I’ve always been disappointed I don’t have a bizarre sex
fetish.
The closest I ever got was during a brief dalliance with a schoolfriend who was taking Spanish GCSE. At the time having Spanish whispered in my ear during intimate moments was incredibly arousing; it's proven a lot less sexy now I realise she was actually saying “I have 2 brothers and a cat. Where is the train station?”
That's my only potential peccadillo shot down and no giantess, felt or badger fetish to replace it. I’m just a regular vanilla guy , turned on by doing regular sexy things. Like having sex.
The more specific a fetish is the more it intrigues me. I love the mundane so if some bored housewife is getting frisky in the garden with a rainwater-filled rusty bucket or a busy exec gets a sturdy todge whenever he hears the way Neil Nunes pronounces “radio fooor,” or a surly teenager can enjoy le petit mort spurred on by lint & scrumpled up receipts, I am totally into that.
But still not in a sexy way.
All this talk of kinkiness brings me to the sex museum in Barcelona. The first thing you see when you walk in is an uncanny likeness of Marilyn Monroe atop the stairs. You know, doing the whole standing over an air vent thang. This monstrosity basically tells you everything you need to know about the museum.
After walking round for a bit watching 1920s silent porn from an actual king’s private collection, smelling perfumes worn by sex workers, various Mesopotamian and ancient Greek figurines of willies and orgies, I still wasn’t feeling anything. But hang on a minute! A lightbulb appeared above my head just like in a cartoon but shaped like a testicle. Could my apparent fascination with hand dryers be a suppressed fetish? I ran to the toilet, hands shaking with anticipation.
The closest I ever got was during a brief dalliance with a schoolfriend who was taking Spanish GCSE. At the time having Spanish whispered in my ear during intimate moments was incredibly arousing; it's proven a lot less sexy now I realise she was actually saying “I have 2 brothers and a cat. Where is the train station?”
That's my only potential peccadillo shot down and no giantess, felt or badger fetish to replace it. I’m just a regular vanilla guy , turned on by doing regular sexy things. Like having sex.
The more specific a fetish is the more it intrigues me. I love the mundane so if some bored housewife is getting frisky in the garden with a rainwater-filled rusty bucket or a busy exec gets a sturdy todge whenever he hears the way Neil Nunes pronounces “radio fooor,” or a surly teenager can enjoy le petit mort spurred on by lint & scrumpled up receipts, I am totally into that.
But still not in a sexy way.
All this talk of kinkiness brings me to the sex museum in Barcelona. The first thing you see when you walk in is an uncanny likeness of Marilyn Monroe atop the stairs. You know, doing the whole standing over an air vent thang. This monstrosity basically tells you everything you need to know about the museum.
After walking round for a bit watching 1920s silent porn from an actual king’s private collection, smelling perfumes worn by sex workers, various Mesopotamian and ancient Greek figurines of willies and orgies, I still wasn’t feeling anything. But hang on a minute! A lightbulb appeared above my head just like in a cartoon but shaped like a testicle. Could my apparent fascination with hand dryers be a suppressed fetish? I ran to the toilet, hands shaking with anticipation.
Did I experience a joyous arousal at the dryer I encountered there? No. I’m not horny about hand dryers. I do this blog as a sort of parody of the mundanity of the internet which I should really get round to making into a shit 90s website done with html tags, block colour backgrounds & comic sans (apparently it would look a bit like this). It goes back to my love of the ordinary and unremarkable. Years ago I was in a band that rebelled against the pretentiousness of art by attempting to elevate everyday objects & experiences into the realm of the sacred. We called this shankism, less because it tied in with the concept, more because of an in-joke about wanking while taking a dump. So yeah I love it when people have blogs about their favourite wallpaper patterns or their collection of 18th century mahogany furniture.But no. I am not turned on by hand dryers. In fact I usually find they are turned on by me…
Now you’ve finished groaning I can tell you what I did encounter was the only dryer I have ever seen with a coiled power cable. How utterly delightful that the sex museum should have a kinky power cable? I mean that ties together everything I’ve been talking about so perfectly I don’t even have to come up with an en
I'm fond of them and my furry natural pussy is also. Vents in general, clean vents turn me on! I keep it warm every chance I get.
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