April 5, 2011
Sharon Thomas hurt me. She hurt me bad. She inflicted the kind of pain on me, the kind of hurt that no woman before or since has. I shed tears. Clenched my fists. Prayed that God would take away my pain. Prayed that when it was all said and done there wouldn’t be too much blood. We repeated this ritual, this cycle regularly. See, from the time I was five years old until I was 15, Sharon Thomas was my dentist.
I’m not going to paint some fantasy of Sharon as some Salma Hayek look-alike in a lab coat and scrubs. Naw, she wasn’t that fine, but she was cute. Sharon had the whole quirky smart thing going on, complete with thick, plastic horn-rimmed glasses and a laugh that filled rooms the way air fills lungs when you take a deep breath. And she loved to laugh. And she loved to laugh at my lame “I’m 12 years old trying to impress a grown ass woman with my knowledge” jokes. And she was smart as hell. And the electricity that ran through my body anytime she touched me could have powered the Canadarm. And it seemed that every trip to the dentist included at least one accidental rub of her breast against my face. At that stage in my life I was just one big raging hormone encased in flesh (kind of like a sausage I guess). I was all wood. I just loved peering up from my chair and watching the outline of her bosom.
Dr. Sharon Thomas D.D.S is the reason why I'm into women who look like this.
Anyway, Sharon Thomas may very well be the template, or at least one of the templates, for what I find attractive in a woman. She helped to activate my sexual imagination. For me, women with glasses, a sense of humour and a truckload of smarts beat a naughty school teacher with a pair of double Ds every time.
Why am I telling you this? Well, the morning after my most recent visit to a kinky play party, I eased myself into my dentist’s chair for my biannual checkup. My current dentist is decidedly male, in other words decidedly not my type, but the previous evening’s shenanigans were still fresh in my mind. As a result I sat there remembering not just the sights and sounds of whips, leather ensembles, chains and paddles (which looked suspiciously like cricket bats) but also the memory of pre-pubescent and pubescent erections harder than algebra.
My kinkying it up and my visit to the dentist, though seemingly unrelated, both highlighted what I believe to be truisms of human sexual development and human sexual appetites; anything can be eroticized, everyone can be sexy and truly kinky folks understand this because they’ve given themselves the freedom and permission to explore the heights and the depths of their imagination.
This begs the question: Am I kinky? I don’t know, but I have a sneaking suspicion I’m going to find out in the next few months. I’ll be sure to share what I find.