: June 2001:
I leaf through the sexually charged pictorials in
Exotic magazine, I'm often left with the cold,
shadowy feeling that something's missing. Or, rather--something
isn't missing--namely, a tooth. To remedy this,
I will hoist a pen and carefully blacken out a tusk in
the young lassie's grille...mmm...there. That's
better. That's much, MUCH better. It's SO much better
that I am compelled to wrap my paw around my cock and
aim for that little black gap in her mouth.
A few years back I spent a long, torturous
night with a red-headed heifer who had big taters and
a tiny brain. This, mind you, was a REAL woman instead
of the ink-on-paper holograms which you convince yourself
are real while you pathetically jack your knob atop your
piss-encrusted, stray-pube-covered toilet seat. But this
particular portly chippy seemed more interested in gobbling
the caramel-coated snack foods I'd purchased for her than
in having anything approximating good sex. She jacked
me off and I jacked her off, then we commenced to snoring.
Even the seedy hotel atmosphere, which is usually wildly
erotic for me, failed to spark the mood.
The next day we returned to her crib,
and as we were lounging about in our undergarments, she
removed a prosthetic tooth from top-row center and launched
into an agonizingly dull forty-five-minute explanation
of how she'd had the tooth fashioned by an orthodontist.
But I wasn't listening to what she had to say...I was
spellbound, staring at that glorious gap. Golden choirs
of heavenly, harp-playing cherubs flew through that li'l
hole in her mouth.
I thought, "Why the fuck didn't she take
out that tooth last night?" I knew that if she'd removed
the horrible fake incisor the night before, I'd have been
hard as granite and slamming her cranium against the headboard
with my furious, flamenco-influenced hip thrusts.
I had a similar orthodontic sexual epiphany
back in the winter of '99 at the Oregon Correctional
Intake Center on my way to prison. We were herded into
a classroom, handed #2 pencils, and instructed to fill
out a 567-question personality test by an unremarkable-looking
woman who, I reckon, was in her mid-forties. She wasn't
bad-looking--slim and proper with neatly clipped bangs
which swung back and forth while she walked up and down
the aisles handing out the tests--but there wasn't anything
outstanding about her which raised my drawbridge, either.
That is, until she parted her lips and smiled...and
revealed a set of steel braces. Blinding, divine, whiter-than-white,
ultra-luminous fluorescent light flashed off those wondrous
braces. It was an Erotic Valhalla for me.
something wrong with me,
how can something be wrong when it feels so right?"
I have other dental fetishes such as
an affinity for bucktoothed women with that cute little
bunny-rabbit overbite which pushes out their lips and
makes it look as if they've been sucking cock all their
lives. And speech impediments caused by dental problems,
such as lisps and the oh-so-sexy whistling "S," are
also the tops with me.
Naturally, there are limits to this
fetish. I don't want her to be toothless. A mouth full
of rotting tombstones isn't a turn-on, either. Dentures
don't do a thing for me. The idea of her drooling all
over my cock with her bare, bleeding gums doesn't exactly
spin my spurs. I don't want some rotted-toothed sea
hag with purple, green, and black teeth slurping on
my Love Rod, if that's what you were asking.
Perhaps there's something wrong with
me, but how can something be wrong when it feels so
right? My raging tumescence for orthodontically challenged
females undoubtedly has a psychological basis, but if
the fetishist were to come to terms with the roots of
his fetish, t'would cease to be a fetish, t'wouldn't
it? And so I waddle onward, brazenly straddling the
line between fetish and perversion. Yet it occurs to
me that any sort of orthodontic irregularity calls attention
to a girl's mouth, which in turn calls attention to
what that mouth is good for.
It goes without saying, but I'm going
to say it anyway because I have to fill this column
with 900 words or I don't get paid, that if a woman
has a set of perfect, gleaming choppers, it makes it
easier for her to bite you. And maybe that's why I like
a girl with dental problems. It gives her a sweetness
and vulnerability, a goofy, childlike smile which conjures
warmth and cuddliness; by contrast, a woman with a grille
that would do a Great White Shark proud is more likely
to be emotionally distant and domineering. I don't like
perfect women. They don't need love. For me to be interested,
the girl has to be damaged in some way. A girl with
dental problems likely has more problems than that.
Peut-être I suffer from
a silly, fatal romantic streak which makes me think
I'm emotionally equipped to conjure an invisible Tooth
of Love where no real tooth exists, or that my overbearing
affection will prove to be an ersatz set of emotional
braces that will straighten out the poor girl's soul.
In my own delusional way, I'm not that much different
from Romeo, Valentino, or that dude who selflessly threw
his jacket over the mud puddle and let the bitch walk
over it, ruining a perfectly good jacket.
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