You wonder where it all started. What events in life may have shaped your tastes and fetishes. Seek and you shall find.
I watched the neighbor-lady across the street from outside my bedroom window with fascination. Often I’d see her two young boys crawl out the upstairs window and onto the roof. From the window, she would scream at them to come back inside. Later on, you might see her chasing the twins around the front lawn with a broom in furious frenzy. Never, however, had I seen her like this, strutting up and down the road between our houses in a skimpy outfit and knee-high, black leather boots. Sometimes a car would stop by, pick her up, and drop her back off some time later.
The boots got reinforced again later. It was my babysitter. Early on, I recall her as this heavy-set girl from next door. She had curly dark hair and wore jeans, sometimes corodouys, that would make a swooshing sounds as she walked and the pant legs rubbed together. She eventually moved to Florida, and then came back to visit unexpectedly one day. Seeing her standing on the doorstep was amazing. The sight of her seemed to charge me. Her hair was purple, she had lost weight and was dressed in a style that would today be called goth, emo or punk. And she wore those knee-high, black leather boots. This, I’m fairly certain, was the first time I ever remember feeling turned on sexually, at least to such an intense degree.
Last but not least, there was my first celebrity crush, Soleil Moon Frye, the actor who played the leading role on the 1984-1986 television show, Punky Brewster, and considering her manner of dress this was also evidently some infantile form of my fetish for punk, emo and goth girls.
It does not necessarily explain the aggressive nature of my fantasies and desires, however. For some time I considered this to be a more recent evolution by means of porn genre desensitizing, in which the loss of interest in one type of porn leads one to more exotic realms of erotica, but then I realized these qualities, though in infantile form, were present in the earliest fantasies I can remember which could be stretched to constitute sexual.
These fantasies began when I discovered, quite by accident, how nice it felt when I scooted on my bed all the way to where the edge of the mattress met the wall and let my leg and perhaps a quarter of my body slide into that tight and comfy little vice. It felt particularly good with respect to the pressure it was putting on my boyhood below the equator. Once I discovered that this was the central reason I enjoyed sleeping this way, I decided to just sleep regularly on my mattress and stick something right in the area of my groin to apply that pressure. This had the additional advantage of not putting me in danger of slipping through the crack between the mattress and the bed, as my bed was a loft bed and it would be a considerable drop.
Shortly thereafter, I found what I felt at the time to be an ingenious use of the pillows my grandmother had made for me. They had saved my favorite shirts once I had outgrown them, sewed up the arm, leg and waist holes and stuffed them with cottony softness. At least one of them was long-sleeved, and it was this shirt-pillow, one could say, that became my bitch. As there is no more effective means of conveying how it was I utilized this shirt-pillow, I shall describe it as if a handless, neck-less humanoid cut at the waist was wearing the shirt. I would bend the arms back and lay them straight and press them together, creating sort of a pyramid-shape placed against the mattress, belly at a slant and the neck and shoulders arched back. I would climb atop this great shirt-pillow of Giza, press my knees against the elbows as I lay my penis-area within the hole lines with neck, shoulders and arms. My body would rest limply between the shirt-pillow and the pillow on which I rested my wary head.
Strangely enough, however, it was some time before I discovered how much better it felt when you rubbed it, or when you thrust a bare naked and now strangely rock-hard piss-missile into the cave of the pillow-shirt in a steady, jackhammer tempo. Certainly even more strangely, it was about as long before I made the connections between sex and the pleasant feelings pressure on or tightness around that naughty region alone tended to produce. Prior to learning the feelings were sexual feelings and that my desire to mount something was an instinct I itched through a convenient plush outlet, my fantasies were different. On the surface, they had nothing directly to do with sex, and I can still remember two of the fantasies quite well.
One fantasy I remember involved a member of the Decepticons, the “bad guys” from the original Transformers cartoon in the mid-1980s. Specifically it was Soundwave, the communications officer and right-hand man, so-to-speak, for the leader of the villainous robots. A large and strong machine, he had the capacity to transform into an incredibly small tape recorder. While in robot form, talking in his monotone, robotic voice, he would sometimes launch out cassette tapes from the deck in his chest, and these cassettes would transform into other, smaller Decepticons who would do his bidding. In the fantasy, I was in the cartoon, trapped alone with Soundwave in a room in an abandoned building, and he was trying to convince me to be on his team, to be one of the cassette-machine slaves, and I was resisting his attempt to be seduced by him, get me to relinquish my control to him. This carried the feeling of sexual, though I didn’t recognize it as such at the time, and the theme that got me horny was the whole seduction aspect, and this theme also infected the fantasies I began having regarding four girls.
One was Punky Brewster, of course. The next two were girls I went to school with, the violent brunette named Kate and the ultra-violent red-head, Angela. The fantasies I had regarding them all were generally the same, and sometimes included all of them, but not in the way you’re thinking if you’re plagued with perverted presumptions to the absurd degree to which I am. Hidden atop a hill in the midst of a thick forest with ever-blue skies above, far away from civilization, was a building. Inside, it looked like an abandoned school, like we might be in some post-apocalyptic landscape, though I would have had no idea what that meant at the time. Inside there were girls who wanted me to join their clan or group. The common image I have regarding how they did this involved being with Kate, their leader, in a dark room. My arms and legs were spread and strapped down to a wide structure like a table and held at a slant. Kate would stand right beside me and taunt me, try to coerce me to join them or be her slave.
Be the starring roles fulfilled by cartoons, celebrities or girls at school, the BDSM theme running through these pillow-tee fantasies is a quite clear one to me. With respect to Kate and Angela, of course, that made sense. At that age, around the third grade, girls in my school tended to express their affection for boys by chasing them down in a vagina-bearing mob on the playground during recess. Once they got close enough, they would grab the boy’s hair violently until they fell to the ground, where they would often then proceed to repeatedly kick him in the stomach. Stranger still and twisted further, all the boys seemed to secretly like it, myself included. Looking back, there can be no hiding it from myself now. It was Elementary School Sadomasochism, plain and simple.
My mother dominated the house. I had two sisters and my father was at work, so the dominance was not only in singular power of mom, but in numbers as well. At school, girls dominated the playground, and the penis-bearing chosen ones were their dirt-eating bitches. I didn’t have a male teacher until fifth grade. Most of my bosses at the various jobs I would go on to have were women. My direct experience of the world was not the vile, oppressive patriarchy the feminists whine about, but precisely the opposite.
It is true that we didn‘t mind the girls chasing us down and giving us a gang-beating, but it was, of course, always them that initiated it, and it was on the day a kid came and fetched me at recess. The teacher wanted to talk to me. I came up to the building, where the teacher adamantly insisted that I had pushed a girl. I had not, of course, and the girls in question denied it was the case along with me. The woman would not let up. She said she had seen it with her own eyes, defending the girl, as if she thought the girl was putting up a front because she was afraid of me. None of the emotions I sensed from the woman made sense or added up. If It only dawned on her in the midst of it rather than from the very beginning, fine, perhaps, but for most of the conversation with me it was as if she was trying to convince herself of the reality of the incident as much as she was both of us, as if that would somehow make it true, which for some reason she desperately wanted it to be. I could not for the life of me discern the reason behind them, or make any sense out of them whatsoever. Eventually, I considered perhaps she had been cheated on or abused by her husband, or perhaps someone close to her had been abused by a male figure, so as a convenient way to vent her anger she had seen what she wanted to see. Maybe the girls at school had picked up their sadistic behavior from their parents, who used violence in place of what they called love.
There was one more adorable little sadist to enter into my life, and it happened right before I moved in the summer of 1988, but in this case my desire took on a whole new level. There were a pair of red-headed twins that moved into the apartment complex cattycornered from my house, and they were in my grade. One was rather quiet and reserved, whereas Claire (not to be confused with the Claire I would meet later in life), the brutal and outspoken one, was the target of my interest. Why I liked her was beyond my comprehension. All I knew was that she elicited a feeling in me that I couldn’t explain and couldn’t deny and would never dream of doing, because the feeling was awesome.
Treating them both like the wild and feral creatures they were, I gazed at Claire, forever with her sister, only at a distance. Even as I stood one day a good distance away from her and behind a tree, the little circle of outcasts that had only recently become my friends were quick to caution me. “Never look such a dangerous creature in the eyes,” went the general message, “for they will take it as a challenge and attack your feeble ass.” Undaunted, I continued to catch quick glimpses from just beyond the vertical horizon of bark, confessing to them in whispers between doing so. The suggestion that I talk to her terrified me, so one of them returned with the suggestion that I write her a letter. Deciding to draw her a picture instead, my next issue was to find out where in the complex across the street she actually lived. No one in my gaggle of geeks knew or had a clue, either.
When I began blabbing on how I liked Claire, however, Spitting Mike caught word of it and approached me. He was this skinny, ugly kid with short black bowl-cut hair and goofy teeth. He spit a lot when he talked. He knew where she lived, he told me, because he followed all the cute girls home. His beaming pride over his stalking didn’t at all deplete the creepy feeling that knowledge had given me, but instead served to beef it up a bit. Regardless, it was through this blithering saliva-sprinkler where she lived, as he offered to take me there himself. He was willing to help me, my cup had remained dry on leads, so I was inclined to let him. Following him home that day after school, he showed me right where her door was. Calmly, he asked if I wanted him to knock, which inspired an instinctive, pleading no. He made like he was going to do it, so I ran for home.
Later that evening, I peddled back over there on my little black bike for some solo recon. Within perhaps a foot or two of reaching the door to the building’s lobby, the door swings open. The twins came barreling out on their bikes, the woman who I would presume to be their mom following behind. Retreat was reactionary. It was fight or flight time and I’d surely have two pairs of snaking bicycle tire tracks running up and down my beaten corpse when the police finally found it embedded into the pavement if they so much as saw me, I felt certain, so like horseshit I hit the trail. I was perhaps a bit too frantic about it, however, as I accidentally turned my front tire off the cement patio, hitting both the curb and the bumper of a nearby car. It was a horrible bumper on a horrible rust-bucket of a car. The bumper made this loud, enduring, weird noise when I hit it and threw little rusty metal pieces about in a swiftly-expanding cloud. I turned my back and took off just as I saw the sister look my way, and I couldn’t manage to convince myself she didn’t recognize me as the guy gawking from behind the tree on the playground. Yet I soon realized that if she didn’t recognize me from school, she might recognize me now as the same weirdo who slammed his bike into a parked car outside their apartment. That was not what I wanted my first impression to be at all.
Despite that, I was intent on giving her that picture, so on the following day I returned with it in hand. A page from my sketchbook which I had filled with hearts, puppy dogs, and poorly-drawn renditions of Ziggy all about it, unsigned, as I still had some hope they might not presume it was me. I was content enough to simply express my feelings to her without the threat of rejection or gross bodily harm. It seemed to have worked in that respect, too, for a day passed and nothing happened. The ever-chatty grapevine on the playground had nothing to contribute. Something seemed wrong, and so the next day I went back to the lobby of her apartment. Finding my picture in the little slot below the mailboxes, where all the misplaced mail goes, I realized that I had put it under the wrong door. Cursing my stupidity, I put it under the right one, which was up the stairs and to the left.
Consultations with the third-grade grapevine on the playground just before school confirmed that not only had she received my drawing but knew that I was the amateur artist in question. Rather than assuming she had made the connection between the drawing and when her sister saw my bike hit that damned bumper, my brain decided to lay blame upon Spitting Mike, who it was easy to believe spilled the beans. To make myself feel less hate for him, I imagined that he had not gone up and told her straightaway, but had rather teased her with knowing who had drawn it but refused to tell her who. I imagined her pinning him to the ground and kicking him in the groin over and over and over again. I imagined that pathetic kid struggling, drowning in a filthy sea of his own salvia as he begged for mercy, eventually telling her, through his gargling and bubbling, that it was me.
When I got home that day, it wasn’t even supper when I got what my mother has referred to as my first love letter, hand-delivered to me by a girl who lived across the street and had known when younger but had since distance from. She handed the sealed envelope to me without saying anything and then ran off the porch. With anticipation I opened it to find a letter that read: “Please don’t write me no more notes,” hence lending credence to the allegation that even back then I could woo a girl.
More persistent now more than ever, the following day I went super-creeper, drew her yet another picture and slid it under her door again. At school the following day, all was silent for awhile. This led me to worry that she had not received it, but such worries were unwarranted. This I discovered during recess, when I suddenly found a hand drilling my face into the woodchips on the playground. A voice I knew as Claire’s asked if I had drawn her those pictures, and after a pause for dramatic effect, I confessed that I had. She asked me why I’d done it, why I’d made those things for her and I told her, through the woodchips and pain, that it was because I liked her. She stopped a moment, fist clenched around my shirt, and when the moment passed finally spoke. “That’s gross,” is what she said, and punched me in the head.
That summer we moved away and I never saw her again. When I think of how she might have turned out, I found myself imagining she has made a delicious-looking latex-skinned, whip-snapping, red-head dominatrix somewhere.