fetishizing

I had been thinking about writing to you for a long time, Rosemary, and am finally getting down to it. it's been really hectic here, you know; trying to plan for Cecile's college visits, setting up my new business, buying a car and looking into osteopathic schools for a potential career in primary care. I've been learning more and more about osteopathy, and the psycho-somatic aspect of it is really latching on to my interest. It's amazing how my interests have changed over the years; there was music first, then women's studies, then radio voiceovers, then pediatrics, media and sex-work. i've been passionate, however, about giving care. about providing care. the concept, how my tongue feels when i say providing care, the psychology and the drive, throughout, has really been strong, even though it has surfaced back and forth, like frozen balloons, in a steady stream of my biography. my focus has shifted from kids, specifically, to under-served minorities; the piece of my identity that i forget sometimes and i am okay with that. i'm sure you'll get updates from me in the future, but i did want to let you know that I'm doing more policy work in the fall.

I was sitting in my apartment last week on 52nd Street and Lexington Avenue, reading My Dangerous Desires by a Leftist ex-hooker Amber Hollibaugh, when someone named Robert chatted me up online.

"Hey, how's it going Tom?"

"Going well, how're you man?"I responded.

"Fine fine. Just chilling in my hotel room on 54th/Lex. What're you upto?"

I didn't reply till about 5 minutes later. I was in the middle of reading about Hollibaugh's views on the butch/femme dichotomy and forgot to check my phone.

"Reading a book about queer women. Ha." I replied.

There was a 2 minute pause. I read ahead, sipping piping hot coffee from a tangerine-striped mug; occasionally staring at the print of Roy Lichtenstein's Kiss V hanging on the wall across from me. 

"Cool. Are you looking?" read the next message.

"Not to hook up, no. Just looking for friends. Sorry. How are things in the hotel stud?" I asked.

"I'm horny man. I wanna be used as a human toilet. Like right now. Wanna come over?"

I was a little baffled. What exactly is a "human toilet"? What does this guy want me to do? I was confused and curious at the same time, perhaps slightly taken aback.

"Well, Rob, I mean...what exactly do you want me to do?" I asked. 

"You should just use me like you use a toilet. Ya know, like piss on me, or make me drink your piss. Also, don't shower, please. I want to lick your ass. Make me lick your ass, like you would use toilet paper. Do whatever man...spit on me, abuse me, whatever gets you off." 

I didn't know what to say. I just said, "Okay."

He wrote back thirty seconds later. "I can leave the door open. You can come, tie me up, slap my face and go from there. I wanna be your pig, man. Bring friends along if you know anyone in the 'hood. You up for it?"

No, I wasn't up for it. But I wanted to know more about what he had in mind. I wanted to know who this person was, his background, etc. 

"Maybe in two hours. I'm a little busy right now. Where are you visiting from?" I asked.

"From Silver Lake, LA. You a local here?"

"Yea." 

"Oh cool cool. By the way man, this has got to be discreet. I'm a professional in private equity in a big-name company and know people all around. Gotta keep it between us, you okay with that man?"

"Of course. No worries." I replied. 

There was another minute long silence. I didn't know how to react. I was entertained and confused and surprised and piqued at the same time. it made me grin. just another example of Aristotelian metaphysics, of man as a rational animal? of man the logical, the moral, the professional human being? or maybe this is man the animal? the subconscious, the unconscious desires of the dirty and filthy, the wild and the uninhibited, sprouting through the soil of propriety and reasonableness? what happened to the conventional morality, the compact set of rules that govern what men and women are allowed to desire, allowed to express? I thought of man as a coin; a two-faced entity, one surface on top, and another on the bottom. Sometimes when you flip it, or spin it on its diametric axis, you see both sides in spurts, in momentary glimpses, till you settle on seeing one side. and then, an external stimulus, will switch it back, or make it twirl, or dance in air and re-settle. new mood, alternate side, but still the same, within.

"So when are you coming man? I have a 13 inch dildo in my suitcase. You can beat up my hole with it." he wrote.

I didn't respond. I wasn't going to any more. 

Five minutes later. "I'm getting a group together with 3 other guys. They're all gonna use me, spit and piss on me, and use me like a total bitch. You wanna join dude?" 

No response.

"Well I guess not. Delete my face pic please. Don't want anyone to know. Also if you want to use me, let me know. I'm free tomorrow AM as well."

I deleted Robert's face picture. I wasn't interested in meeting up anyway, and I wanted to respect his desire to be anonymous. But my point is this, Rosemary Stevens. There are so many Roberts out there, who cannot express their desires, their fantasies of sex, their urges and wants and innermost wishes because they're afraid of being judged. they're afraid of being improper, being caught in a media hyperbole which could cause professional damage, bore a hole through public identity, and cost a toll on social rubrics. desires out of conventional mores cannot be discussed or described unless you find refuge in a sexualized sub-category, unless you're part of this other "culture" that all the new academics come out to study, and theorize about and criticize and rip apart. i thought, again, of all the men who told me they feel like "human ash trays", or the ones who get turned on by licking boot polish, or the 40 year olds who like to drink breast milk for fun, or snort cocaine and draw rings on their nipples. i thought of all the men who told me about how they get turned on thinking about sprinkling pepper in someone's asshole, or making someone gag on a beer can or getting their penises stretched with retractors. things that can only be talked about in private circles, desires that are never taken seriously, cravings that are looked at through the lens of absurdity. this is the sad existence of fetishizing, the side of humans that cannot be explained through nature or nurture or a combination of both, the origins of desire, the theories of attractions. that's just absurd, is always the reaction, as we sit on this buoy of normalcy, hiding behind shades, the spectrum of monstrosity. running away from the deepest voice of the pathway to pro-creation. 

I'll write another letter to you sometime next month. till then, be good. and know that I'm thinking about you.

T.