Disclaimer:
This is not my definitive take on how people deal with this - or any - fetish. And I am aware that the issues that some people have regarding their fetish are more complex than what I have set down here. I was just having some thoughts about the excuses people (mostly male 'lers like myself, I reckon, hence one or two references to that particular perspective) come up with where this stuff is concerned, and so decided to organize them into something vaguely coherent! And before anybody starts thinking that this is an excercise in smugness and self-congratulation, I should probably make it clear that I am NOT a "Level 4er". lol
Level 1. It's the fetish.
If I didn't have this fetish, I think I'd be happy. Yes, deliriously happy. Without a care in the world! I'm picturing that alternative self now: skipping through meadows, my face radiant from the bliss I feel in my soul, warbling a cheerful ditty as I go... "Tra-la-laa... Tum-tee-tum... I-don't-have-a-tickling-fetish... Suck-on-that... Rom-po-pom".
Alas! I am not one of the lucky ones.
Oh God in heaven! why do you hate me?! Of all the kinks, the paraphilias, the turn-ons, the sexual orientations and identities, you give me this, the abominable tickling fetish! Blessed is the coprophiliac, the necrophiliac, the self-loathing paedophile, for none of them will ever know such sexual shame as this! Ohhh! woe is me! (And so on and so forth.)
Level 2. It's not the fetish. It's other people.
Like those heartless vanilla folk. All I want is for them to volunteer to help bring my deepest fetishistic fantasies to life, namely by agreeing to let me do exactly what I want to them without any complaints or tricky questions. I mean, is that too much to ask? Selfish fuckers.
Mind, who can blame them for their wariness, what with all these creepy bastards in the tickling community. Creepy bastards who give decent, honourable, likeable, intelligent, handsome, funny, brave, athletic, hardworking, trustworthy, compassionate, well-endowed, tidy, animal-loving, good-at-D.I.Y., non-smoking, in-touch-with-feelings-but-not-in-a-wussy-sort-of-way, single guys like myself a bad name! Do you know, once when I broached the subject of my tickling fetish with a special lady friend, her reaction was to vomit in disgust and then to start hitting me with her handbag while yelling, "Die! you sick fuck! Die!"
OK, I may have imagined that. But it could happen. And all because of the unsavoury behaviour of a small minority of raging sociopaths. I ask you: Is that fair?
Wait, I've just had a thought. I haven't been getting much sex lately, either. And there are creepy guys who want to have sex. So... Wait, gimme a second to figure this out. Yes, it's coming to me now. The reason I have such little success with women is... Cos some guys are creepy! Of course! It all makes perfect sense! Damn I'm smart!
Kiss my elbow, creepy guys!
Level 3. It's not the fetish. It's not other people. It's me.
I'm awkward. I'm repressed. I'm unnappealing. Or maybe I'm just chickenshit.
People get addicted to weird things, don't they? Maybe my addiction is Unfulfillment: a constant, unfailing source of unhappiness, because the idea of a happy self seems absurd. After all, how am I supposed to work towards something that makes no sense to me? Our instinct is to perpetuate what is familiar to ourselves, even if it is self-defeating. So, then, one must find a way to break the cycle somehow. Which probably takes a fair amount of effort. Yeah... Fuck that.
Am I really any better off than the Level 1 and 2ers, in that case? They, at least, have the refuge of self-delusion. What have I got? A long, pointless blog entry, that's what!
Dayumn, Happiness, you scary!
Level 4. It's not the fetish. It's not other people. It's not me. It's not anything.
It is what I make of it. I did not choose this fetish, it chose me. And if I want this thing to be an enjoyable, fulfilling part of my life, then it is down to me to make it so. And who knows what joy I might bring into other people's lives in the process!
My fetish is in my hands. In more ways than one!
This is not my definitive take on how people deal with this - or any - fetish. And I am aware that the issues that some people have regarding their fetish are more complex than what I have set down here. I was just having some thoughts about the excuses people (mostly male 'lers like myself, I reckon, hence one or two references to that particular perspective) come up with where this stuff is concerned, and so decided to organize them into something vaguely coherent! And before anybody starts thinking that this is an excercise in smugness and self-congratulation, I should probably make it clear that I am NOT a "Level 4er". lol
Level 1. It's the fetish.
If I didn't have this fetish, I think I'd be happy. Yes, deliriously happy. Without a care in the world! I'm picturing that alternative self now: skipping through meadows, my face radiant from the bliss I feel in my soul, warbling a cheerful ditty as I go... "Tra-la-laa... Tum-tee-tum... I-don't-have-a-tickling-fetish... Suck-on-that... Rom-po-pom".
Alas! I am not one of the lucky ones.
Oh God in heaven! why do you hate me?! Of all the kinks, the paraphilias, the turn-ons, the sexual orientations and identities, you give me this, the abominable tickling fetish! Blessed is the coprophiliac, the necrophiliac, the self-loathing paedophile, for none of them will ever know such sexual shame as this! Ohhh! woe is me! (And so on and so forth.)
Level 2. It's not the fetish. It's other people.
Like those heartless vanilla folk. All I want is for them to volunteer to help bring my deepest fetishistic fantasies to life, namely by agreeing to let me do exactly what I want to them without any complaints or tricky questions. I mean, is that too much to ask? Selfish fuckers.
Mind, who can blame them for their wariness, what with all these creepy bastards in the tickling community. Creepy bastards who give decent, honourable, likeable, intelligent, handsome, funny, brave, athletic, hardworking, trustworthy, compassionate, well-endowed, tidy, animal-loving, good-at-D.I.Y., non-smoking, in-touch-with-feelings-but-not-in-a-wussy-sort-of-way, single guys like myself a bad name! Do you know, once when I broached the subject of my tickling fetish with a special lady friend, her reaction was to vomit in disgust and then to start hitting me with her handbag while yelling, "Die! you sick fuck! Die!"
OK, I may have imagined that. But it could happen. And all because of the unsavoury behaviour of a small minority of raging sociopaths. I ask you: Is that fair?
Wait, I've just had a thought. I haven't been getting much sex lately, either. And there are creepy guys who want to have sex. So... Wait, gimme a second to figure this out. Yes, it's coming to me now. The reason I have such little success with women is... Cos some guys are creepy! Of course! It all makes perfect sense! Damn I'm smart!
Kiss my elbow, creepy guys!
Level 3. It's not the fetish. It's not other people. It's me.
I'm awkward. I'm repressed. I'm unnappealing. Or maybe I'm just chickenshit.
People get addicted to weird things, don't they? Maybe my addiction is Unfulfillment: a constant, unfailing source of unhappiness, because the idea of a happy self seems absurd. After all, how am I supposed to work towards something that makes no sense to me? Our instinct is to perpetuate what is familiar to ourselves, even if it is self-defeating. So, then, one must find a way to break the cycle somehow. Which probably takes a fair amount of effort. Yeah... Fuck that.
Am I really any better off than the Level 1 and 2ers, in that case? They, at least, have the refuge of self-delusion. What have I got? A long, pointless blog entry, that's what!
Dayumn, Happiness, you scary!
Level 4. It's not the fetish. It's not other people. It's not me. It's not anything.
It is what I make of it. I did not choose this fetish, it chose me. And if I want this thing to be an enjoyable, fulfilling part of my life, then it is down to me to make it so. And who knows what joy I might bring into other people's lives in the process!
My fetish is in my hands. In more ways than one!
