Shagged Out

In which The Author wonders what has happened to his libido

It occurred to me a few months ago that all the fetishes I’ve entertained for thirty years or so have suddenly ceased to have the desired effect.
When I was a teenager, the mere sight of a woman on TV wearing a poloneck sweater was enough to have me scurrying off to the bedroom. I was about 14, and Elaine, the newly appointed school secretary – young, slim, dark-haired and extremely attractive – used to turn up for work wearing a poloneck at least once a week. We used to go shopping in Tesco in Aberdare on Thursday evenings, and Elaine would often pass when I was waiting for Mother to bring the car round to the door. I couldn’t wait to get home and amuse myself with a mental picture of Elaine in her chunky sweater.
Over the years, things developed. It’s only when one reads Dr Timothy Leary’s model of sexual imprinting that it makes sense. I grew up watching imported programmes like Charlie’s Angels and Wonder Woman – and the women in those shows wore polonecks a lot of the time. Then, just about the time that the hormones kicked in, Punk erupted onto the face of the universe. Spiky hair, leather, big boots, studs, crazy make-up …
About six or seven years ago, I wrote out a list of sexually-oriented items as long as my arm. It wasn’t a catalogue of things one finds in porn magazines. It was just a list of things I like to see women wearing. Boots. Gloves. Dog collars. Hats. Chunky sweaters. Mini skirts. Opaque tights. Scarves … The list is still in one of my Unpublished Notebooks. If I can translate the hieroglyphics, I’ll add it to this post.
About the time of the fourth Punk revival, you couldn’t move in Cardiff without seeing a teenage girl in a dog collar. I spent months walking around with a permanent erection – and then I realised that I was the same age as these girls’ parents.
By then, I was fairly used to wearing female attire around Aberdare, and it dawned on me that I only ever wore clothes that would have appealed to me if a girl was wearing them. When sweaterdresses came back into vogue a couple of years ago, I was one of the first to jump on the bandwagon. The day that Jenny and I met for lunch, she loved the fact that I would walk around Aberdare in a grey sweaterdress and opaque black tights. She wore my baker-boy hat for a couple of minutes the penultimate time we met. If I was going to fuck her, that would have been the moment.
Today, I’ve seen at least four girls around town wearing woolly hats – I think they’re known as ‘beanies’. When I was working in Cardiff, I would see dozens of girls a week wearing hats like that. I love the way that girls wear them way back on their heads, and keep them on indoors all day, no matter how warm it is. They’re sexy and cute, and I’m going to treat myself to a silver-grey one in New Look tomorrow. With my grey sweaterdress over a black poloneck, my grey hat, and my ballerina shoes, I think I’ll cut quite a dash at The Thornz gig on Sunday.
But I don’t get turned on simply by the sight of girls in their sexy clothes any more. Like any ‘high’, you need bigger doses to get a hit. In my case I can’t just look at the clothes any more. I need to wear them myself. I’m a textbook case of a Fetishistic Transvestite.
This might be my last ever posting. If it is, it’s because I’ve been kicked to death after the Thornz gig by wankers who can’t appreciate individuality. My mate Dean is lucky to be alive after he and his pals were jumped on Sunday night in Bargoed. One of his assailants is under arrest in Prince Charles Hospital, after biting off more than he could chew. Dean has a hell of a black eye, and a dressing over what could have been a very serious stab wound. I had a pint with him earlier. The next round’s on him …
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