As the human race has evolved over the course of time, more and more subdivisions have formed over it, ever-complicating the endeavours of those attempting to define what exactly we talk about when we talk about human nature. The existence of trapeze artists, for instance, is completely bonkers, as is the brony phenomenon. Everything, if you think about it long enough, starts to seem entirely incomprehensible after a while. If the thought of losing your mind overthinking a bench press or a peanut butter sandwich freaks you out, then you want to stay the hell away from the microcosms of niche sexual fetishes.
Personally, we consider ourselves to be living la vida loca over the lessons we were taught from the age old fable of the birds and the bees. As far as we’re concerned, sex involves the inserting and extraction of one reproductive organ into its opposite, ending in a supernova of sheer happiness (which, we’ve acquired the impression, is usually better for us than the other party). Give us the ole hanky panky, that’s what it’s all about. But for some people, that sort of thing is entirely obsolete, a fossil compared to what sex can really be like. We understand (some of) their points of view, and we always applaud novelty in human nature. But… well, just see for yourself.
Euphemistically speaking, a sexual attraction to “wood” is a common fetish that afflicts billions of people all around the world every day. Thing is, the wood that we’re talking about here refers to actual, natural forest wood. That’s right — xylophilia is the arousal to non-euphemistic wood. Not to be confused with ylophilia, which is the arousal to the forest itself, xylophiliacs have a keen appreciation for wood in a way that non-xylophiliacs can’t really fathom (nor do we really intend to). Like everyone else, xylophiliacs are varied in their sexual preferences; some are oak-people, others are pine purists. Regardless of what rocks their wooden little boat, we would advise all xylophiliacs to take some cautionary measures in preventing splinters from populating their nether regions. It’s 2016 and all, and we’re all for niche expressions of sexuality, but we’re also devoted lobbyists for Safety First, all across the board.
Tickling was a dynamic part of our childhoods. Our parents were the first to do it to most of us, very delicately, and they presumably used to do it to put a big smile on our small faces. As time went on and we progressively got bigger while still being a long ways away from the average human size, tickling evolved into a form of manic torture that we somehow endured while laughing. These days if anyone tries to tickle us, we won’t hesitate in promptly and firmly telling them to f*** off, but that is because we are not part of the minority of fine individuals who experience knismolagnia. Oh yes, knismolagnia is the sense of sexual arousal gained from being tickled. The intensity of a knismolagniac’s desire to be tickled can range from a casual, fleeting, bi-monthly(ish) sort of thought, to really frequent, distracting, recurring sexual urges that involve intense tickling sessions. Godspeed to all knismolagniacs, but do not put your wriggling digits on our ticklish areas, or we may elbow you by reflex.
Growing up in Montreal, Quebec, this sort of climate is fairly visible all year round. However, there were some mornings where, for whatever meteorological reason, fog was literally everywhere. The first few times we experienced this kind of fog, it was like waking up from one dream and walking right into another one. It was beautiful, and we were always a little sad when it cleared. Oh crap, we’re starting to sound like nebulophiliacs. We’re not, we can assure you of that. While we like the fog in a wide-eyed, dreamy kind of way, nebulophiliacs find some sort of visceral sexual arousal from the fog. Whether they get off on the image of a human-shaped lover of theirs emerging mysteriously from the fog and into their arms, or if the actual, amorphous fog is what does it for them, we suppose would depend on the nebulophiliac. Whatever the case, if you’re into that sort of thing, we wish you many foggy days and long nights.
From time to time, at varying frequencies, we all picture ourselves as different versions of what we actually are. Whether dreaming hopefully of our golden-glowing future selves, or dreading the parasitic Gollum we can devolve into if we let ourselves go, it is totally normal and sometimes really helpful to think of oneself in different ways. Like everything else, imagining our alternate selves runs through a spectrum; it can start with us having a different career or different set of friends, then go into more obscure territory where we are of a different race and skin tone and we speak a different language. What do you have at the far end of the spectrum? Furries. Always furries. Autoplushophiliacs are people who derive sexual arousal from picturing themselves as huge, cartoonish stuffed animals. Autoplushophiliacs who have stepped far enough out of the autoplushophiliac closet can actually buy themselves an expensive furry costume and stand in front of the mirror as long as they want, effectively making their dreams come true. This makes us so happy for them; if you’re an autoplushophiliac in hiding, we urge you to go out into the world and get yourself a costume of your favorite imaginary creature. You are in a unique position where you can very quickly make your wildest dream come true. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for us!
We have recently had the wonderful opportunity to see Lisbon, Portugal, a city that is aesthetically quite different from our hometown of Montreal, Canada. The differences vary, ranging from the types of tiles on the floor, to the street art people put up on the walls, and of course the historical grandiosity of some of the architecture. What struck us most about Lisbon though, coming from a place like Montreal, was the sheer number of statues to be found all around the city. They were everywhere: some of them on huge pedestals towering godlike a hundred feet over us; others you sometimes bump into on the street and stop to shake their hand. The statues were our favourite part of Lisbon and we loved them dearly, but we would have certainly enjoyed the city much more if we were under the spell of agalmatophilia. You did indeed guess it — agalmatophiliacs are those possessed by the sexual attraction to statues (as well as other figurative objects such as dolls and mannequins).What exactly it is about statues that get these people off in that way, we’re not quite sure. Perhaps it’s their inherent history, or the mystery that results from how they can’t move or speak (as far as we know). Or maybe, creepily, it’s the fact that statues are unable to get away from their admirer. Either way, agalmatophiliacs should absolutely look into booking a trip to Lisbon.
The sun, our spherical father, watches over us, always. Or not. Maybe the sun is actually just a hot ball of light in the sky which, through sheer luck, happens to be at just the right distance and position in order to sustain billions of years of light and life for all species of our planet. We like to think of it metaphorically anyway. Without the sun there would be no us, and when it one day inevitably explodes in a dazzling supernova, there won’t be much of anything else in our little galactic suburb. The sun has allowed for infinite microcosmic phenomena to develop under its light, one of them being actirasty. Actirastics, it turns out, are people who find varying degrees of sexual arousal in nothing other than the sun’s rays. As metaphorically as we think of the sun, actirastics do so to an extreme degree. It takes a little more than sun rays to get us off in that sense, but still, we’re thankful of the microcosmic activity made possible by the sun’s light, and that includes actirasty.
As much as we love the sun, near the opposite end of our emotional spectrum lies a nearly equal distaste for bugs. Don’t get us entirely wrong; we sort of like the idea of bugs — that there are a multitude of tiny communities all around us all the time, on our very own planet — and we do enjoy observing and learning about them from a distance. But when they’re buzzing or crawling around anywhere near our skin, or when they try to set up lodging in our apartment without paying rent, we will quite frankly murder them. Admittedly this is a huge character flaw, one that we’re trying to work through, but bugs creep us out enough for us to send them into the mysterious other world without much of a second thought. Formicophiliacs, however, love bugs. They love them so much, in fact, that their loins stir at the very thought of bugs. Again, formicophilia is a spectrum; on one end you have those who just think sexually happy thoughts about bugs in an abstract way, and on the other you have the die-hard, practicing formicophiliacs, who let the itty bitty creatures crawl creepily over (or into) their genital areas. Of this, we will say no more.
Most good people from all around the world are joined in the common tendency to recoil from the site or even the knowledge of a disaster occurring. Disasters are never fun, especially when they involve someone getting hurt. Whether it’s a fire, a hurricane, or an act of terrorism, these things are never good and should be avoided at all costs if they can. However (and if you’ve made it this far, you have probably guessed what’s coming), some people don’t think of disaster in such a binary way. Symphorophiliacs in particular find some enjoyment from disaster, enjoyment of the sexual variation. Now we’re not saying that all symphorophiliacs are bad people; we don’t know much about the nature of sexuality, but we know enough about our awareness of our ignorance about sexuality to know that it’s a hugely complicated thing that we definitely don’t necessarily control. There’s just something about a catastrophic event that gets them going. As long as no one gets hurt… if the event does in fact result in people’s harm, though, then the symphorophiliac in question is a sadist, and they along with the bugs are not welcome in our apartment.
Of all things under the sun, the subject of clowns seem to be one of the most divisive. Some people love clowns, the vast majority don’t ever think about them, and other people fear and hate clowns with every cell in their bodies. We find ourselves snuggly in the middle of the spectrum. Clowns? Who cares. If we’re at a party and a clown is there doing his thing it would make for a different kind of day, which is always welcome. If we find ourselves in a deserted alleyway late at night and a clown is approaching us with a menacing smile and a big mallet, we would run the opposite direction as fast as we can, and if the clown runs faster than us, we would fight it to the bitter end for our dear lives. Coulrophiliacs, however, if confronted by that same clown in that same alley, may run up to the clown and try rubbing their genitals on it. We do not condone this behaviour for no reason other than safety, but an extreme Coulrophiliac may not be able to help themselves, since they would be uncontrollably sexually aroused by the clown.
We all know the old story of Pinocchio, the wooden boy who came to life, was taught the virtue of telling the truth and, before his story could end, was swallowed whole by a great whale along with his creator, Mister Geppetto. They ended up making it out of the whale alright, and the story ended on an uplifting note. Admittedly, though we presume it would be smelly and sticky, we wouldn’t quite mind being swallowed by a whale since, like Pinocchio, we would have a chance to get out of there alive. Looks quite cozy and roomy in there, actually. It would sure beat being swallowed by an anaconda. Some people wouldn’t stop at just not minding being swallowed by a whale (or any other huge thing), they would absolutely love it. These people are known as vorarephiliacs, and their sexual fetish is the idea of being swallowed whole. Presumably, these people had a very different kind of experience watching Pinocchio than we had.
Sneezing, like everything else, is pretty weird. It gets weirder the more context you remove from it. For instance, say you were 30 years old and you’ve lived your whole life not sneezing and not knowing what sneezing was. Then, all of a sudden, on your 30th birthday, right when you’re about to blow the candles out on your birthday cake, you sneeze your very first sneeze, and it’s a big one. All of a sudden it’s dark in the room, the cake is totally contaminated, and you feel as though some fast spirit just passed through you. If a mucophiliac were in the room with you, they would probably be the first one asking for a slice of that cake, and they would savour every bite of it. Mucophilia is the sexual obsession with sneezing. Each mucophiliac has their own variation of their fetish: some peak when they do the sneezing themselves; others enjoy being sneezed on; and others like our hypothetical friend enjoy eating a piece of cake after it was reigned on by a heavy sneeze. Bless them, bless them all.
Eyes are great; they’re known classically as the windows into people’s souls. We’re not sure about all that in a literal sense, but we can see where the metaphor comes from. You can get a real sense of a person by looking into their eyes a certain way, and those same set of eyes you’re looking into are taking you in at the same time. Eyes are fun to think about; eyeballs, however, are not. At the end of the day, our eyes are really just balls connected to our skulls by some creepy wire. If plucked out, they dangle. Ew. Oculolinctus describes a niche group of people who don’t say ‘ew’ when they think about eyeballs. They say ‘oh yeah!’. These people actually enjoy eyes to the extent that their sexual fetish is actually licking eyeballs. This phenomenon has allegedly become popular in Japan. If anyone offers to lick our eyeballs, we would tell them arigato, but no.
Mirrors are another fascinating thing to think about. Like clowns or anything else, some people love mirrors, some don’t mind them, and others hate them. We actually dislike mirrors, only because we don’t quite understand what’s going on when we’re looking at them. Also, our imagination usually gets the better of us, and we live in perpetual fear that the self we see in the mirror will perform a different action than our actual selves. If that day ever comes, it will certainly be the last day we ever look into the mirror. If that would happen to a katoptronophiliac, though, it would probably be the wildest, most sexually intense experience they ever had. Katoptronophilia, you see, is a paraphilia for mirrors. Some would say that this fetish takes narcissism to a whole new level, but we think of it more as a unique take on self-exploration. A word of warning to all katoptronophiliacs: if the self you see in the mirror does start acting of its own accord, call the police immediately.
2. Ball Busting
Those among us who carry with them the jewels of life know how painful it is to be struck right in the ‘nads. The feeling is akin to a small death, and that sensation slowly peters out to a total regret towards life until it dissolves completely and we’re back to our normal selves. In fact — and ladies, don’t take this as meaning that we go through more pain than you do, because we certainly don’t — the peak of pain from a man getting hit directly in his testicles is slightly greater than the peak of pain a woman experiences when giving birth to a child. Thankfully, our pain is only a flash, while a woman’s pain lasts torturous hours. There is one subset of people who may wish that their genital pain would last as long as a woman’s, and those are members of the ball busting fetish. No fancy shmansy syllables in this one. Men of the ball busting fetish enjoy having their balls, well, busted, and women of this fetish enjoy busting the fragile balls of men, in a non-metaphorical way.
As we said earlier, good old plain boring sexual intercourse has proven to be more than enough for us, but the reason this list exists is that there are a wide variety of people in the world with varying kinks necessary to get their blood pumping. No list like this would be complete without macrophilia, which is typically a male fantasy involving the man being dominated — or, in the fantasies of the extremists, eaten alive — by a female giantess. That giantess can be anywhere from a few feet taller than the man, or she could be the size of a skyscraper. Thankfully, for the practicing macrophiliacs, if you’re a man of below average height, you can definitely find yourself your own giantess who is a couple feet taller than you, and you two can have many happy days and nights together. Though, preferably, she won’t end up eating you. Holy cannoli.
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