A practicing mistress writes in Seattle’s alternative newspaper: “Here are a few highlights from the ‘weird phone messages’ file… Uh, hi, I was wondering, like, I know you do golden showers, but what I really want to know is would you pee on, um… a bug? Because I used to see this other mistress and she would pee on bugs, and I thought that was really hot. I know that sounds weird but, you know, I just wanted to ask… I get a lot of unusual requests, but I can’t say I’ve ever been asked to pee on insects before. Sounds like a guy who eroticizes piss, but doesn’t actually want to get pissed on himself. That’s not unheard of, but still — bugs? Where did that come in? Is this a twist on the ‘crush’ fetish, where guys get off on watching girls step on bugs? I also find myself wondering: Does he provide the bugs? And what kind of bugs would they be? Are we talking fast-moving bugs, like roaches or crickets? I think those would have to be in a jar, or they’d get away. Now if you used slow, easy targets like worms, that would be different. Does he let them go afterward, soggy but free? It’s a sign of what a seasoned professional I am that I can easily sketch this out in my head. However, that doesn’t mean I want to actually do it. No, I think I will confine my piss play to Homo sapiens. I don’t believe in cruelty to animals. Only people.” — The Stranger (US)

PervScan rarely reprints the commentary of sex columnists, but this morsel by Mistress Matisse was simply too tasty to pass up. On one hand, it’s just plain funny. Somehow the guy’s sexuality is caught up in the grossifying humor of pubescent stunts. If he were sadistic rather than masochistic, he would have been the kind of kid who found it hilarious to stick a firecracker in the mouth of a frog. Instead he wants to see a hot chick — and Mistress Matisse certainly qualifies — squirt on a roach or grasshopper or something. Maybe he had an unstated intention to pull a Gregor Samsa routine on her and be the bug himself.

On the other hand, the story serves as an excellent reminder — especially to jaded PervScanners — that sometimes the understanding just collides into a fetish the way a car slams into a brick wall. It’s possible that there is some complex personal etiology to a man’s sexual enjoyment at the sight of centipedes immersed in piss. It’s also possible that every explanation is forced, every analysis a lie, every justification a con. The guy’s fetish could be some inscrutable, irreducible thing that, like a minimalist sculpture, slaps us in the face with its brute existence but doesn’t offer much more than that — no meaning, no significance, just a hard metal cube of depravity jutting up into the landscape of sexuality.

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