It was an emergency call in the wee hours of a Monday morning. It was my Old Mate George of course, as no one else had my personal burner phone number – for tax (avoidance) reasons. “Maaate…” he started “Ugh” was my ¾ still asleep response, only very recently being deep into a REM dream. In that dream I was a blue arse fly on the wall at the wonderful Langtrees Executive Brothel voyeuristically flitting from room to room and hadn’t yet been spotted by anyone with a can of Raid and bad intentions.
“Need someone to talk to mate” he pleaded, and I sighed as the healing sleep slowly left me and a feeling of impending dread replaced it. “Maate I just need to tell you that I have a sexual fetish” George declared, and again I sighed as George and sexual fetish and/or depravity was as obvious as night follows day.
“How do you know that” I asked, “your doctor?” I queried. “Na mate me butcher told me” George said, “I don’t trust fucking doctors” he added and I left it at that. But even as he started his story of woe, I mentally refreshed myself on what I knew about fetish from my own prior studies from good old Mrs Google and her daughter Meta AI. It was from those two sheilas where I had discovered that my own obsession with boobies and bottoms was not in fact a fetish (Whew!).
A fetish is a strong and persistent sexual interest in an object, body part, or specific activity that is not typically considered sexually arousing. It can also refer to an inanimate object believed to have magical powers or be imbued with spiritual significance.
Cultural and Historical Context:
Fetishism (in anthropology): refers to the belief that inanimate objects can possess supernatural powers.
Origin of the term: The term "fetish" originated from the Portuguese word "feitiço," meaning artificial or charm, and was initially used to describe objects believed to have magical powers.
Ok I was up to speed again with my understanding of fetishes. Except I wondered how many people in the world suffered from the mental health endangering fetish. The Big One! I quickly asked my Google as George sobbed and snorted raggedly down the phone.
While it's difficult to pinpoint an exact percentage, it's estimated that up to 10% of the population may experience some form of fetish. However, fetishistic disorder, which is a clinical diagnosis, is much rarer, affecting less than 1% of the population, according to Psychology Today. Fetishism is more commonly reported in males than females.
Here's a more detailed breakdown:
Ok so now I had the percentages and the definitions, and with, I admit, some degree of anxiety I asked the forlorn man on the other end of our counselling session what the fuck he had done this time. “I made sweet love to a beach mate” he wailed unexpectedly. “A bitch?” I asked, confused. “No, a beach. I made love to beach. Exmouth beach and I loved it” George sobbed. My Spidey senses tingled. Against all instinct I had to know more. I knew already that people did develop strange fetishes about things, physical things like, well a beach maybe. Jeez someone had even married the Eiffel Tower from memory, so a beach…?
“Take me through it Old Mate,” I encouraged finding my hand-held recorder and switching the phone to speaker knowing that I might have to blackmail George in the future, probably to respond to him blackmailing me first.
“It was years ago mate” George said, “I was up north by myself just for a break from Baby George who was in trouble for stealing neighbours’ fruit from their trees again and causing chaos on a school trip to Perth Zoo where without permission he entered the Orangutan exhibit and took his gear off.
It was midday and I was parked beside Exmouth Beach. You know the beach close to Ningaloo Reef?” he added, and I did remember that remote beautiful beach in Western Australia northwest. “Mate it was mid-week so even the locals were not around and as I stood on the beach, I could see miles either way and there was no-one. I was absolutely all by myself. As a I looked out to the beautiful turquoise sea of the Indian Ocean I felt a need mate, not a desire, an absolute freekin primal need to rip me gear off. I stood there stark bollocky naked mate. It was the absolute perfection of where I was. It was the combination of the things I saw and felt that did it. With the enveloping warmth of a 36-degree sun, the gentle noise from the ocean and the feeling of being totally by myself not another human in sight I suddenly felt enveloped by a feeling of being loved and wanting to love.
George continued. “I walked into the water mate” he continued, “and I saw the colours of the wee reef fish darting, and just a few meters from shore turtles swimming, and out further a whale and her calf undulating across the waters. It was a friking intense beautiful, lovely sensual moment mate.” George said. “I lay in those first few meters of the blood warm waters not ready to go out deeper in case of a hungry Noah’s Ark (shark) waiting for old George. My emotions just rose in intensity” George continued. “Then I walked back out of the sea and onto those golden sands and mate I could not help myself, I just laid down and rolled around the gorgeous Exmouth Beach” he ended with a wail as I grunted with disbelief and he said, “I loved her…I mean it…I mean her”.
It took several moments for poor old George to calm down and stop bloody snivelling as I muttered sweet nothings to him like “Its ok mate. Its ok big fella” whilst double checking the batteries on the recorder because no one would believe me otherwise. But also, at that moment I suddenly recalled something from the past, like a light turning on in my brain. Way back at the time George was talking about there had been international concern at the sudden disappearance from Exmouth waters of the native loggerhead turtles. Exmouth beach was their breeding and egg laying grounds. So now suddenly it all made sense. I would say that one or more of the loggerheads had seen George rolling around naked on their beach and had spread the shocking news amongst the loggerhead community. That view of Old Mate must have driven an entire species off to safer waters at least for that year.
“Look mate that’s bad but so long ago George” I comforted him as best I could. “No, you don’t understand” George continued, and I asked, “Why is that mate”. “There is more mate. Yesterday. Sunday” George continued “I got the fever again. I had to be with a beach again” he moaned. “I dressed in my old army reserve ghillie suit” he said. (I knew that military personnel, hunters and such may wear a ghillie suit of camouflage that makes them look like a hump of the local vegetation - so as to blend into their surroundings and to conceal themselves from enemies or targets). “I went down to North Cott beach” George said, and I shuddered at what might be coming next. “I crept into the back of the sand dunes. Mate look I was not” he insisted “Being a pervert. I didn’t want to see anyone or be seen by anyone on the beach. I just needed, like really needed to be with a beach again” he said.
“Jeez what happened mate” I asked innocently enough. “I was laid flat just me enjoying the connection, the warm sand, the sun from above” he clarified. “Then a fucking WA police horse patrolling the dunes for perverts, (not like me!) stepped right in the middle of my back” George said.
“Fuck! What did they charge you with mate? How much is the bail?” I asked being certain that he would have had major issues explaining to the police officer aboard said police horse what the fuck he was up to. “No” he responded. “I took the 500-kilo weight of the bloody thing, plus its police officer driver, sinking into the sand a bit and leaving a clear impression of my body in the sand,” George said. “But mate the problem was that the horses steel horseshoe had picked up the heat of the sand. It was basically red hot. mate. I was branded on my upper back with a horseshoe scar!” George said and I tried not to giggle. “The coppers and their horses didn’t see me and just kept on patrolling looking for dirty perverts” George said clearly without any critical insight. “I crept back to my car” he said. “But mate the reason I am so upset is that as a result of that fright I have lost the urge to even go near a beach” he said and I said, “George that’s a good thing” and exhausted and emotionally drained I hung up the phone.
Regards
Magnum (George Whisperer)
For: Langtrees.com
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“I wasn’t ready for the police horse part. Poor George… but also, I can’t stop laughing!”
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