies is that we'll pull all the sweaters out of her Sweater Bin one day and go through them. "Do you like this one, Sweetie? Shall I wear it for you tonight?" I'll take off my clothes and stretch out on the bed and she'll pile the sweaters on top of me. She'll pick up an especially fluffy sweater and rub it all over my body. She'll be wearing one of the sweaters, of course. And she'll change frequently. The session will go on for hours. We'll prioritize the sweaters in order of their allure, and she'll schedule the days when she'll wear them. Many of the sweaters in the Sweater Bin are those which I have given her, but there are many others which I've never seen her wear, and these are the ones-as you may imagine-which intrigue me no end. 
Crazy, isn't it, this obsession?
The so-called normal man, with his limited imagination, is attracted to women, per se. The sweater fetishist-well, I'll speak for myself-has a double dose of libido. I am attracted to women, and I am attracted to women's sweaters. Put these two items together, and-ZOWIE!
I will tell you, my friend, that this Forum, since I discovered it a few days or weeks ago, has been food and drink to me. Here I can unburden myself, here I can meet with others who share my anomaly. Shall we call it that? I would prefer a word like "enthusiasm." I'm enthusiastic about sweaters, just as I am enthusiastic about many other areas of life. I think of myself as blessed. I've got HyperDrive.
Au revoir, my friend... 
SC