Confessions of a Tuba Fetishist Ch. 02

I spent the next two days on Google, trying to make sense of what I had experienced when I blew the big tuba my landlady gave me. I put it in the corner (just touching it gave me a thrill, let alone feeling its massive weight--the fact that little old me could blow a horn this big...) and tried to ignore it, but the giant old tuba kept attracting my gaze. Aside from the couch it was the biggest thing in the room, and the couch hadn't brought me to a thundering orgasm.

I searched for fetishes. I learned that the tuba fetish was indeed a real thing, not a popular fetish but a recognized one. Balloons were more popular (I thought of the big balloons my landlady bought for me to blow up and pop to get my lungs in shape for the tuba), as were inflatables. People didn't just blow up balloons and inflatables, I learned; they fucked them as well. If tuba fucking was a fetish, I didn't find it on the Web.

Holy fuck, I thought, I have a tuba fetish! Well, that sure explained my long-time obsession with these giant horns, even if it didn't feel sexual until now.

I read a lot about fetishes. I wondered, as I'm sure many of you have (because if you're reading this, you're the same kind of perverted tuba freak as me, aren't you?), if there was something wrong with me. No, I learned: Fetishes happen, and no one can quite figure out why.

And really, as far as fetishes go, was this such a bad one? I didn't want to get whipped or beat up. I didn't want random guys to poop on me. I'd just be blowing a tuba. A tuba couldn't get me pregnant. A tuba wouldn't beg to fuck my ass and then never call me. Hell, I might even learn to make music, and wouldn't that be great? I could make people happy while making myself very, very, very happy.

The most important thing, to me, was knowing I wasn't the only one who had this unusual fetish. (I had a suspicion my landlord already knew that.)

If I was a freak, if I was a weirdo, if I was a puffy-cheeked tuba-blowing pervert--well, I was going to embrace it and be the best damn puffy-cheeked tuba-blowing pervert I could be! (And if you're reading this story, I hope you feel the same way.)

I followed my landlady's instructions, dutifully blowing up my big Tuftex 17" balloons (which got way the fuck bigger than 17 inches before they exploded; I know, I measured) to bursting every morning and every night. (I suppose I should write that as a separate story for the balloon fetishists!) I practiced on my tuba, and when I got the blowing down pat, my landlady started to teach me how to play some basic notes. I bought some brass polish and got that old tuba shining like new, much to her delight. I even took it down to Wendy's Wind Instrument Wonderland on Fairfax Avenue (it barely fit in my little hatchback car!) to have the dents taken out, which delighted my landlady to no end. (When I picked it up, Wendy herself gave my tuba a test-blow, and didn't that send a thrill through my body?)

I took tuba lessons from a cute guy who spent a lot of time staring at my boobs. I was always a little flustered at my lessons, and I think he thought that was because I was enamored by his manliness. If only he knew! (Which he sure the fuck never would.) When he commented that my 6/4 tuba was a big instrument for such a small person, I had to excuse myself and take a few minutes alone in the bathroom. I was a good student except for my embouchure. He said not to puff my cheeks. I puffed them anyway. Puffy cheeks, I was amazed to learn, turned me on like crazy. My own as well as that of other tuba girls.

The lesson following mine was a 40-something housewife who wanted something to do now that the kids were off to college. Her embouchure was terrible, too. Sometimes I'd stay and watch, and later at night, blowing--I mean *practicing*--my tuba, one hand on the valves, one hand in another place, a warm and wet one that had nothing to do with the tuba, blowing low notes that sent a pleasant buzzing vibration into my thighs, I would think of what she looked like blowing her tuba. Thank goodness for multiple orgasms.

Sometimes my landlady came to watch me practice. Whenever she did, later that night, I'd hear faint music coming from the direction of the house--music I later learned was a baritone after I blew one at Wendy's to see what it sounded like. I bet my landlady was playing one-handed, too, and the thought of her thinking of me... well, let's just say it gave me cause to pick up my tuba and blow a little more.

My life wasn't consumed by my tuba; I made friends and I socialized. They knew I played the tuba (no one could miss that giant horn lurking in the corner of my living room) but, aside from the obvious jokes ("You love to blow the big ones, don't you?") didn't seem to think it was anything unusual. For me, that was part of the thrill. It was like walking around with one of my tits hanging out and no one even noticing.

Speaking of my tits, I suppose I should tell you about mine, because the next part of my story concerns them. Given my tuba-tooting aspirations, I had always hoped to inherit my mother's slender frame, and I did... but instead of her beautiful little teacup breasts, I now fill a 34F bra. For those of you boys who think F-cup = huge hooters, I'm sorry, it doesn't. Cup size is the difference between the measurement around your ribs and the measurement around your boobs, and F is about six inches. A woman who wears a 40DD bra has bigger tits than I do (I know, I've played with them). Still, I'm far from flat-chested, and that, I feared was going to be a problem: My F-cup boobs stick out pretty far from my small body, and now, with my tuba fetish in full swing, I really wanted a sousaphone. The idea of blowing a big tuba that wraps around my body... wow, I'm getting wet just typing those words.

But... would I be able to fit a sousaphone around these colossal knockers of mine?

There was only one way to find out.

I'd like to tell you I confidently pointed my car to Wendy's, confidentially strolled in, and said "Hi, Wendy, I'd like to buy a sousaphone! Give me the biggest one you've got!" But the truth is the idea made me so nervous I could barely drive. I set out and turned back at least three times, and on the day I finally made it, I stalled the car twice (and I've been driving stick since I was 16--oh, stop it, I'm talking about cars, you perv).

I don't even remember the walk from the parking lot. One second I was sitting in my car, asking myself for the millionth time if I could really do this; the next I was standing across the counter from the beautiful Wendy, who had given my 6/4 contrabass such a sexy toot (really more of a fog-horn blast) after repairing it for me. My mouth was on automatic pilot, and the words coming out of it sounded like something from a low-budget tuba porn movie, if such a thing exists: "I want to buy a sousaphone, but I think my breasts are too big to fit." Thank goodness I was talking to a woman; I'd already decided that if the only sales clerk available was a guy, I'd go speeding back to Topanga Canyon.

"A slim little thing like you?" said Wendy, who was such a slim little thing you could probably fit two of her into a sousaphone. I put my hands flat against my shirt below my bustline to show just how big my boobs are. The idea of showing off my breasts to another woman, even in what was supposed to be a completely non-sexual situation--though this obviously wasn't, at least not for me--gave me an unexpected thrill.

"Oh, yes, you do have some curves, don't you?" Wendy smiled. "Well, don't worry, I know women with bigger breasts than yours who play the sousaphone."

"Really?" I said, feeling a slickness between my legs. The tuba fetish was crazy enough: Why was talking about breasts and sousaphones turning me on so much? I really was a sicko.

"Oh yes," she said. "You should see my cousin Tracy. Amazing tuba player with tremendous breasts. She squeezes into her sousaphone just fine. It's a right fit, but she has room to expand her lungs and blow those really big notes. You should hear her."

I have never been so grateful to be a woman. Hearing Wendy talk about this titanic-titted tuba tooter was turning me on like fucking crazy. If I was a man, I would have popped a boner big enough to bust my zipper.

"Well, uh, maybe some day I'll meet her," I said.

"She moved away a couple of years ago," Wendy said. "Works at a restaurant in some little town that she says is obsessed with balloons. She says all those years of tuba blowing have paid off, though why a short-order cook would need to blow balloons is beyond me. Anyway, I bet a tuba will look great wrapped around that sexy body of yours. Let's try."

She lifted a sousaphone off a peg on the wall, handling it as if it was no heavier than a feather. She handed it to me, and though it was lighter than my big concert tuba, it sure as hell wasn't light as a feather. How the fuck did people march with these things all day in the hot sun--let alone blow all the air such a big horn demanded? That thought sent another shudder through my body. I had to be very, very careful here. I was likely to start moaning.

"Get that over your shoulder and try it on," Wendy said. My hands were so sweaty and shaky I was afraid I would drop the massive horn, but I managed to heave it up over my head and rest it on my shoulder. The tubing pressed hard against my breast, and I can't say I didn't like it.

"The bell turns, so you can adjust the tuba for comfort... yes, definitely a tight fit, but I think it'll be okay. Put your hands here and here,. That's good. Want to give it a blow?" Wendy proffered a mouthpiece and fitted it to the tuba.

Steady, I told myself, steady!

"Take a deep breath," she said. "Let's make sure you have room to really inflate those lungs. I know you play a contrabass tuba, but this one takes some wind as well."

Oh, Wendy, I thought, please don't... I thought of my imaginary cock, already busted through my zipper and now starting to throb. Maybe this was a bad idea. After all, I knew what playing the tuba did to me... and what it kept doing to me, more and more, the more I played... but I have more experience now, and surely one big blow won't put me over the edge (That thought put me right on the edge.) Also, there's no non-awkward way out except...

I inhaled as deep as I could. Wendy was right, it was a very tight fit (or was I pushing the tuba into my chest just a little bit?), and as my chest rose with my inflating lungs, my left breast (the bigger one by half a cup size, just my luck) pressed hard into the sousaphone's brass tubing. I'd worn a fairly thick cotton shirt and a bra that pushed me up a bit, figuring it'd be best to create the worst-case scenario (assuming, living in Los Angeles, I'd never need to blow a tuba while wearing a thick wool coat). That was a good thing; in the weeks that would follow, the cold brass of thus very sousaphone, which I could feel against my braless tit through the thin t-shirt I liked to wear, would be enough to set me off. Today, it was only the pressure--and damn if that wasn't nearly enough. My cunt was so wet I thought puddles would soon appear around my ankles.

I put my lips to the big silver mouthpiece. As always, feeling it envelop my lips brought on a jolt of pleasure. Please don't cum, I told myself. Please don't cum! One big blow, that's all. Back home you can blow your tuba three or four times before it happens. Please, please, please...

I pursed my lips, thought about all the marching tuba girls I had watched and admired, and realized that I was about to join their ranks.

I filled my cheeks with air and blew.

BWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMPPPPPPHHHHH!!!

You know how they say dogs and cats can sense an earthquake coming? That's how it was with this orgasm, and an apropos metaphor that is. The big sousaphone turned the air I was blowing into a low, sorrowful note, just as I was expecting, but what I wasn't expecting was the resonance, the vibration that was transferred from the tuba to my body, which harmonized with the tremors of anticipation that were shaking my very skin.

It's coming, I thought, *I* am coming, and then I felt the waves wash over me, just like the first time I blew the contrabass tuba my landlady had given me. That time, I broke contact with the mouthpiece and cried out. This time, I couldn't, not here. I had to blow through it, literally and figuratively. Blow, blow, blow, I thought, keep blowing until it's done, but the longer I blew, the more the waves wracked my body, overwhelming me. There was nothing else in the world but me, the sousaphone, the big breath I was blowing, and the orgasm. Blow, blow, blow...

I emptied my lungs and concentrated on keeping my legs from buckling underneath me, and then I kept on blowing, thinking I might collapse--and then, mercifully, it was over, the waves retreating back to the ocean of my soul. I took my lips from the tuba and drew a deep, involuntary breath. My cheeks felt red and hot, and for once it wasn't from being puffed out to the size of grapefruit.

I looked at Wendy. Wendy looked at me.

"Wow, you are quite the tuba blower!" she said--and then her expression changed, just for a moment, to a look that I'd seen in my landlady's face. "And something tells me you blew more than just that sousaphone," she added quietly, and then the moment and the expression were gone.

"See," she said, "Plenty of room for your big boobs. But look how out of breath you are. These things are heavy. We have fiberglass sousaphones that are a lot lighter, if you'd like to try one."

"No, I, uh..." The thought of blowing another sousaphone was too much--and besides, just as I remembered the first boy to give me an orgasm--Phil, his name was, his lips on my right nipple and his fumbling fingers on my clit--and the contrabass tuba at home that was the first to do the same--I knew this sousaphone would always be special. "I like this one," I stammered. "It's for sale, right?"

"What, this one? Why, yes, brand new, just came in this morning, in fact. I had a feeling you might want it. You're the first one to blow it, you know." She lowered her voice to a confidential half-whisper. "I usually give all the new brass a little toot, but this one's a virgin. We have payment plans, if you--"

"No, no, I've been saving," I said, and I had been. I was also a little embarrassed and a lot eager to get this new sousaphone home. I (reluctantly) took the big tuba off my shoulder, and Wendy carefully packed it into its case, then helped me carry it out and stuff it into my little car.

"Have fun with your new sousaphone," Wendy said.

"I will," I said. "Yes, I'm sure I will."

I had no idea how true that would turn out to be... but you will, my fellow tuba fetishist. You will know very soon.