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An old friend, Katherine Gates, appeared in my mail a couple months ago. Last time I saw her she had a gun on her hip, and now she has a baby. She sent me a copy of her new book, Deviant Desires: Incredibly Strange Sex. It was like a mini-enclopedia of interviews, photos, and manifestos of sexual kink-- the kind that isn't on anyone's top 40 parade. S/M and naughty lingerie are way too mainstream for this inquiry. Instead, the pastimes of Deviant Desires included infantilism, robot sex, giantess appreciation. balloon fetish , pony play, and fat-feeding.  I didn't think I'd be attracted to any of it, but I was prepared to be educated. I've met a lot of far-out fetishists over the years, not only in my capacity as writer, but also just as a girl walking down the street. Especially when I was a teenager, I met plenty of guys who'd lie, cheat and push me right off your feet to get their highly orchestrated rocks off. I didn't feel very sympathetic to their kink when they only wanted me to be an obedient prop. I remember saying to one guy, "It's not your fantasy that's obscene, it's your selfishness." I came to believe that being "kinky" was just a new way of saying you were a inconsiderate pig.Katherine did such an extraordinary investigation in her book, she washed a couple decades of resentment right out of my hair. Her subjects were thoughtful, loving people who seemed to have reciprocal relationships with family and friends. A lot of them were women. They had a sense of humor about themselves. I went from laughing at the man sitting naked on a balloon to realizing I could easily enjoy this myself. No matter how eccentric the fetish, I could recognize the 10% of me that could get off on the 100% sensuality of each obsession. With some subjects, like the pony girl dressage, I found myself crossing and uncrossing my legs until I was damp to my knees. Every interview cast out an authentic reel to some of my most childish fantasies and animal instincts. It was too much to read all at once. I broke up the interviews into a week's worth of reading, and finally, in the last twenty pages, I'd become a complete pushover. I liked everybody, they were all so endearing and seductive. Fetish was never so articulate, so aware. I couldn't' decide whose fan club I wanted to join first.  When I saw the title "furries, fursuiters,a nd furverts," I squealed like a 10 year old girl in a bed covered with stuffed bunnies and bears. I never had that kind of bed, but I wanted one- bad. I love anything snugly and softy. It makes me want to get naked, and what could be a better recommendation? I was already prepared to love anyone would get it on in a fursome little animal costume.The introduction to the Furvert chapter featured the illustration work of Robert Hill, who does PURR-FECT renditions of Disney animal characters dressed in hot pants, push-up bras, and strap on -dildos. Their representation is cute cute cute- nipples and cocks just as adorable as their upturned noses and ruffled ears. I wondered what Robert Hill looked like himself, ina fursuit, and I turned the page to see if we'd get a peek. There he was, in a b/w photo. He was in black latex from the neck down, but with a giant Chipmunk head on the top, complete with long Disney-like eyelashes and fluffy blond mohawk. I screamed. I was all alone in my bedroom, holding the book in my lap, screaming my head off like a Little Bo Peep under the wolf. There he was, the chipmunk-- was it the same chipmunk who had once scared the piss out of me on a routine visit to Disneyland? Here was a memory I'd repressed for twenty years, come back to haunt my fetish reeducation. I looked at the photo credit under the Chipmunk's pose: "Furry artist Robert Hill once worked as a fursuited costumed character at Disneyland.... Has Robert ever had sex in a Disney Costume?... Absolutely!" I told you I was once a teenage girl who had my fill of selfish perverts. What was there about me that attracted them all-- my wire rim John Lennon glasses, my lack of tan in beach town, the funky political patches on the back of my cutoffs? I was pretty in a hippie-girl sort of way, but honestly, I felt like I had a sign on my back that said, "Please Take Advantage of Me, I'll Believe Anything."  I went to Disneyland frequently, along with every other teenager in the area who enjoyed the novelty of being stoned in the Mad Tea Party teacups. It was a fun place to be naughty, to get high, to be a kid and wise-ass at the same time. I had my favorite rides, like the Pirates of the Caribbean, and also my favorite souvenir shops, like the Jungleland Adventure kiosk, where you could get Indiana Jones hats, or fake alligator belts. I liked the phony fur zebra wallets and those are what I was rifling through when I felt my ass cheek grabbed from behind, hard, and pinched like a pork chop.I whirled around, but my spin turned into a stagger. Standing before me, inches apart, was a fucking 8 foot Chipmunk with an inane smile and rolling eyes that can only mean Chip-- or Dale. I could see that face in my mind, leering at me like drunken animation, and I took another view at the besuited Robert Hill in Deviant Desires--shit, it sure looks like the same guy. But then every man looks the same in a enormous fursuit, right? How do you tell Chip, Dale and Robert apart? You know, those characters can't talk, or won't talk, depending on their mood. At the time, I yelled at ChipmunkMan, "What the hell do you think your doing?" - but he just bounced his head side to side like he was keeping time to "It's a Small Small World." How do you lash out to a cartoon who's mocking you? I made a move to walk around him, and he blocked me with his fluff-ball body, like a linebacker dancing on the scrimmage line. I tried to find his eyes, but the only clue I could see was the mesh behind his hysterical red mouth. Where was the Jungleland gift store staff when you need them? Disneyland is usually a place where you can't blow you nose without a uniformed cop appearing at your side. Where were they in the summer of 1976? I guess everyone was taking a few too many bong hits. Chipmunk Shithead knew he had me cornered, and I'll never know what he was thinking, because his costume did all the talking: pure sadistic fur prick.  When I reached out to shake his stupid doll baby head off, he grabbed my hands with his giant three fingered paws. I screamed another obscenity, the same one he ignored the last time. Something else made him split. He abruptly dropped my hands like they were ice cubes and skated across the gift room floor. He moved like ballerina instead of an ape with a squirrel face.I burst into tears. My pals, the kids I'd come to the park with, descended from the Swiss Family Robinson Tree just as he vanished. I would have been in the Tree, along with them, if I hadn't said it was too babyish. Instead, they found me shaking like a banana leaf. " I just got molested by a giant chipmunk," would have been the truthful thing to say," but I didn't say one word. We got in the little sky-cars that fly across the park to the Matterhorn 'cause they're the only guaranteed private spot in Disneyland you can find to smoke a joint. Where do all the selfish pigs go when they outgrow their fursuits, and the teenage girls kick them in the balls instead of looking for a sign of humanity in their eyes? I'm still ready to rub my naked body against a giant balloon, go to a clown orgy, and make like the prettiest pony girl on the circuit. Cover me in soft fur and I'll moan; I'll meow and neigh and growl with the best of them. But my "Advantage" sign seems to have fallen off my back, and the only pinchings I'll endure are ones at my own initiative. Good riddance to selfish fetish. P.S. It wasn't Robert Hill, as it turned out, not in the least. Robert isn't interested in having sex at Disneyland with anyone other than other fully costumed fursuiters. Don't cry for me, Chip 'N' Dale!
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