It’s 2010. I’m 17. I’m strolling down Hunter Street by Newcastle’s foreshore, minding my own business, when I get that prickly hot feeling on the back of my neck. Someone’s watching me.
If the feminist concept of the ‘male gaze’ were a person, it would have been him. A skinny, pock-marked piece of shit wearing an obnoxiously loud Ed Hardy singlet and those jeans with fifteen to thirty pockets is across the street. He’s keeping pace with me and once I make eye contact, he doesn’t let go.
I drag my eyes away from his, praying that he’ll be staring at someone else when I look back, but he power walks toward me like a bullet, and stands directly in my path.
‘Howdy, luv. Whatcha doin’ today then?’
This guy is easily in his forties, but his demeanour feels closer to the boys in the year below me at high school.
My response barely registers. I mumble something about getting lunch, a desperate teenage attempt to extricate myself from what might be about to become a frighteningly adult encounter.
‘You look like the kind of chick I’m after. Me and a few mates are having an orgy tonight in a hotel up the road. How’s that sound, darl?’
More mumbling. Please leave me alone, now, please, please, is what I’m saying. But what I’m actually saying is more like, ‘thanks for the offer but um, no, I um, have to go, I think I, um, heard my phone, um, ringing. Sorry.’
I do my best to push past him but he follows.
‘My mate… made a chick cum twice, once! He’ll be there.’
‘Oh, no, thanks.’
‘And the other chicks coming are pretty decent looking, hey.’
‘And the hotel we’re at has a fruit basket. And everything in it is free!’
Wow. What’s more tempting than the possibility of free bananas?
With that tasty proposition hanging in the air, I turned and walked away again only to have him scrawl his number and the name ‘Daz’ down on a receipt and throw it in my general direction.
Smooth as shit, Daz.
It’s not unusual for women, even from a very young age, to start attracting sexual attention. Whether it’s wanted or not, it’s not a rare occurrence.
What is unusual about the propositions that seem to come my way so regularly though isn’t their volume, but their nature.
I don’t know what it is – maybe it’s a scent I give off, or my resting nice face – but for some reason, the men who approach me always seem to be looking for something a little bit… out of the ordinary.
I don’t consider myself to have what you would describe as a “dominant” personality. In fact, quite the opposite.
Which is why it came as a bit of a shock when I was asked by an attractive, intelligent, gym-junkie that I know if I could be his dominatrix mistress and he could be my ‘slave boy.’
It was a boy I’d lost contact with a few years previously but out of the blue had messaged me via Facebook. He had a fantasy, and he saw me as the latex clad protagonist, and himself, literally, as the whipping boy.
His proposal was this: for one week out of every month, he would come and stay with me and I would be free to treat him in any way I desired. Though preferably he’d be given tasks to complete, be purposefully embarrassed in front of my girlfriends, and punished according to his performance.
I admit, if I had any dominatrix bones in my body, I probably would have taken him up on his offer just for the experience. But being the person I am, this scenario held little interest to me other than a skin-deep intrigue.
There are hundreds upon thousands of kinks and fetishes out there. I once heard of a guy who couldn’t reach orgasm unless the person he was with was dressed head to toe as a clown. So when I was casually chatting with a friend of a friend and he brought up the fetish of ABDL, it wasn’t the most out there thing I’d heard.
For those that are unsure of what that is, ABDL is the world of Adult Baby Diaper Lovers.
ABDL enthusiasts practice wearing diapers for sexual, or erotic reasons and the wearers of said diapers may or may not urinate or defecate in them.
The way he explained it to me was that it’s all about the headspace, the trust, intimacy, and comfort felt between an adult baby, and their carer.
‘So. Would you like to be my baby?’
A foot fetish is one of those kinks that gets thrown around a lot but rarely presents itself outside of a private and enclosed room, that is until your shoes break on your walk home and you’re forced to catch the 352 bus through Newtown barefoot at 10pm.
I first noticed the salt and pepper-haired man sitting across the aisle from me a few minutes into the trip. What made me take notice was the way he, completely 100% subtly, would twist his entire body towards me and stare wide-eyed at my bare tootsies.
‘You, um… have, lovely toes.’ Thank you? I think? What? ‘Do you mind if I snap a quick photo? Please tell me that’s okay. It’ll only take a second..’
What!? You can’t just assume he was doing that for a sexual purpose! He could have been a photographer, or a designer, or a podiatrist working out in the field? You can’t just jump to conclusions! What was it that gave away that he had a foot fetish, you ask?
Maybe the fact that he started doing that weird th-th-th-th noise like Hannibal Lecter while rubbing his crotchal region, and trying to sneak pics of my naked, albeit quite filthy, feet.
No es bueno, scary old man. No. Es. Bueno.
I’ve found that what these men have in common is that none of them seemed to be interested in me as an individual person, but instead I’m the canvas on which they can project their desires, and fantasies.
Who would be scared to reveal a deep, dark, murky pit of themselves to a young, and innocent-looking girl? Maybe if I’m charming enough, she might want to give it a crack?
That thought gives me an icky feeling somewhere in my abdomen, maybe around the spleen area. I wonder if there’s someone out there who can wank to that?