A Fetish for All Seasonings

As a devoted reader of SCREW, just like you, and you, and… you out there somewhere in the U.S. of F (you figure it out), I am always on the lookout for the far-out. Temporarily bored with popping my nuts off in the cunts, assholes, mouths and hands of local friends, acquaintances, and a cock-eyed Arab named Abdul whom I bumped into under a partition between toilets in the Saint Cecelia Theater (and who, I might add, sucked me off while simultaneously chewing on three walnettos), I decided to check out the wonderful world of fetishism.



You know the standard run-of-the-mill fetishes, don’t you: shoes, hair, leather, rubber, tight corsets, underwear, black satin, silk and lace, and a few others. Well, let me tell you, my fine fingered-fuckers, that stuff is all passe, now. A new world has opened up before my eyes! It all started while I was exposing myself in a lewd manner at Irene’s Steam Baths for Men. Irene, by the way, is a 7-foot, 300 lb. erotic masseur of Slavic extraction and he wears golden earrings through pierced ears. He has the distinction of being the only man to fuck an Alaskan grizzly bear in the ass and get away with it.

Anyway, while I was trying to attract attention, the guy sitting next to me on the wooden seat was getting sucked off by some slobbering cocksucker kneeling between his legs. The suckee was nonchalantly conversing with another guy sitting next to him, a voyeur if I ever saw one. They were talking about some man named Jack Stronghorn.

“Yeah, I met him the other day, Fantastic!” said the suckee.

Trying to control his drool, the voyeur said sloppily, “Jack really knows where it’s at don’t he? The greatest feshtishisht of all.”

I interrupted, “Who’s this Jack Strongprong?”

“The name is ‘Stronghorn’ buddy,” answered the suckee. “He’s the supreme fetishist. Why you wanna know?”

“I’m doing some research on fetishism and maybe I’d like to meet this creep. He live around here?”

I didn’t get an answer, though, because the suckee started having his own orgasmic convulsions and the voyeur was drooling too much to speak intelligibly. The cocksucker was really getting a load. When he finally raised his head, he turned out to be my old friend, Abdul.

“Hi, there, bubba,” he gurgled.



The Feeling of Things to Come

Afterwards (you know what I mean), I looked up Stronghorn in the phonebook and gave him a call. He was delighted that I was interested in seeing him and told me to drop over. I had nothing to lose and perhaps much to gain so I drove quickly to Stronghorn’s apartment hoping I could get another hard-on if the need arose. The suckee in the steam bath turned out to be friendly and really took a lot out of me. (I’ll bet you thought it was Abdul again, didn’t you, you dumb shit!)

After Jack let me in, the surprises started. Jack himself was about fifty; a fifty-ish fetishist. (Say that ten times fast after a few drinks.) He was draped in a worn and torn flannel blanket. Where was the rubber? Where was the leather? I looked around the living room: no high-heel photos, no chains or whips draped over a fireplace; no crotch-stained panties pinned to the wall. What the hell! This was the apartment of the master fetishist?????

“What’s with the flannel blanket?” I asked.

“Ahhh,” he sighed, “flannel! Flannel! So soft and cuddly. Haven’t you ever stroked your cock with a piece of flannel?”

I thought to myself, boy what kind of nut is this? I sat down on his circa-1934 mohair sofa. “Feel the mohair,” he said, “Run your fingers over it; doesn’t that feel good? It’s so nice and prickly.

I noticed a bowl of dried lemons and limes on the coffee table. He saw the direction of my gaze and reached over to the bowl, picked up some of the ossified fruit and handed it to me.

“So?” I questioned. “So you got some dried lemons and limes. So what?”

“But look at them, my friend. Feel them! Don’t they look exactly like large testicles? Play with them; roll them in your fingers; stroke them.”

By God, he was right. They did look just like some guy’s balls, complete with scrotal-sac wrinkles, hair follicles, and all — except, of course, the hair. Jack was getting a charge out of watching me play with the dried citrus fruits and said, “Now are you getting it; now are you getting tuned in?” His hard-on made the flannel blanket jump in little throbs. He got up and went into the kitchen and came back with a large egg. “Look at this,” he whispered, hoarsely.

An egg? For Christ’s sake!

He stroked the egg. I’d figured out the dried fruit okay, but the egg bore as much resemblance to a testicle as a ping-pong ball. I had to ask what the deal was with the goddamn egg.

“Don’t you see? It’s an egg, man, an EGG. It came out of a chicken’s cunt. Came sliding right out between the lips — imagine the size of a cunt that would expel such an egg.” Well, it was a pretty damn bug egg, at that. He continued: “And besides that, the rooster is the one who gets up there and FERTILIZES the hen and some of the eggs, like this one, and you know what he really is, don’t you? The cock, man, the cock!” I thought he was about to have an orgasm while he fondled the egg with one hand and his own eggs with his other hand.

In the bathroom, he told me to look at the toilet. Yeah, so what? “The shape of the rim, man,” he said. “See how it’s shaped like a stretched-out pussy? And when you sit on it, and shit into it, you are really shitting into a—”

“Nevermind,” I interrupted.

“And here,” he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me over to the sink, “look at this.” He turned on the water. I know what I was looking at—a water faucet streaming water. But what he was looking at was something else.



Health Fadist

Then he handed me a bottle of White Rain shampoo—the kind that’s milky white. I could see immediately its resemblance to male semen. He grinned at me and poked me in the ribs. “I washed my hair with it,” he chuckled. Thank God he said that! I was ready to believe he drank the stuff.

In the kitchen, he almost shot his wad when he showed me the egg-beater. Knowing how he felt about eggs, I could see the sado-erotic connection with the egg-beater. He wanted to beat up some eggs for me but I declined, figuring that would be going just a little too far.

The refrigerator held a veritable treasure trove of goodies: carrots, frankfurters, raw liver, vanilla pudding, chocolate pudding, a huge Polish sausage and so help me God, a cheesecake shaped like a twat. “You ever fucked a cheesecake?” Jack asked. “Or played with a Polish sausage?”

I remembered those hot nights sandwiched between Olga and Yuri Yakcrazcy — a Polish brother-and-sister act in Toledo, Ohio—with my sausage up Olga and Yuri’s sausage up my ass. But I’d never gone to bed with a sausage. A real sausage, I mean.

“What do you do with it?” I asked. “Shove it up your ass?”

“Sometimes—but mostly I suck it.”

I almost asked him if it came, but I didn’t really want to know.

Before long, almost every item in his apartment had been examined and fondled and presented to me in a new light. I was surrounded by sex symbols and fetishes and realized that I’d been missing out on a lot of fun. I’d never stuffed a rainbow trout up my ass, for instance, nor sucked a candle, nor fucked a jar of peanut butter, nor made love to a rump roast, not gotten stiff contemplating a pear. I knew the uterus was a pear-shaped organ but somehow a pear had never turned me on.

Stronghorn and I finally ended up kneeling on the floor facing each other and jacked off while we listened to the recorded sounds of car and train crashes on his stereo and fondled some hard-boiled eggs in a bowl between our knees. After we recovered from the throes of ultimate pleasure, we agreed to meet again. He had a girlfriend he wanted me to meet. She was hung-up on cottage cheese, the feel of Teflon, scented toilet paper, pressure cookers and paisley “panties” for white rats. Now that I was “in” she sounded like fun.



New Year Resolution

After I got home, I looked at my black leather boots with disdain and shoved them into a dark corner under the stairs. I cleaned out my bureau of all the accumulated nylon panties, jock straps and stained sanitary napkins. I tried on my tight rubber pants and they didn’t do a thing for me, so they were tossed out, too. I took down the chain from over the mantle and stored it away in the garage with my knives and sabers.

“Now,” I said to myself, “let’s have some fun!” I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Oh, Jesus! There was a gorgeous sirloin steak looking at me, and a nine-inch banana and a large bottle of 7-UP. I’d never had such a hard-on in my life! But I needed more.

More! More! I raced to the nearest variety store and came back with a watering can, a baby rattle, two yards of oil cloth, a mortar and pestle, and a bag of jelly beans. Hoo, boy was I going to have fun!

—SW

This article first appeared in SCREW #45 for January 6, 1970. Author Stan Wright was a frequent contributor to SCREW. Whereabouts unknown.

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