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.