self-love

I used to know a guy who had (and still does presumably) a foot/footwear fetish. Let me clarify, since most people use the word fetish to signify that they merely like something that is out of the ordinary, that in this instance I mean fetish in the truest sense of the word. The reason I’ve dug up this particular tale is that the man in question was very very concerned that he was perverse because of his predilection for women’s footwear. He was quite literally fixated by his foot fixation and this caused him a lot of anguish, to say the very least.

Now, I won’t go into the dirty little details, since I do want to preserve this person’s anonymity, but suffice it to say that his inability to accept this side of his sexuality led to some pretty devastating situations, mentally, physically and emotionally. As it stands now, I haven’t spoken to him in quite a few years so I have no idea whether he came to accept this or not, but I’d be willing to put my money on the fact that it simply got worse since he refused to admit that he needed help.

Several of his friends, myself included, tried to show him that in the realm of fetishes feet were pretty common and finding them sexually arousing was nothing to torture yourself with, but it didn’t matter what we told him or how many times we told him that he didn’t have a problem, he just wouldn’t believe us. Ultimately thinking he had a problem is what led to him actually having a major problem.

I used to sit in class (especially in high school), close my eyes and imagine extensive sexual scenarios. I was bored a lot. Once or twice I got myself so hot and bothered that I’d excuse myself to the bathroom and go rub one out in the tiny little bathroom stalls. They were quick, satisfying orgasms that keep me going for the rest of the day. Of course, at one point I just started smoking a lot of pot to stave off the crushing boredom. And besides, you can only masturbate in the bathroom so many times a day before people start wondering what’s wrong with your bladder.

I’m making it sound like it was much more of a habit than it actually was, when in reality it happened maybe a handful of times. The pot habit proved to be much more chronic. My grade eleven French teacher posited to my father during a parent teacher meeting that I might have digestive problems, since I was always falling asleep in class after lunch. You’d think it would have been a much simpler leap of imagination to realize that I was just stoned out of my mind, which is why I would eventually fall asleep on top of my French dictionary, mouth open, drooling on my copy of Le Petit Larousse.

Back to the topic at hand, which was masturbating at work, but I somehow got sidetracked with masturbating at school and then smoking weed for some reason. Regardless, I’m not changing the tittle of the post. Masturbating at work, it’s something I haven’t done in a number of years actually, maybe because my latest jobs haven’t lent themselves to such an endeavor or maybe since I no longer live with anyone, I can enjoy masturbating in the comfort of my own home without any inhibitions or interruptions. Whether the reason I no longer indulge in masturbating at work, I can tell you that I have and that it was rather a huge turn on.

As a kid, my preferred method of masturbation was rubbing up against something. I would grind against my stuffed toys, rolled up socks, pillows, what have you. I was rather young at the time and didn’t think anything of it, besides somehow “knowing” that this activity was to be done in private. I even remember crawling under the couch in my grandfather’s basement to rub one out.

In elementary school, I continued to masturbate, but on top of keeping this activity on the lowdown, I also became more aware of the general feeling surrounding it, which was “it’s bad”. I started to hide the more commonly used toys. After all, it’s not like I threw teddy in the wash and quite frankly he kind of smelt like sex. Surely, a telltale sign of my masturbatory delight.

Picture me a little older, I’m entering the teen years and by now I’m starting to understand sexual innuendoes on TV and in movies. I’ve even read a book or two that have described masturbation. I’m no longer subject to my OWN experience of masturbation, I’m silently comparing my experience to the ones I hear around me and I begin to wonder if the way I get off is normal.

by Colette Coughlin

When I was a seventy-pound twelve year old, my dad used to call me "Thunder Thighs". His intentions were not to feed a future eating disorder, he was just teasing, that's who he was. But I put it into my emotional backpack and consciously or unconsciously, pulled it out later to flog myself with it and affirm my physical imperfections and overall unworthiness. Until I had enough of that crap...

Worse, a friend of mine confided that his ex-wife, who had been sexually abused by her father, and naturally had issues with intimacy, could get mean and even violent with him sometimes. Once, in a rage, she told him he had the smallest penis she had ever seen (how many she had to compare to, we don't really know...). Although he didn't let this get in the way of future relationships... do you think he ever discussed this openly or forgot about it? Probably not, but fortunately he didn't let it stop him from loving other women.

These are the tiny little things that great big wars are built on. Wars with others, but worse, wars within ourselves.

By Colette Coughlin