Lately, I’ve found myself in conversation with a friend about a variety of kinks that don’t do it for either of us. First, a couple of days ago, it was urine. She asked me if I’d ever been into peeing on, or being peed on. “No,” I said. “And not only that, but it’s one of those things I just can’t imagine being turned on by.”
If you’re into water sports, I’m not casting aspersions your way. I’m just saying that I feel about water sports a bit like some of my gay male friends feel about pussy: “EW!”
Ditto, only more so, with scat. The idea that feces could be hot is simply so far from my ability to imagine that it makes no sense to me. Again – I’m not saying that if you’re into scat you’re bad, or wrong; I’m saying that whatever it takes to be a person who’s into scat is something that’s entirely lacking from my make-up.
Tonight, though, we crossed from these kinks – the ones that I find genuinely gross – to the kinks that I find mostly puzzling, intriguing, fun, funny to contemplate. She made the banal point that some or other gross thing was the kind of thing that someone, somewhere, is turned on by. I don’t remember what that thing was. But it was gross.
“Yeah,” I said, “but there’s always someone who’s turned on by something. Take balloons….”
“What?” she asked.
“Balloons,” I repeated.
“What about balloons?” she asked.
“Well,” I offered, “there are people with balloon fetishes….”
She didn’t believe me at first. There was some back and forth, and some giggling between us over the difference between the “poppers” and the “non-poppers.” (Apparently, some non-poppers are non-poppers because they become emotionally attached to their balloons.)
“How do you know about this?” she asked me. “Are you, um, into balloons?”
The truth is, no, I’m not (though I do confess to finding the video to which I’ve linked hot, in its way). No, I’m not into balloons. I explained that, back in the day, when I was a CPOS, I spent all my day either having sex or looking at porn, and if you spend hundreds upon hundreds of hours looking at porn, it’s kind of inevitable that you stumble on most everything. I certainly found more than a little truly shockingly icky (to me) kiddie porn, as well as a boatload of stuff that’s much more violent than anything I ever would want to watch. (That, of course, isn’t saying much; the good people at Kink.com have a ton of stuff that fits that description.)
“What else?” she asked. (O.k., maybe she didn’t ask. Maybe I just volunteered.)
“Furries,” I said. “Google ‘furries.’’”
She typed. “A person who prepares or deals in furs?” she read, confused.
“No, that’s ‘furri-er’” I said. Google “furries.”
“Oh my GOD,” she said.
We talked a bit. About Disney. About football games with mascots.
“Now google ‘plushies,’” I said.
“Oh, God,” she said. “Do they, like, make special ones?”
“Now google ‘objectum sexuality.’”
“I read about a woman who married a roller coaster,” she said.
“And the one who married the Berlin Wall,” I said. “Except she’s a widow.”
We talked further – about those furries who fantasize about species-reassignment surgery, about those who modify their favorite stuffed animals to be, um, more accommodating. About the fact that the vast majority of furries are straight-identified males, whose straight-ness doesn’t stop them from fucking other straight-identified males because they’re both furries, and, well, one identifies as, say, a female fox. Or sloth. Or weasel.
I don’t mean to poke fun at furries – the truth is, they make me really happy. I fucking love it when people get their kink on and find others to do it with. It makes me really happy for the existence of the internet, you know?
And also? Pretty damned happy that I’m so vanilla.