Chapter 3
Humiliate me once, shame on you.
Humiliate me repeatedly, and I’ll follow you anywhere.

“Shame is the lie someone told you about yourself.” — Anais Nin

I’m excited whenever I hear about some new kink I had no clue ever existed before. Like the guy who likes to get pies thrown in his face. Or people that like to dress up in fuzzy animal costumes. I wonder, how the hell did they get a kink like that? Certainly they didn’t just wake up one morning at age 35 or so and declare: “You know what, from now on, the only way I’m ever going to get an erection again is if I dress up like a dog, and a woman leads me by a leash, and makes me dry-hump stuffed toys.”

Well, maybe some perverts do just wake up twisted. I haven’t met ‘em all. Maybe those guys are night watchmen at an amusement park somewhere, and one lonely night they just snap. Then they run amok devirginizing every teddy bear in sight. That shit happens too. But on the whole, most kinksters like myself are simply the victims of our own screwed up subconscious. It’s called imprinting. It works something like this:

Little Billy walks into Mommy’s bedroom without knocking and there is Mommy in her lingerie. Perhaps she’s slipping on stockings. Billy feels the twinges of his little libido at the sight. Perhaps he gets a little woody, or, seeing as Billy is only five or six, he can only achieve a little corky. Now let’s say Mommy yells at Billy for his intrusion. Billy may walk away with the embryo of a kink involving stockings and a woman who bosses him around. By the time he reaches puberty, this seemingly nothing event has blossomed into a full-blown fetish for dominant women in stockings. Or perhaps it becomes a fetish for kissing women’s feet. Or perhaps it becomes a fetish for women who slam doors in his face. It all depends on what image stuck in his mind at the time when he was aroused.

Now, say for instance instead of Billy getting thrown out of Mommy’s room, Mommy doesn’t care. Mommy simply continues to dress. Oddly, Billy may develop into a simple momma’s boy at worst, or possibly a Republican. Hmmm. Bad examples there. Hard to say which is worse. He may fixate on the garter belt, or the bigger picture of Mommy getting dressed, and later in life he might simply get off on watching women putting on and taking off clothes. It’s hard to say. I am not an expert on normals.

Really, at the core of this is shame. The oldest of curses that has dogged our collective homo sapien asses since Adam couldn’t take responsibility for his own actions, and got Eve thrown out of a cushy crib. Yup, shame. Shame makes us hide our flesh under clothes and act like idiots when it comes to sex. If Billy’s Mother hadn’t felt shame for being seen by her son in a state of undress, and freaked out along expected social norms, Billy wouldn’t be the twisted pup he grew up later to be. Like a virus, Mommy taught Billy shame so he can spread it to his own children later on in life. Shame creates more problems in this world than I think any other source. If only the Indians could have known that the Pilgrims were infected with this horrible Western Puritan ethic virus, they would have wrecked the Mayflower on Plymouth Rock and killed every single one of those Prudish stuck-up assholes.

How powerful is this force? Well, in the south, a certain unnamed and since fired warden of a maximum security prison was having trouble with rapists attacking weaker inmates. So his solution was to force these big bad rapists caught in the act to wear baby pink jumpsuits instead of the usual day-glo orange. Funny thing is, inmate assaults dropped to nearly zero. The shame of the sissy jumpsuits knocked the horniness right out of them. Brilliant, if you ask me. Several years ago, 60 Minutes did a segment on the legal system in Singapore, where a first time offender of even a misdemeanor crime is caned in public across the bare buttocks. The 60 Minutes crew went to east LA to ask hardcore gangstas, if the punishment for being in a gang was having to bare their butt on national TV and get their ass spanked, would they still be gangstas? The overwhelming response was ‘no way.’ They would all toe the straight and narrow, rather than be humiliated in front of the crew. In Victorian times, petticoat punishment was a common remedy for unruly boys. If this practice was held over today, I wonder if drive-by shootings would be replaced by drive-by makeovers? Hard to say, but the image of a bunch of homies in satin and lace does make them seem just a little less scary.

Now in my case, my first encounter with cross-dressing was dramatic and profound. When shame, negative reinforcement, and humiliation combine with arousal and sexual stimulation, then the effect is far more spectacular. It buries itself deeply in the subconscious. The more traumatic the event, the more the poor little tyke dwells on it. Each time his little pecker stirs, he thinks about that event. He can’t help it, and the more he thinks, the deeper the kink is driven, the more it becomes a permanent part of his sexuality, and who he is. Shame! Shame! Shame! Yes, shame becomes equated with arousal, and the more shamed we feel, the more horny we get, and the stranger our fetishes become.

Is that a bad thing? Do I hold Bonnie, Diana, my sister, or even my mother responsible for all that I’ve become? Heck no! They couldn’t have possibly known, or couldn’t have even been aware. Shit happens. I’m glad it happened. I enjoy my kinks and perversions. I try to indulge them at every opportunity. Once I freed my mind from stupid social norms and expected behavior, I feel I finally came alive for the first time in my life. Besides, if Bonnie and the girls didn’t rearrange my proclivities, then plenty of other sources did.

 

– to be continued –