'Fetishes Are My Fetish'

“Ms. Thistlebottom, allow me to say that it is truly a thrill to have a celebrity such as yourself in amongst our midst . . . betwixt and between us in the thick of our humble environs and . . . and . . . well gosh, I guess I’m just a little nervous.”
“That’s quite alright, young man. I make a lot of people nervous.”
“Well that’s comforting . . . thank you. Now please tell us about your book, Fetishes Are My Fetish. Maybe you could begin by explaining to our readers just exactly what a fetish is.”
“To explain exactly what a fetish is, sir, would deprive the subject of its true meaning.”
“Ah . . . okay. Would you mind explaining to us in general terms then, what a fetish is?”
“Generally speaking, a fetish is anything to which abnormally excessive attention is given. Most often, the objects of this abnormally excessive attention are of a sexual nature and develop during puberty.”
“For example . . .”
“Well, I, for example, have a hair fetish.”
“A hair fetish?”
“Yes.”
“You are abnormally excessive in . . . you attend excessively to . . . I mean, you exceed the normal attention to . . .”
“I have a hair fetish.”
“Right.”
“When I was twelve years old I had long, beautiful, curly, blond hair. It had never been trimmed. One day my mother noticed the lads looking at me in a, shall we say, desirous fashion. She thereupon took me straight away to a barber and had all my hair shorn clean off.
“But, what happened was amazing. I sat in the chair, the sound of the shears, the big clunking scissors going chop, chop . . . my golden curls cascading all around me, and suddenly I had my first orgasm. Naturally, I didn’t know what was happening as it began. I thought maybe I was peeing in my pants, but no pee ever felt that good. Now, the ultimate thrill for me is having a man cut my hair while we’re making love.”
“That could be tricky.”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and it’s so sensual. Anyway, strange things such as fetishes can happen during puberty. In my book, I talk about a man I met who fell in love with a classmate when they were both thirteen years old. The boy had only one leg.”
“What happened to his other leg?”
“He lost it, somehow.”
“Well, of course, he lost it. I didn’t think he’d sent it out to the dry cleaners or something.”
“There’s no call for flippancy, young man. I don’t know how he lost the leg.”
“You never asked him?”
“I never met the boy. I met the man who, as I believe I said, fell in love with the boy when he was thirteen.”
“When the boy was thirteen?”
“They were both thirteen, weren’t they. Are you listening to me or not?”
“The man you met, as a thirteen-year-old boy, fell in love with another thirteen-year-old-boy?”
“Precisely.”
“And the boy he fell in love with had somehow lost or misplaced . . . or whatever . . . one of his legs.”
“He lost it, you dolt.”
“Yet, how he lost it remains a mystery…?”
“It does to me, although I should imagine the boy himself must have had a fairly vivid recollection of the event.”
“Probably . . . unless, of course, the boy was born with a leg missing. That’s been known to happen.”
“Let’s just forget about how the leg went astray and allow me to get to the point of the story.”
“Of course—which is…?”
“About strange things that influence a person’s life during puberty and the consequent development of fetishes.”
“Ah, yes . . .”
“So then, this man who fell in love with a one-legged boy when they were both thirteen developed an obsession about becoming a one-legged person himself.”
“A two-legged person who wished he was a one-legged person?”
“Exactly.”
“Why?”
“Because the boy he loved was also loved by many other people. He was the center of attention.”
“Sort of stood out in a crowd, as it were.”
“Oh, please . . .”
“Sorry.”
“And my friend got it into his head that if he were one-legged, then he too would be more loved.”
“So, what happened?”
“Well, to make a long story short, if it isn’t already too late for that, when the two-legged boy grew up, he tried to have one of his legs removed.”
“How?”
“He asked a doctor. In fact, he asked many doctors to amputate a leg.”
“Which one?”
“Which one did he want amputated?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that somehow crucial to the story for you?”
“Well, we pride ourselves on being thorough at the Pageant, but if it isn’t . . .”
“It isn’t.”
“Okay. What happened next?”
“No doctor would oblige him. He offered them lots of money but still, no doctor would cut off a perfectly healthy leg.”
“He should have come to Thailand. Here, for the right amount of money, they’d have cut off his leg, turned his penis into a vagina, and given him a great set of tits if he’d wanted.”
“Well apparently that never occurred to him. Instead, he went to an undergound—a subway—station, waited for a train, put his leg on the rail, and that did the job. And no, I don’t recall which station it was in case you were wondering.”
“Oh, that’s alright. I was wondering, however, why he didn’t bleed to death.”
“The train stopped and took him to hospital.”
“Well that was lucky. Any regrets?”
“None. Says he’s perfectly happy now.”
“And loved?”
“Very much so.”
“A tragedy with a happy ending you might say.”
“Indeed. And I did say that . . . it’s in my book.”
“Oh.”