Saturday, January 21, 2012

Erin Lindsey: Sexual Deviant

It remains my fervent hope to one day have a problem so perverse as to have a disorder named after me.
Sure, it will never be as clever and as catchy as, say, Marfans--but I at least hope to get a Wikipedia article out of the deal.

It'd be something simple. Likely sexual, as all disorders of a sexual nature are somehow more interesting.
Sad thing is though, seems most sexual predilections are already "taken"--at least any of the ones I can conceptualize.

There's already a name for blokes turned on by the idea of clowns. And amputees. And midgets. Furries anyone? (The drycleaning bill alone would dissuade me from the latter. And the premiere. Which really leaves only the midgets and amputees. Either way, though, I guess I could give it a go...You know. Open minded and all that.)

But to warrant the naming of a disorder, I'd have to come up with something no one has ever done the naughty with before--or at least not voiced in any public forum. Something like being aroused by a Trapper Keeper because you are attracted to the noise it makes. Which would actually be an auto-arousal response to all things velcro--meaning I could just as easily find you transfixed in the children's shoe isle of the Payless as in the retro school supply section of the neighborhood Goodwill. Still, no room in that disorder for an Erin Wiki entry.


No, to make it into the internet annals of fame, I'd have to come up with something truly original. Whatever that means.

I heard on a radio program once a prostitute describing her most unusual encounter with a John. Seems this particular individual was aroused by the idea of chewing cheese, and then expectorating this cheese on the prostitute's high heel shoe. There was no sex involved at all.

I have two problems with this: 1. I loathe cheese and adore shoes, and therefore cannot imagine how anyone, anywhere would be aroused by the desecration of one of life's greatest joys by the soggy mess of gnawed Domyati. 2. Why didn't I fucking think of this?

In my life, I have never been as interesting as the man who hires a professional to allow him to spew cheese on her Jimmy Choos. Seems I cannot even conceptualize of such an arrangement, much less enjoy it. By comparison, my most innovative ideas and purient interests seem banal. So perplexed am I by this that I cannot even bring myself to look up the proper spelling of "purient."

Dammit, I feel like a failure.

Surely there must be some unbridled desire--some perverse longing--hidden away in this Scotch Irish/Native American mut brain of mine. Surely I must want to somehow involve the ridges of an early Bob Dylan vinyl and the hide of a rare east-african iguana in my sexual regimen (Jesus Christ, I hope PETA doesn't find this post.) It's gotta be in here somewhere, doesn't it?

So my mission, dear readers, has become to discover and exploit my inner disfunction. And I will not stop until I have a disorder!

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