Humiliation in a bar.

This is more of a wickedly humiliating scenario than a pure grossout, although it's also pretty gross.

We're sitting at a table, finishing our drinks, and I can see the beginnings of a smirk playing across her face. We've been drinking margaritas and, as usual, I got drunker faster than I'd realized while she had only had one or two. She sighs, crosses her legs, looks at me, and I say "Okay I just need to use the bathroom before we go."

"Nope." Smirking radioactively now.

"What?"

"You're going to sit here until you piss yourself." She sighs, laughs, looks me up and down.

I'm blushing and feeling defiant. "No, I'm not. I'm going to get up and go to the bathroom."

"Do you have your wallet?"

"No, you told me not to bring it."

"I see. Do you have your phone?"

"Well, it's in your car."

"I see." Smirking and giggling. "If you had to walk back, how far would you have to walk?"

"A long way?"

"Do you even know the way?"

I'm beginning to see her point. Feeling frightened, I answer "Not really?"

"Well, if you get up to go to the bathroom, I will have the check paid and be gone long before you get back, darlin' ."

I realize she isn't bluffing. Weigh my odds. She's completely right. I start to whine "No, seriously, this is one of my big fears."

"I know Isn't it perfect?"

I cross my legs, try to think about something else. She's pointedly sipping at her drink, sloshing the liquid around the ice cubes. "These drinks are so cold" she says.

"So are you."

"Yeah. Have you ever seen a waterfall?"

"That's so 9th grade and it's not going to work."

"I know how suggestible you are. I'm pretty sure it will. Can't you just picture a giant waterfall, water cascading down...."

She talks shit for a long time, interrupted only by an occasional laughing fit, as I try to think about other things and squirm like mad. She talks about waterfalls, beaches, rainfall, she plays with her drink, she asks me about my bladder...on and on and finally I can't take it. She sees the horrified, humiliated look on my face, peeks under the table and sees that a stain is spreading where I've lost control. "OH MY GOD DID YOU JUST PISS YOURSELF?" She yells, laughing riotously. Everybody turns around to look at me, natch.

By now I'm blushing, burning, almost ready to cry from sheer embarrassment. She says "Okay babe, now all you have to do is take the loooooong walk up to the register and pay." She hands me some cash out of my wallet (which she had in her purse) and as I walk up I'm aware of the eyes of customers and waitresses crawling all over me. I can hear stifled giggles and the cashier who takes my money has to keep holding her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing outright. We walk out and she has ahold of my arm, forcing me to walk exaggeratedly slowly, on display all the way out to the car.

Punk rock girls.

Someone asked where my grossout fetish started. I can't answer that, like, psychologically. I mean, I have no idea what peculiar set of circumstances led to me being aroused by the thought of a girl exploiting my extreme squeamishness to torture me. But I do remember what my first fantasy was.

I was in prep school, and I used to fantasize that a couple of "bad girls" (like punk girls in Dead Kennedys shirts and spiky hair or something) would kind of abduct me. They'd corner me someplace, hold me down, maybe handcuff my hands behind me (punk girls always have handcuffs with them right?) and make me sit on the floor while they sat on a couch above me. They'd both light cigarettes, and when they figured out how annoyed I was by smoke they'd blow it in my face to make me cough. One of them would announce I was going to judge a belching contest.

One of the girls would go off to get some soda and the other would sit with her foot pressed into my chest, talking shit to me non-stop. Her cohort would get back. They'd giggle, guzzle warm, flat soda, and take turns belching directly into my face. I'd freak out but there was nothing I could do. To this day I've never had anyone actually belch in my face, but just the noise grosses me out and the thought of the smell is horrifying. After each "round" they'd force me to say whose was raunchier, and usually the loser would get pissed and belch again, and try to give me a dead arm or something.

As silly as this fantasy is, it really was the first time I remember actively thinking about a lot of my fixations: humiliation, bondage, grossouts, predicaments bondage, coercion, punk girls and girls with sick senses of humor who love seeing me suffer.

Mindfucking.

Much better than being a sinner in the hands of an angry God is being a toy in the hands of a woman with a sick sense of humor. Leave whips and chains out of it (well, leave chains in it)--I'm most excited in situations that most closely resemble cruel pranks. This is probably part of why I love being tied up with tape, electrical cords, saran wrap, even handcuffs are great because of the potential for sneaky bondage attacks.

Although I understand the appeal of the stern Maitresse in leather and a well-equipped dungeon full of leather and metal, I'm helplessly excited by bratty punk girls who sit on me and fuck with me just for being so easy to fuck with.

Mindfucks can go pretty deep. If someone knows what they're doing, and wants to, they can leave you feeling like you're locked inside your own head, like they could just turn the lights off and leave you to rock back and forth for a while. People who overanalyze and supersensualize the world are probably the most susceptible--I visualize everything, I remember everything, I narrate everything as it's happening to me so something said or done to me can come back and blow up like a timebomb at inopportune moments.

Once an image gets into my head it stays there a long time, and it doesn't take much to bring it back. Just a couple of words are enough to push me in and shut the door. A wicked laugh, to let me know it was all deliberate, turns the key and locks me in.

How I lost a 100 dollar bet.

Everybody knows masochists are notorious for making bets they intend to lose so that they can suffer the consequences, but when I said offhandedly to this girl "I'd give you 100 bucks if you could make me puke right now" I honestly did not expect to be sending her 100 bucks the very next day. I felt fine, we were just talking online, and even though I'm squeamish, I'm not generally so squeamish that I can go from feeling fine to kneeling over a garbage can during the course of a single anecdote.

She immediately began telling me a story about her high school days, when she was given a defective fetal pig to dissect. I'd retype the story in full, but I'm honestly not sure I'd make it all the way through.

What got to me wasn't the gore or the guts of a dissection--the insides of lab animals are one thing that has never bothered me. I was always the kid who blew the curve in biology. What killed me were the sensory details. She typed four or five solid blocks of text, each one getting a little more graphic than the last. It was when she started to really emphasize the smells and the textures of the pig (which hadn't been treated properly before being shipped off to be dissected and was full of blood and fecal matter and all other manner of fluids) that I realized I might not make it.

For me, there aren't many more helpless feelings than throwing up. There's a point where I know I am not going to be able to hold it in, no matter how hard I try. When I hit that point, around the time she started describing what the air around her lab table smelled like, I said something like "Okay, seriously, mercy" and in response received a "Ha ha ha" and then another chunk of text heavy on sensory details.

I'm insanely suggestible so when someone tells a story, I tend to experience everything. The more she went on, the worse it got, until I finally just lost it in a garbage can next to my bed. It was the most sickened, the most helpless, I have ever felt from just reading text and the more I pictured how much she must have been laughing as she realized what kind of effect the story was having on me, the more helpless and drawn in I felt.

So, less than 24 hours later, I went to a Wal Mart near the hotel where I'm staying and sent her 100 bucks. She'd totally earned it, with about five minutes worth of typing that was so vivid, so cruel, so sickly funny that it left me, literally, on the floor (head hung over a receptacle).

Strangest of the strange.

I have an odd sexual urge. Well, I have a series of odd sexual urges. Abduction. Prolonged confinement. Forced intoxication. Sleep deprivation. Wedgies. Predicament bondage. Debasement. But perhaps the oddest urge, the strangest of the strange, is the arousal I get from being totally and completely grossed out by a pretty girl.

To be clear, I don't get excited if I see, say, something gross along the side of the road. I only get excited if, for example, a girl pointed something out by the side of the road to try to gross me out. Because I'm insanely squeamish and easily horrified by...well, any number of things....having a girl deliberately take advantage of my prissy nature just hits a chord deep down in the weird masochistic wiring of my brain.

I'm posting about this because, well, I'm a weirdo, but I'm a weirdo who is never at a loss for words. I don't expect anybody to say "Wow, that's phenomenally sexy" but I do anticipate a few people saying "Ha ha that's the funniest, most fucked up thing I've heard in ages" from time to time. Many of my posts are going to involve a particular girl I recently met through the tried and true method of randomly bugging her online who is endlessly amused by my helpless attraction to being repulsed.

Rather than talk endlessly about how my brain works and how I feel when I'm being grossed out, I'm just going to come down to cases and start telling stories.