Ladies, if, at one breakfast time, the man you love – or you, at least, tolerate for the time being – slaps down a photograph of a uniformed policewoman licking an ice cream, and then begins to pleasure himself into your half-empty breakfast cereal dish, it doesn’t – necessarily mean you are co-habiting with a fetishist, merely a fairly typical male.
However, if he shouts out the names of TV motoring programme presenters during passionate lovemaking with an intensity that almost makes you drop a stitch in your knitting, then – in this case – you just may be sharing your life with a fetishist.
In the much more robust days of yore, this would mean immediately dispatching him to a mental institution. There, large electrical machines would be attached to his genitals, with increasing frequency and intensity, until he ‘pulled himself together’. Meanwhile you would be off and away to enjoy your freedom. This could entail you quite possibly spending your time disporting yourself on the beach at some Mediterranean or Caribbean resort with hectic nights spent comparing and contrasting the relative merits of the local population of gigolos. Unfortunately, these days we live in more enlightened times. So, unless you want to go through all the hassle of sorting out your stuff, and packing all the suitcases, that divorce entails then you are going to have to deal with the problem.
First, and most importantly: do not attempt to discuss feelings or emotions with him. This will reset him back to default male mode where he can only discuss the offside rule*.
Whatever you do, you must not encourage your man to further his interest in these fetishistic arts and matters, believing that it is good for a man to have a hobby or interest as long as he leaves you in peace. Even if it is something that doesn’t initially involve you, perhaps utilising chickens, marmalade or trellising, or – in more extreme cases – a combination of all three, be under no illusion, he will find someway of involving you, eventually, even if it only involves holding the chicken.
Inevitably, a few weeks, or months, down the line you will suddenly ‘just have’ to wear the new Chicken-Holder’s rubber uniform (with integral trellising straps and marmalade dispenser) he has just bought.
From that point on, all is lost as you become more and more involved in his sordid little games when it is too late to insist that it is all his fault, anyway. For if he wanted sex, then he should not have got married in the first place.
*It is, at this point, interesting to note the emergence of a new phenomenon. Recently, it seems, the pseudo psycho-babble-lite of daytime TV has permeated the consciousness of some of the female half of the population. Leading them to believe that the non-light endless discussion shines on minor non-problems is somehow enlightening or ‘empowering’. In the male world, by way of response, FIFA has been working flat-out to increase the complexity of the offside rule, purely in order to enable men to cope with this sudden increasing escalation in the female side’s sex war arsenal.
Yours perversely: Norbert Trouser-Quandary