Let me start off by saying: I don't care. By which I mean, I don't care what two, or more (up to around five, then I do care) human beings do to each other in private (or in Cul-De-Sacs if that's your thing). As long as it's not hurting anyone and not scuffing up my hardwood floors, go for it. You have my blessing or at least my complete disinterest. The problem isn't you. Yes you, in the erotically designed stallion costume. It's me.
I'm just jealous, because I have nothing. I don't sniff trainers, I don't poo on coffee tables and I don't lurk in rural car parks wearing a slightly creepy deer mask. My role playing tends to involve me continually breaking out of character and asking ‘erm, is this Portuguese accent authentic?' My phone sex attempts tend to go off at tangents until I'm involved in an in-depth conversation about the later works of Ozu. When purchasing sexual equipment I tend to steer my trolley towards anything I find extremely comical. I am just very bad at that type of stuff.
And I always feel slightly ashamed that I tend to like conventional, non-augmented having it off, rather than something that revolves around costumes, battery-driven equipment or membership to special clubs. It truly feels like I'm on the bottom rung of the sexual stepladder. Just above those who claim to be asexual, which feels like the last remaining taboo and the one stance of sexuality that will make people adopt an expression of ‘you're weird' no matter what (or who) they get up to themselves in their spare time.
I think my brain just doesn't work that way. The second I hear about a fetish, I instantly have many, many questions, whereas the actual participants probably just throw themselves into it with enthusiastic aplomb. Say you were into erotic interaction with soft fruit. How did that develop? Were you just in Morrison's one day, slipped on a Vimto spill, plunged into the fresh produce section just as you had a mishap with your trouser/lap area, entered something and thought, ‘Yes! This is what was meant to be!' Or did you always look at gooseberries in a different light than most of the population and just KNOW?
I suppose part of the problem is simply not knowing. Maybe there is something incredibly niche out there, just waiting for me to discover it and quickly allowing it to become ‘my thing' and I keep missing it. Just because I haven't firmly wrapped my private area in tin foil and then used a damp table tennis paddle to lightly tap the foil package and LOVE IT, doesn't mean I won't do all those things and feel that way. But did the person who wrote that erotic ‘Roy Orbison in clingfilm' blog (Google it if you aren't aware) always knew that they were turned on by that stuff?
Or, as my cynical, vanilla nature has always suspected, are these obscure sexual escapades driven less by pleasure and more by people wanting to feel part of a special club? ‘Hey! I dress up as a great big fluffy squirrel and get chased about a large soft cage by someone dressed as a sexy astronaut who mashes Monster Munch into my taint. So, how did you spend your bank holiday?' Is there a slight whiff of one-upmanship (pun intended) to this spanking, smearing and general sauciness? Or do other people, like me, hear about and witness this unlimited Generation Game style conveyor belt of proclivity and feel the pressure to adopt a fetish or else be consigned to the skip of mediocrity?
Recently Twitter was agog when it was reported that a man was being led around on a dog lead in the Farringdon area (that's a part of London, not a euphemism). Immediately I thought, ‘is this a sex thing, or a promotional gimmick for an edgy pet shop?' The fact that images and ideas that were once banished to the outer realms of society are now regularly used as a punch line on panel shows or to sell fancy scent, does make the fetishless amongst us think, ‘I don't have a gimp mask? Have I failed as a fully formed, interesting human being?'
There does seem to be a lack of humour in this whole area, which is curious as so many of the activities do appear to be as funny as hell. Obviously I'm not saying that an individual's love life needs to be an endless blooper reel of flubs and funny bone pranging. Nobody wants that. But it does seem to be a seriousness to these endeavours that also adds pressure to those of us with a less excitable erotic content. It sometimes feels like it's a tent-pole in these people's lives (again, pun intended) offering the main source of definition with everything else just draped across the fetish. So those of us who don't swaddle or shrimp feel slightly inadequate, as if there's a party going on and we're standing outside with our nose pressed against the window, feeling slightly uncomfortable as there's a guy next to us standing outside with something else pressed up against the window as that's his thing.
So, in conclusion, I am sexually uninteresting and that is my cross to bear. Unless bearing crosses is... no that doesn't do anything for me either. All I can do is limp through life hoping to occasionally meet other individuals that have dull, pointless attitudes towards intercourse and are happy for me to perform per functionary, non-exploitable, robotic sex on them while weeping. At least I'm saving a lot of money on website subscriptions. And batteries.