Finding Larry's New Fetish

Santa Fe, New Mexico, July 2004

I've never understood how you can be friends with someone for years, and then there's an incident, and it's over.

They just stop answering the phone when you call, or responding to your emails.  They unfriend you on Facebook.

Or in the case of Larry, he orders you out of the house.

You remember Larry, the "lost soul" in Nashville with the crazy, obsessive lifestyle, who finally got involved in the gay leather community?

After I left Nashville, we called and emailed each other regularly.

He moved to Denver and then Santa Fe, New Mexico.  I moved to New York and then Florida.

In the summer of 2004, we hadn't seen each other face-to-face for years, so I decided to fly out to Santa Fe for a 10-day visit.  

Big mistake.

As Ben Franklin said, house guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.

Day 1:  I arrived at 8:00 pm.  Larry picked me up at the airport, gave me a brief tour of the city, and then took me back to his house.

A three-room trailer in a desolate commercial strip on the outskirts of town.  Cluttered with terrible, mismatched thrift-store furniture.

I guess passions for leather and opera don't come cheap, so you have to economize in other areas.

We tried to squeeze into his small single bed for some ordinary vanilla sex, but the night was very hot, and we were both big, so I ended up sleeping on the floor.

Day 2:  I assumed that Larry would take off work so we could go sightseeing, like I always did when a friend visited me in Florida.  But no, at 7:00 he drove off, leaving me alone on Jemez Road with no car.

All of the art galleries, shops, missions, and museums were downtown, about six miles away.

I started walking, and eventually hit Airport Road, with a lot of fast food places and cars rushing by in the hot desert sun. There was a mall about a mile away, where I bought a t-shirt.  I found a gym, but they didn't have day memberships.

Larry returned at 6:00 pm.  "What's on for tonight?" I asked.  "Dinner, art walk, the clubs?"

"Oh, no, I'm too tired to go out.  I'll cook dinner here."

"Well...can we at least go to the gym first?"

So Larry drove me to his gym and bought me a day pass.  Then he baked a chicken for dinner. It wasn't ready until 10:00 pm.

"Four hours past dinnertime," I muttered.  "We should have just ordered a pizza."

"Too much saturated fat, and way too expensive!"

Some brief, noncommittal bedroom activity ended the evening.

Why wasn't I meeting his friends?  Why weren't we cruising?  What was going on?

Day 3:  I asked Larry if I could drive him to work and borrow his car for sightseeing, but he refused: "Nobody drives my car but me."

So I rented a car and visited The Plaza, The Museum of Indian Arts and Culture, and The New Mexico Museum of Art, and returned to Larry's gym for another day pass.

When Larry got home at 6:00 pm, I said, "Tomasita's tonight -- best Mexican restaurant in town, according to the internet!"

"Oh, no, that's much too expensive."

"My treat."

"Oh, no, you're my guest, I'll cook.  I can do Mexican, if that's what you want."

So he made low-fat enchiladas.  Afterwards he wanted to go to the gym.  I had already been, so I asked "Do you mind if I go to the clubs?"

He glared at me.  "No, the clubs will be dead on a Thursday night.  But when I get back from the gym, we can do a S&M scene, if you want.  I'm a top, you know."

So I watched tv all night, and then bottomed for an S&M scene.  I didn't like it.

Day 4:  While Larry was at work, I went to the Canyon Road Art Galleries, the San Miguel Mission, and the Cathedral of St. Francis of Assisi, and had lunch at Tomasita's.  Then I bought groceries.  When he got home at 6:00, dinner was on the table.

Surprisingly, he was annoyed.  "I'm the host, I should cook dinner.  Or don't you like my cooking?"

I ended up apologizing and waiting while he wrapped my dinner in cellophane for later and cooked a meal of his own.

Afterwards, I said "It's Friday night.  The gin joints should be hoppin'.  Where shall we go?"

"Oh, no, there aren't any decent gay bars in Santa Fe.  We'll go into Albuquerque tomorrow.  Let's just hang out and watch tv tonight."

"Well -- do you mind if I go to the clubs on my own?"

I didn't notice him glaring at me.  "No, of course not.  Just -- if you bring a hot leatherman home, I get to share."

Turns out that Larry was right -- there was only one gay bar in town, the Rouge Cat.  Unfortunately, it catered to the Cute Young Thing crowd, and twinks in New Mexico didn't have the Daddy fixation that they did in Florida.  After about an hour of getting Attitude, I was finally cruised by a cute University of New Mexico undergrad named Tom.

By the time we got back to the trailer, Larry was asleep in his single bed, so Tom and I slept on blankets on the living room floor.  He got up and left early; I didn't think Larry had even noticed.

He had.

Larry got up and made coffee as if nothing was wrong.  But when we sat down, he started in: "What did I tell you?  You bring a cute guy into my house, and I don't even get a peek!"

"Sorry, you were asleep, and...well, I didn't think Tom was your type.  You like them more mature."

"Why were you going out without me, anyway?  You're visiting me!," Larry continued, starting to rant.  "We're supposed to go out together!"

"You said it was ok.  You were too tired to go out."

"Well, excuse me for working for a living!  I don't have a rich sugar daddy who gives me free rent!"

Did he mean Barney?  "No, I pay rent..."

"Or a cute boy toy just waiting at home for me!"

Did he mean Yuri?  "No, we're just..."

"You know what?  If my house isn't good enough for you, why don't you just get out?  Take some of your sugar daddy's money and stay in a hotel!"

I stared.  "I didn't say your house wasn't good enough..."

I don't remember what else was said that morning, but it ended with my duffel bag deposited into my rental car.  I spent Days 6-10 in hotels, touring Tucumcari, Roswell, Allamogordo, Albuquerque, and the Navajo Nation.  I called Larry a couple of times, but when he heard my voice, he hung up.

Had I been bragging about my "sugar daddy" and "boy toy" back home in Florida?   Had I been complaining a little too much about the dreary accommodations and lack of sight-seeing?  I don't remember.

The trip wasn't a total loss.  I saw some interesting museums and art galleries, hooked up with a couple of cute guys, and discovered my grandmother's long-lost gay friend.

But I lost a friend of 13 years in the process.

See also: Finding Larry's Fetish; Cruising in the Navajo Nation; Cruising in New Mexico.

The Slave Boy of Castro Street

San Francisco, October 1996

The Castro and South of Market may have been Gay Heaven, but the rest of San Francisco was not.

You might see an occasional hand-holding gay couple or rainbow flag, but mostly you were deluged by heterosexual power-couples and cooing Moms and Pops on holiday.

Some neighborhoods were quite homophobic  I have had slurs yelled out of passing cars at me only five times in my life: once in Maine, once in Texas, and three times in San Francisco.

So most gay people in San Francisco wanted to move to the Castro.

It was tough. There were no apartment buildings, just Victorian houses chopped up into apartments with rents averaging $4000 per month, that came available only when someone died.

And the competition was fierce.  Once I looked at a one-room basement apartment, with an impossibly low ceiling and glazed windows that wouldn't open.  Unliveable!  But not to the dozen people inside frantically filling out applications!

I was living in a cramped third-floor walk-up, over a hardware store, down the street from a liquor store, and within a few block's walk of seven Baptist churches, a Pentecostal church, and the United House of Prayer for All People.

It was nearly as homophobic as Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.

But only a mile from the Castro!

Late in September 1996, I had the opportunity to move closer.

There were no bath houses or saunas in San Francisco; they had all been closed down by Public Health.  But there was a weekly Bear Party (for big, hairy, husky guys) held at a private house South of Market.  Upstairs there was socializing and snacks; downstairs, a maze, a dark room, a dungeon, and a room full of mattresses for erotic activity.

The highlight of the party was the Slave Boy, a different guy each week tied to a St. Andrew's cross, naked, his mouth held open by a metal stirrup.  He stayed there all evening, available to be used for erotic activity by anyone who passed by.

Beside him was a box of erotic toys: whips, paddles, clothespins, a violet wand, and so on.

Some party guests became quite busy trying out the various toys, but I was usually content to just watch.  Until one night when the Slave Boy was particularly attractive: short, dark-skinned, and muscular.  Near the end of the party, I approached, took off the stirrup, and kissed him.

And kept kissing him.

When I pulled away, he pulled me back in.


After about ten minutes, he whispered "Would Sir like to come home with me tonight?  My name is Oliver."

A hookup with a slave boy?  "Aren't you too tired by now?"

"Oh, no, Sir, I'm always ready."  We kissed for awhile longer.  "I'll ask my Sir, ok?"

So I hung around until a muscle bear named Rick and another guy in a slave collar arrived to untie Oliver.  They had a brief conversation, and Rick motioned me over.

"My Boy would like you to share his bed tonight.  Are you interested?"

"If it's ok with you, Sir."

"Fine, fine. Boy's been very good tonight, and he deserves a reward."  He pushed the still-naked Oliver toward me.  "But no pain, ok?"

We were so busy kissing in the backseat that I wasn't paying attention to where we were going until we arrived.

It was a narrow Victorian on Eureka at 19th, in the heart of the Castro!

Rick led us into a parlor with hardwood floors and parquet ceilings, furnished all in black leather and glass.  A naked guy who had been watching tv sprang up to take our coats.

"Gene, look at the present Sir got me for being good!" Oliver exclaimed.  "I can't wait to unwrap him."

"Would Sir like a beer or a soda?" Gene asked.  "Or me?" he added with a leer.

"No, thanks.  I think I'd just like to go to bed."

Oliver grinned, took my hand, and led me upstairs to a beautiful bedroom with a four-poster bed and an antique mahogany dresser.  There was a copy of The Short Stories of O. Henry on the nightstand.

"Nice room,"  I said.  "You slaves got it made."

"This is the guest room.  I sleep in the slave quarters with Gene and Mike, when I'm not in Sir's bed."  He put his arms around me.  "Would Sir like to undress while I take a shower?"

I had never met a 24/7 Slave before, and I was interested in how it worked.  Oliver told me that all of the slaves had jobs, but they signed their paychecks over to Sir, who gave them a weekly allowance and put some money into their savings accounts. They could have their own friends and outside activities, even hookups, with Sir's permission.  They were always on call -- even if they were performing an appendectomy, when Sir called, they dropped everything and rushed home.

"What if Sir is abusive?"  I asked "What if he orders you to do something dangerous?"

"Sir always respects my limits!" Oliver exclaimed, offended.  "But if he did something to hurt me...it would be a tough decision, but the relationship might have to end."

I envied Oliver-- he could walk one block to the MCC.
Two blocks to Almost Home and the Oyster Bar.
Three blocks to the Midnight Sun, the gay Walgreens, and the Different Light.
Four blocks to Thai Thai, Marcello's Pizza, Twin Peaks, and Orphan Andy's.
Nothing but gay people for five blocks in any direction!

"It almost sounds worth it, just to live in the Castro!"

"You think so?"

In the morning, we went downstairs to a flurry of activity as Gene flipped pancakes (while nude), Mike made coffee (while nude), and Rick put on a business suit to go to work.

"Did you enjoy yourself last night?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir!  Boomer is very hot -- not nearly as hot as Sir, of course.  And...he told me he was interested in becoming your new boy!"

I blanched. "What?  No...I..."

Rick turned to me.  "Have you had any experience, Boy?"

"No..." I stammered.  "I just said..."

"It's not S&M, you know., although some slaves need that.  It's total domination -- I control everything about your life, even what you have for lunch.  That's a big commitment, for both of us.

"I know.  Oliver has been telling me about it."

"We'd have to try it out for a couple of weeks, before signing the contract."

A couple of weeks...in a beautiful Victorian on Eureka, in the heart of the Castro?  In the center of the gay universe?  In gay heaven?

It wasn't worth it.

But I did get to spend the night with Oliver again, the next time he was the Bear Party's Slave Boy.

See also: My Date with Santa Claus.

Finding Larry's Fetish

Nashville, November 1991

I spent the fall of 1991 in Nashville, studying Biblical Hebrew at Vanderbilt Divinity School and dating country-western stars.

I also met Larry, one of the "lost souls" that I'm always drawn to.

He was 35 years old, with dark hair, a respectable physique (he worked out every day) -- and not bad beneath the belt.

But he grew up in a Bible-belt fundamentalist church -- nearly as bad as the Nazarenes -- and didn't come out until two years ago.  During that time, he had five dates.  And never a second date.

He had so many personal quirks that he turned everyone off.

His life was regimented to the point of obsession.  He got up at the same time every morning, went to bed at the same time every evening, and had the same breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day.

He worked at the IRS Office on Broadway in Nashville, the most  sinister, soulless building you can imagine.

His only off-work passion was opera.  He bought all of the operas on cd that he could find, and had season tickets to both the Nashville and Memphis Operas.  Once a year he drove all the way to Santa Fe, New Mexico, for their opera festival (which he considered the best in the world).

With all of the expenditures on opera, Larry had little money for anything else.  He never went to a movie, or out to dinner.

His living room was completely bare except for one reclining chair,  a stereo, and a bookcase containing 130,000 opera cds.

If all that wasn't enough to scare guys off, Larry had many more quirks:

1. He did not own a television.
2. He changed his sheets and towels every day.
3. No food or beverages could be consumed in his apartment, except while sitting at the kitchen table.
4. He frequently said "yum" while eating.
5. He kept an exact count of every penny he spent in a little notebook.
6. He showered, and insisted that his partner shower, both before and after sexual intimacy.

No wonder he had only been on five dates.

"You have to get out into the gay community," I told him.  "Find guys who share your interests."

"I hate gay guys!" he exclaimed.  "All they're into is sex and dancing."

"That's just the party crowd.  There are plenty of other gay activities."

So I took him on a grand tour of Nashville's Gay Scene.

1. The Metropolitan Community Church
"Reminds me too much of my childhood church!"

2. Black and White Men Together
"What will I do if I'm into a white guy?"

3. A gay cowboy bar
"Ugh!  Country-Western music!"

4. Nashville AIDS Network
"Too depressing!"

5. The Imperial Court
"I'm not into drag queens!"

6.  A gay soccer team
"I hate sports!"

8. Gay nudists
"I'm too shy!"

9.-15. Politics? Gay Pride Planning Committee?  Gay fathers?  Gardening? Chubby chasers?  Board games?  Motorcycle club?

16. Um...S&M?

"I'm not into pain!  Well...maybe we could try it."

So we tried various configurations.  Top, bottom, ropes, chains, clamps clothes pins, gags, blindfolds, vibrators, whipping, flogging, spanking....

"Could we do this with opera in the background?"

It makes sense: his life was all about control, so his fetish was about giving up control.

Larry soon found his way into the gay leather world.  In 1993 he was a participant in the International Mr. Leather competition.   1994 he became one of the founders of the Tennessee Leather Tribe.

It's all about finding your niche. Or in Larry's case, your fetish.

See also: Finding Larry's New Fetish

Dating an Amputee

Do you find this guy attractive primarily because of:
1. His face
2. His physique
3. His penis
4. His missing arm.

Most people find #4 neutral or even a turn-off, but for a surprising number, it's a big plus, making him infinitely more attractive than guys with four limbs.

The absence makes the whole body stand out in vivid detail, drawing our attention to every muscle.

The lack of symmetry brings a pleasant dissonance, like a minor chord in music.

We're not supposed to look, not supposed to notice; when looking is forbidden, it becomes erotic.

A fetish is a primary erotic interest in an object or part of the human body other than the sex organs.  Acrotomophilia, the amputee fetish, is all about the absence.

Most amputee fetishists prefer guys with a single missing limb, a leg or an arm.

Some prefer double missing limbs, two arms, two legs, or one of each.

A smaller but still significant number prefer four missing limbs.














They can be quite specific about how much of
the limb should be missing for optional erotic potential.

Whatever type of missing limb they find preferable, partners are hard to come by.

Although there are nearly 2 million amputees in the U.S., over half are elderly diabetics with a host of medical issues, probably not interested in erotic exploration.  Less than half have lost limbs due to accidents.





Another 100,000 people are born with limb loss or limb difference, due to a variety of genetic and prenatal factors.

It works out to about 50,000 gay adult men with missing limbs and no significant medical problems that would preclude dating.

With a combination of prosthetic limbs and innovative mobility techniques, amputees can do everything anyone else can do, including drive a car, swim, and lift weights.  There's a guy who goes to my gym who is missing most of an arm, yet has fully defined, symmetrical pecs and shoulders.

There have been very few amputees working in movies and on tv.  The sitcom My Name is Earl was remarkable in having two amputee characters:

Didi (Tracey Ashton), one of the people Earl had wronged ("stole the car of a one-legged girl).

Plus her boyfriend, played by Cameron Clapp, a triple-amputee athlete and motivational speaker (seen here surfing).

The Amputee Coalition offers support groups and assistance to help amputees and their families and friends live to the fullest.  One of its activities is the Paddy Rossbach Youth Camp, a traditional summer camp founded in 2000  that has served  790 children with limb loss and limb difference from the U.S., Britain, Australia, Mexico, and Tunisia.















How do amputees feel about fetishists, people who are intensely attracted to them because of missing or reduced limbs?

Some like the attention.  Anything that sets you apart from the crowd is a good thing, right?

Most dislike being objectified, reduced to only an amputee, just as guys dislike being sought after simply because they are Asian or black, or have large penises.  They want to be desired for their  face and physique, their eccentricities and quirks, their accomplishments, their intelligence, their sense of humor, and everything else that makes them unique.

A G-rated version of this article is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.

The Boy Who Liked Grandpas

Plains, August 2016

I put "No Daddy fetishes" in my online hookup profile, because otherwise I would get pick-up lines like "Daddy, I've been bad! Punish me!"  every five seconds.

Daddy fetishists are everywhere.  Half the twinks I've met are interested in being dominated by an older guy with a deep voice and chest hair.

But last night was the first time I ever met a Grandpa fetishist.

"Hi, Grandpa!" a twink with the screen name Friends First said.

I assumed that he was just trying to be mean, so I didn't respond.

Then: "Do you have a present for me, Grandpa?"

"I'm not old enough to have a grandson of legal age, dagnabit," I answered.


But then I calculated.  I graduated from high school in May 1978.  If I...ugh...impregnated a woman on the night of my high school graduation, my son would be born in late January 1979.  He would graduate from high school in 1997.  If he...ugh..... impregnated a woman on the night of his high school graduation, my grandson would be born in January 1998,

And be 18 years old today.  Legal.

The 17 year old I dated last week was young enough to be my grandson.

I contacted Friends First again.  "Ok, I'm just barely old enough to be a grandfather, if both me and my son had kids as teenagers.  But I have a 48" chest and 16" biceps, and I can bench press 300.  Not many grandpas can do that."

"The hot grandpas can.  Will you let me sit on your lap, Grandpa?"

Getting into the spirit of the exchange, I channeled Grandpa Simpson: "Dagnabit, in my day, young whipper-snappers respected their elders, they didn't invite them to go spooning like some tarted-up Gibson Girl."

He responded with four nude selfies: slim, with thick black hair, a smooth chest, average penis.

"Are you sure you're 18, kiddo?"

"I get that all the time.  I'm 25.  How old are you?"

None of your business, Sonny!  "Old enough that even my fake age gets me senior citizen discounts."

He responded: "Hot!  Grandpa got moves!"

"Ok, you can come over, if you drop the Grandpa jazz."

"But that's what makes it fun...."

I tried to imagine what the attraction was in Grandpas.  Fathers were disciplinarians; they laid down the law.  You approached a Daddy to be dominated, even punished.

But grandfathers, relieved from the day-to-day tasks of childrearing, were all about fun.  They gave you presents, took you out for ice cream.

They were among the few adults allowed to hug you, hold you, put you in their laps.  But since they lived far away and didn't see you often, the touch didn't become familiar.  It had an erotic thrill.

So: grandfathers actually offered more erotic potential than fathers.

Friends First introduced himself as Sam.  He took his shirt off, but not his pants.  He wouldn't kiss.  He sat me down on the couch, fondled my chest and abs, and then unzipped and went down on me.  He was competent at oral, and very enthusiastic, so I finished quickly.  Afterwards I tried to go down on Sam, but he didn't become aroused.

"Sorry, Grandpa.  I only like giving, not getting.  You can f___ me if you want."

"Maybe in a few minutes. We oldsters take awhile, you know."  I zipped him back up.  He started fondling my chest again.  "So, what's the oldest guy you've ever been with?" I asked.

Suddenly Sam became serious.  "Well, you know, less than 1% of the adult male population is over 60, and most of them are not into young guys, or not into sex at all, so I don't meet a lot of Grandpas.  Some in their 60s, a few in their 70s.  I'm still hoping to cross the 80s barrier."

"Wow.  What's the youngest?"

"Other than fooling around with guys my age? 50, I guess."

"I'm beginning to feel too young for you."

"You are, a little.  But you'll grow into it.  That's the nice thing about liking old guys -- they just get better and better."  He knelt and began fondling and kissing my penis.  "About ready for another round?"

"In a little while.  You know, I run into a lot of Daddy fetishists, but you're the first guy I've met who is into the Grandpas."

"Go to Japan.  They have tons of elder porn. They call it Father Moon. Probably as many people are attracted to old guys as kids."

"You've really done your research."

"How can I not?  I mean -- look at this penis.  It was getting aroused, climaxing in guys' mouths and butts, back in the 1960s!"

"1970s.  Late 1970s."

"I mean, not only before I was born, before my Dad was born!  How can you not find that hot?"  He couldn't wait any longer and started going down on me again.

Well, you can't argue with his enthusiasm, but I think I'll stick to being a twink magnet.

And by the way, his Dad was born when I was five years old.

See also: Erotic Story about Me and My Grandpa #1: Wrestling Moves

The Edwardian with the Footlong and the Fetishes

San Francisco, October 1996

In the fall of 1996 Corbin, the gym rat from Oakland with the Mortadella+, took the leap and moved across the bay to San Francisco.  He found a third-floor walkup on Valencia, seven blocks from Castro Street and about three blocks from Gold's Gym, so we started working out together.

One day in October, we were leaving the gym after a workout, walking down 16th, when we saw the Edwardian: in his 30s, very handsome, with pomaded hair and a little moustache, dressed in a waistcoat and a boater hat, carrying a walking stick.  He looked for all the world like a dandy from 1910, walking down the Strand on his way to high tea with E. M. Forster and P. G. Wodehouse.

Since the days of Emperor Norton, the self-proclaimed Emperor of America (1818-1880), San Francisco has been a haven for eccentrics.  Colorful costumes, bizarre behavior, kooky beliefs -- not a problem.  Roller skate in your underwear while singing "Like a Virgin" and passing out tracts on the Illuminati and cornstarch -- just another day in Gay Heaven.

The Edwardian was a common sight on Castro or 16th.  If you made eye contact, he said "Good afternoon, sir," and expected you to respond in kind.  If you said "Hello," or, God forbid, "Hi!", he frowned and moved on.

Word on the street was that he had a footlong Kovbasa++++, which he shared with anyone who managed to maintain the illusion that this was Edwardian England for an entire conversation. I never managed it.

But today the Edwardian rushed toward Corbin, shook his hand warmly, and said "My dear sir, it is so delightful to see you!  You and your friend must come by for tea soon!"

"That sounds super radical" Corbin said in Valley Girl speak.  "Gotta book now, but we'll be there fer sure!"

The Edwardian frowned and moved on.

"What was that all about?"  I asked.

"Oh, I was with him a couple of weeks ago.  Believe me, it was quite an experience."

"Is he as hung as they say?"

"Even more.  But he's still not someone you want to hook up with."

"Why?


September 1996

Corbin saw the Edwardian in the gym one day, dressed in ordinary gym clothes, trying to work out with the free weights.  He had a sallow chest, but long, hard biceps and nicely developed triceps.

"Um..good afternoon," Corbin began. "I didn't know that you worked out."

"Indeed!" the Edwardian said.  "How else did you expect me to maintain my level of fitness? Yoga?"

"Oh, of course.  I meant no offense."

He smiled.  "None taken, sir.  You look rather like an expert in the field of physical culture.  I wonder if you might consent to give me some instruction.  I'll pay you, with American currency -- or high tea, if you prefer."

So Corbin showed him the proper form for the bench press, squat, and bicep curl.  Then they showered and dressed -- the Edwardian indeed had a huge, very thick footlong, a garden hose hanging between his legs that even Corbin, who thought Bratwursts were small and Mortadellas average, found impressive.

"What do you do for a living?" Corbin asked.  Probably he was independently wealthy, but one always asked about jobs, hometowns, and coming-out stories in the pre-hookup conversation.

"I'm a help desk technician.  My employer insists that I use the colloquial American argot while interacting with clients, but after work hours I'm free to speak the King's English again."

"You mean the Queen's English?"

The Edwardian sighed.  "My dear boy, of course I know who is actually sitting on the British throne at this moment, but in my heart and soul I am living in that most gracious and gentile of eras, the reign of King Edward, with an occasional nod to the last years of Victoria, or the first of George."

(Victoria reigned from 1837 to 1901, Edward to 1910, and George to 1936).

The Edwardian lived in a small apartment om Mission, on a rather run-down street otherwise occupied by a residential hotel and a pawn shop.  But it was elegantly furnished in Edwardian style: dark wallpaper, old pictures occupying every square inch of wall space, cluttered overstuffed furniture and heavy bureaus.  There was no tv or computer in the house.

There were a lot of books, all old hardbound.  A lot of late Victorian and Edwardian authors: Dickens, George Eliot, Yellow Age Decadents, Oscar Wilde, James Joyce. E. M. Forster, plus Shakespeare, Milton, Keats, the ancient Greeks and Romans.  No history books.

"Would you like to listen to music?"

"Surely you don't have a stereo?"

"No, a Victrola.  But it plays records fine.  I have some Debussy, Ravel, Stravinsky...and Madonna's Immaculate Collection."

"Really?  I thought you maintained -- I thought it was Edwardian only."

The Edwardian laughed.  "Sometimes, my dear fellow, you have to give the young man what he wants to hear, so he'll show you what you want to see."

Suddenly the antique living room was booming with:

Don't go for second best baby, put your love to the test
You got to make  him express how he feels,
And maybe then you'll know your love is real

Tea was a glittering silver tea service.  There were plates of hard, stale "biscuits" and small sandwiches of cucumber and cream cheese on white bread with the crusts cut off.  Not a very filling repast, but, Corbin figured, he could eat later, after he got some bedroom time with the Edwardian.

"It does get lonely, knocking around in this flat all by myself," the Edwardian said wistfully.

It was a cramped three room apartment!

"If only I could find a soulmate, Alec to my Maurice." (He pronounced the E.M. Forster character "morris.").  "Lots of young men want to make my acquaintance -- and the acquaintance of my walking stick, as it were.  But none of them have yet had the delicacy of spirit to appreciate my life here, my haven amid the bustling crowds of the modern world."

"Oh, I'm a big history buff..." Corbin began.  Then he checked himself.  "I mean, I have a great appreciation for modern literature and the fine arts.  Do you like Picasso?"

"Very good," the Edwardian said with a smile.  "You are a quick study.  Come, if you've finished your tea, I want to show you the rest of the house."

Wait -- isn't this a little premature?  Corbin thought.  We haven't kissed or fondled or groped.  We've barely touched!  But maybe that's how Edwardians do it -- leaving all of the physical intimacy for the bedroom.

He followed the Edwardian into a tiny but elegantly furnished bedroom, 3/4ths of it occupied by a giant bed with a 12-foot darkwood headboard.

He moved in for a kiss, but the Edwardian pushed him away.  "It's a bit stuffy in here.  Shall we remove our clothing?"

Feeling himself getting aroused, Corbin slid out of his pants and and shirt.  The Edwardian carefully took off his waistcoat, pants, garters, and socks, and hung them on hangers.  He was becoming aroused, too, his Kovbasa++++ pushing into the air.

Corbin went in for a grope, but the Edwardian pushed him away.  "Might I have a feel of your underclothes?"

He shrugged and handed him his briefs  The Edwardian sniffed them like a bouquet of flowers, then without warning stuffed them into Corbin's mouth.

Corbin spat them out.  "Um...those are dirty..."

"Mmm..hmmm" the Edwardian moaned.

Shrugging, Corbin knelt and started to go down on the Kovbasa++++, but the Edwardian pushed him away. "Really, my dear fellow, you are anxious to begin, aren't you?  We have the whole evening to get to know each other better. Perhaps I could...um..."  He turned Corbin around and began feeling his butt.

"I'm not into anal!" Corbin exclaimed.

"What a gauche term!  Rest assured, I have no sodomy in mind.  Merely a touch."

He knelt and began kissing Corbin's butt.  Corbin felt a tongue against his hole and jumped away.  "Ahh!  I'm not into that, either."

"Well, then, what are you 'into', dear fellow?"

"The usual.  Kissing, sucking..."

"How vulgar!  Well, perhaps I can convince you to try the finer things in life."  A whip appeared out of nowhere.  "Deliver your bum, please."

"Um...no, thanks."

"Water sports?  I have the carpet in the parlor macadamized..."

Enough was enough!  Corbin made an excuse, dressed, and left.

Who knew that the Edwardians were so kinky?

See also: Corbin's Choice; My Friday the 13th Date with Kevin the Vampire; and Finding Your Fetish.

Finding Your Own Fetish

What do you find most attractive about this guy?
A. His basket
B. His biceps
C. His shoes

If you said B, you have partialism, an erotic interest in parts of the human body other than the sex organs.

Like biceps, feet, elbows, shoulders, backsides, and women's breasts.

If you said C, you have a fetish, an erotic interest in an object other than the human body.

Like shoes, boots, leather jackets, baseball caps, cigars, feathers,  underwear, crutches, balloons, cake, jello, mud, urine, and bubbles.

The list is endless.  Nearly everybody has some partialism and fetishes.

And some paraphilias, erotic interest in activities that don't necessarily involve contact with the sex organs.

Like bondage, BDSM, voyeurism (watching other people), exhibitionism (having other people watch you), wearing diapers, smoking, coughing, being lifted, being tickled, saying bad words...

Again, the list is endless.

There are four main theories about how we got our fetishes.

1. Imprinting.  Our earliest erotic thoughts are indelibly linked with the situation they occurred in.  Even incidental details become erotic.  If, for instance, you first liked a guy who happened to be smoking a cigar, you'll have an erotic interest in cigars forever.

Or cigar boxes.  Or just the tips of cigars.  Or having smoke blown into your face.

2. Gender Symbolism.  The object or situation is aggressively masculine or feminine, distilling the "essence" of what it means to be male or female.  You don't just like shoes in general, you like black leather boots or red stiletto heels.  You don't like just any article of clothing, you like gym socks and jock straps or brassieres and red lace panties.

3. Dirty/Forbidden. We grow up being told that sex acts are unclean, that erotic books and magazines are "dirty."  So we associate the erotic with acts or objects regarded as unclean, like feet, mud, urine, and bad words.

4. Power/Control.  Sex acts are always about getting or giving up control, one partner submitting to the other.  So we associate the erotic with acts or objects that involve explicit control, like police uniforms or daddy-son scenes.

Pop quiz:  Why do people find it erotic to get or give wedgies?
A. First experience
B. Gender symbolism
C. Dirty/forbidden
D. Power/control

Answer: Could be any or all of the above.

Psychiatrists used to think that fetishes, paraphilias, and partialism were invariably destructive, perversions of the "sexual instinct."

The psychiatric consensus now is that they're fine, as long as they aren't your only erotic interest, so you should enjoy "real sex" too.

But really, I don't see why anyone should care.  If you are happy with erotic acts involving feet or feathers, or being called bad names, or getting soda spilled on you, how will switching to penises make you happier, more fulfilled, or a better person?

There are only two problems with fetishes and paraphilias:

1. They're very specific.  You don't just want to be tied up, you want to be tied to a tree with gold-colored ropes, with your hands over your head, and a gold scarf used as a gag.

It;s difficult to orchestrate such precise situations, so you might have to settle for almost right, or resign yourself to many nights without passion.

2. It's hard to find Mr. Right.  Potential partners are usually either attractive but not into it, or into it but not attractive.  I suggest going with the latter.  Nothing is more boring than a partner who is just "putting up" with your fetish.

And if he is actually into having stir-fried vegetables eaten off his stomach while he's wearing a Ninja Turtle costume, who cares if he has muscles?


See also: Finding Larry's Fetish; and The Secretary: The Bottom Always Calls the Shots