I’m a total perv.
I blame Howie Mandel.
Though I do find the whole routine where he blows up a rubber glove with his nostrils QUITE appealing, what really did it for me was his narration in the venerable animated film from the 80s, Where Did I Come From.
My mother had read somewhere that it was best to teach children about sex from a very early age so, at 3 years old, innocence firmly intact, she sat me down in front of the television and popped in the VHS found at our local library. The film opens with an “It’s a Small World” style musical number featuring racist stereotypes from around the globe. Little Asian babies with buckteeth hold hands with tribal African children with bones through their noses and ask, where DID I come from?
My guess: a place of deep prejudice stemming from both a cultural attitude of superiority and an individual sense of insecurity. Alternately, as I learned in the film, from a man and a woman who really love each other.
As the movie progressed, sperm tango dancing with ova and sex acts simulated before my eyes, I sat with an open mouth and a quickly opening mind. On screen, a naked woman was shown. Zooming in on her chest, Howie Mandel deadpanned – “These are a woman’s breasts. Some people call them ‘boobs’, or ‘titties’”
Titties!
I don’t think my parents had watched the movie before showing it to me. Nor would they have let me see it again if it wasn’t for my insistence. Though after the first viewing I sat in silent shock, soon after I requested it again from the library.
And again.
And again.
And again. While most children my age were watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I was obsessing over Mr. Mandel’s dulcet descriptions of an orgasm. “It’s like a sneeze… but better!” Despite the raised eyebrows of library workers, my parents played along, assuming that it was just… one of those phases kids go through? Those hopes were dashed when, at the age of 9, I got the internet.
Ah, the internet, where a 9 year old can pretend to be 14 in order to chat with a 16 year old boy who is actually probably 45. Like a classic coming of age story, I learned the meaning of love and life through animated gifs of boobs and bulletin board discussions of the joys of scat play. Growing up in Seattle, I also adored sex advice columnist Dan Savage. He helped confirm what the internet taught me: when two (or more) people are in love, they do some fucked up shit.
That’s the thing, though. It never seemed “fucked up”. As world weary as I was in my pre-teens, it didn’t occur to me that the folks seeking advice or camaraderie were doing so because they felt alienated. Of course I knew that not everyone liked everything but… everyone was into something!
And so you can imagine the surprised expression on the face of the sweet Southern Baptist boy when, near breathless after losing our virginities to each other at the age of 16, I turned to him and asked, “So, what now? Anal? Bondage? Golden showers? I’m down for whatever.” He meekly responded, “Um… maybe, uh… a blowjob?” Poor kid.
Ground broken after having sex for the first time, I became a whirling dervish of deviancy. Boys, girls, men, women, inanimate objects, a Britney Spears impersonator on a trampoline in my best friend’s backyard, I was unstoppable. I wanted to see everything the world had to offer. And then shove those things into my orifices.
I’m pretty sure this is the part of the story where I’m supposed to talk about how much I’ve grown and changed since then. Calmed down. Slowed my roll, to use the vernacular.
On Thanksgiving this year, after eating my weight in Tofurkey at my family’s house, I stopped by the dungeon to share a few bottles of wine with a coworker. I sampled the stuffing she’d made, and we joked about the guy who managed to fit a pound and a half of spaghetti in his… well, anyway… While practicing my bullwhip skills by flicking the light switch on and off with each lash, we discussed what we were thankful for. Literally. We had a heart-to-heart, very special episode style conversation about the true meaning of Thanksgiving in a room full of floggers and ankle cuffs, and I brought up how thankful I am for my background.
Not to get all mushy here, but as a professional dominatrix I frequently work with people who don’t have the chance to express their more deviant interests. A lot of them were raised during a time when you just didn’t take that kind of thing into account when choosing a partner. Really, more often than not even if they did actively try to incorporate their fetishes into their lives, they’d be subject to harsh judgment or worse.
I was lucky. From open-minded parents to unfiltered internet access to partners who were willing to try new things, I’ve had the chance to hone in on my interests and, without condemnation, hussy it up. When I say I’m a total perv, what I mean is that I think everyone has a right to do whatever feels awesome to them, as long as it is safe, sane, and consensual.
This morning I woke up next to a lovely man on my bedroom floor. Sprawled and bruised, scratch marks blending with bite marks, we both looked like the focus of an episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. Exchanging sleepy grins, we kissed and compared damage before heading to breakfast to discuss a motorcycle trip through the Alps.
I recently learned that Howie Mandel suffers from crippling germaphobia so perhaps he wouldn’t appreciate it but, Howie, from the bottom of my heart, thank you – you helped make me into a truly dirty, filthy, happy person.
