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Fetishes
Fetishes themselves don't bug me. It's how people react to them. I see
posts online that basically say "WTF? How can people be turned on by
croquet/ghosts/knees/vodka/etc.? They have serious problems!" and
"What's the world coming to when _____ is a common turn-on?"
It's the internet age, people. I can accept this kind of behavior from young teens, but other people probably have experience with strange sexual practices. I'm sure most people have a kink or turn-on that other people would find odd.
By the way, this isn't from personal experience, as I have no kinks/fetishes. (and if I did, would I tell you?)
It's the internet age, people. I can accept this kind of behavior from young teens, but other people probably have experience with strange sexual practices. I'm sure most people have a kink or turn-on that other people would find odd.
By the way, this isn't from personal experience, as I have no kinks/fetishes. (and if I did, would I tell you?)
Comments
Ugh this is so wrong and disgusting but I have to get it off my chest. OK so everyone who read the Troper Covens forum knows I'm a furry. I don't really have any other fetishes than that or so I thought. But today, in the store where I work, I was walking down a few aisles to get to the back room and I came across this purple stuffed dog called My Pal Violet, made by Leapfrog. here's a pic
◊ I don't know why, but instantly when I saw that toy I got the most raging insatiable hardon you could ever imagine. It's even like the box was taunting me, with things like "Squeeze me! I'm so soft!". I squeezed the paw and I shit you not it said "Ruff ruff ruff ruff! Take me home and I'll learn your name and some of your favorite things!", the italicized part stretched out in a creepily sexy manner. Not to mention that it sounds like a little kid, which is why I'm so squicked and guilty feeling right now. To make matters worse, right where the crotch is (you can barely see it in the picture) is the battery/voicebox hatch thing which looks JUST like the pubic mound of a vagina if someone molded it in plush. Anyway, today I've been daydreaming about all the nasty perverted "adventures" me and Violet would go on together, I'm freaking obsessed in a bad way. I was too ashamed to buy it, what will my coworkers think, what will my parents think, etc... I might order one from Amazon or ebay or something. I have to have this toy dog. I HAVE TO FUCK VIOLET.
I don't know what it says about me that I have had a larger lust for a purple dog baby-toy than any real woman, but I'm pretty sure it's along the lines of "choco, you're fucked up".
I think this is the most I've ever been ashamed of myself.
I laughed at all the dirty jokes I overheard, but I really didn't understand them at all. I just didn't want people to know how virginal my ears really were.
In grade six, my sometimes friend Adrienne came to class and said, "I read the funniest joke last night! How do you know if you had oral sex the night before?"
I didn't have a clue what oral sex was, and I have a retroactively sneaking suspicion none of my other friends did, either. We smiled and waited for the answer.
"When you wake up in the morning and your face feels like a glazed doughnut! Isn't that hilarious?"
We all laughed, but I didn't find out what oral sex was for almost a decade.
Adrienne also used to point at boys in our class and whisper they had "boners." I didn't have a clue what she was talking about.
When I was in grade nine, a girl named Gina loved to torment me. One day, in front of all her friends, she asked me, "Have you ever been broke into?"
Gina and her friends came from a little village well-known for the lack of branches on its family trees. Villagers also shared a lack of grammatical expertise, so I couldn't see any double entendres in her question.
"Yes," I said. "It was this old guy who we once bought a horse from."
Gina laughed. "He was old?"
"Yeah, he must be in his sixties. And he was really drunk, too."
Gina and her friends roared. "You were broke into by an old man! Hahahahahaha!"
By this point, I knew I was the butt of a joke, but I still didn't know what the joke was.
My unboundable ignorance continued for several more years. In high school, any mention of the number sixty-nine made me giggle in a most prurient fashion, but I was still faking it. I only laughed because everyone else did. I really didn't have a clue what this sixty-nine business was. By this point, I'm pretty sure I was the only one who didn't get the jokes. I really was dreadfully naive.
For many years, my only exposure to sex included:
* taking forbidden peeks at my father's naughty movies (like Hollywood Hot Tubs or Zapped)
* watching farm animals do the nasty
* educational AIDS pamphlets
* dirty jokes I just didn't understand
* Jehovah's Witness anti-self-abuse literature and the Bible
* reading Barbara Cartland novels.
I owe an awful lot to a dead woman with amputated toes. Her name was Christine, and she was my next-door neighbour for several years during my childhood and teen years. She was a chain-smoking gossip, but she was also really cool. I would often go to her house after school to listen to her gab away. I was a perfect audience for her, because everything she told me was done in a wonderfully conspiratorial fashion. She always made me feel like I was being given awesome secrets, even though I knew she told everyone all these stories.
Christine was the one who introduced me to "grown-up" books. Until visiting her, I had blithefully been reading my Black Stallion and Enid Blyton books. She introduced me to gothic romances by Victoria Holt, and to my first piece of Modern Literature: Alice Walker's The Color Purple. If it wasn't for Christine, I may still be reading Harlequin novels instead of Umberto Eco.
Suddenly, Barbara Cartland books seemed both predictable and pallid. There was no murder and mayhem. Gone were the stuttering, vapid heroines with their foppish heroes. Now I had tales of poison, demon lovers, exotic locales, and intrigue. It was in a Victoria Holt novel that I first read of the sumptuous scent of sandalwood oil. Now, it is my favourite perfume and incense.
But one of the most intriguing things I read about was within the pages of Alice Walker's book. She mentioned a button that women had in their most secret places--a button which could give a woman some happiness even if her life really sucked.
I decided to find that button, so I found myself a mirror and went spelunking.
I looked briefly, but all I could find was something that looked like a smiling, hairy, ham sandwich. There were no buttons, and I didn't dare tarry too long or God might get mad at me.
It seemed to me that this button was a fictional device in the novel. Alice Walker was just psyching me out.
By the time I started university, sex was still an odd subject. It was difficult to maintain my purity at this stage. My freshman year was difficult, as boys were actually showing an interest in yours truly.
My sophomore year marked the end of my regimen of naivetée. I was positively lewd, and nary a part of campus was devoid of my dissolute experimentation. Roofs, elevators, washrooms, and libraries were scathed by the shameless behaviour of Daveman and me. Alice hadn't lied about that button, after all.
When I was in my junior year of university, I registered for Psych 3343: Human Sexuality. The lectures and my text fascinated me. I watched my first porno in a class tutorial, and found it very silly. I appreciated the line drawings of various sex positions, and decided I wanted to become a sexologist. Yes, Dr. Ruth, eat your heart out....
I've since become rather jaded.
The women in their late teens and early twenties who tend to come and visit me want to talk of little else but sex. I have become a sex therapist on a minor scale, with an increasingly-vast repertoire of knowledge under my belt. I can converse about the finer points of vasectomies, and have also been known to regale about how those little bumps around your nipple are normal, and if you squeeze 'em how white stuff comes out.
I've had my advice asked about pregnancy tests, morning-after pills, selling used panties on ebay, gay cyber-sex, and double-bagging (wearing two condoms at once--a big no-no). However, I have also been lectured to by people far more pervy than I. People tell me how they like to administer urine enemas. I have been invited to participate in various nefarious experimentations, but have declined. I live vicariously through my dominatrix friends and commendably flexible male acquaintances. I have been sent .jpgs/movies of women fucking dogs, men doinking chickens, and women with enormous Chinese cabbages wedged in their asses.
And I finally know what a boner is.
Why are people potentially copypastaing fetish stories? o_0;
FINE! Trufax story time.
I mean heck, I've known about sex since I was like... 6 or something. I was totally science-obsessed as a kid... so it is no surprise that I had biology textbooks typically used by kids that were at least twice my age at any given moment. Raised by a pagan (oddly enough, she never made me do her ritual things) single mother and the cats. So yeah, I knew what sex was even if the only ones who were getting any were the cats.... y'know... from other cats... obviously. -_-;
Now that isn't to say I really understood it entirely. At that age the idea that the pissing organ could actually get bigger seemed frankly absurd... but the point was that I knew where babies come from and all that. AND because I was an otherwise censored kid, I wasn't yet aware of society's obsession with the subject.
Anyhows. School was a bit weird. This having happened in the middle of nowhere in Wales, it was pretty standard for schools to have ... well.... certain christian traditions. My mother was a pagan, and I was pretty much just an atheist back then, and I didn't know the first thing about christianity. So when the vicar came into school to talk about a guy who gets weak when his hair is cut off, a guy who walks on water and feeds thousands with a few scraps, a guy who parts the sea by asking it to, etc.... well, naturally I concluded he was dangerously delusional and wondered why he was allowed into the school to spread such absurd lies among the children. I also wondered how the fuck all the other kids knew some sort of bizarre and disturbing chant that had to be recited every day to proclaim their slavery to... something I didn't really understand.
Well, I concluded that they were all brain-washed zombie slaves. An idea that has pretty much stuck with me for my entire life... and why I consider everyone to be a brain-washed idiot until proven otherwise.
The point I'm getting to is that when the obsession with sex started creeping through everyone in secondary school, I assumed it was just because they were all weak-willed and brain-washed... afterall, I knew what it was, and it wasn't a big deal. Just a biological process like breathing or bleeding. And some of them really were acting VERY obsessed.
So of course when puberty started kicking in, complete with instincts... my first response was to become completely catatonic with horror for about a fortnight... during which my mother took me to several therapists as I vaguely recall, but it is pretty much just a blur. I concluded that some sort of alien presence was trying to invade my brain to take over my body... and I promptly declared war on it. The idea of sex became anathema at that point, as though I had long known the functionality of it, I hadn't known that it was a brain-eating force that robs people of their thought processes and individuality.
Well, eventually it got the better of me. It had to.
It won. It won and I gave in. My horror turned to shame at my own weakness. I started feeling totally trapped within my own body... and I have done ever since as I'm sure I've told some folk. I could only find peace when I wasn't around people, or even other animals. I'd go climb cliffs, or hang out in graveyards where the elm trees smelt pretty and I could keep an eye on the hideous church-zombies. I ended up being drawn towards dead things... and slowly realising how everyone and everything else was trapped like me... and even if it meant oblivion, the only way to save everyone from the brain-washing is for them all to die.
O'course my body caught onto this a tad, and convinced me at some level that sex with dead bodies is safe sex because there is no fucking way in hell it can make new life... which is basically the most horrible thing one can do (making life that is). Haven't ever done it (fucked a corpse)..... but I do still get the urges.
So yeah... that is at least part of why I'm an antisocial necrophile living in a constant lovecraftian nightmare.