The Orange (A Fetish Fable)

The Orange (A Fetish Fable)

Introduction:

When the idea for "The Orange" came to me, I had a couple of specific goals in mind. The biggest goal was to get readers, curious about fetishes, to have a window into the world of not just fetishes, but one of the rarer ones. There are plenty of articles about foot fetishes, bondage kink, piercings, spanking, and more, but I'm not into any of those -- like many others out there, I have my own "thing" that makes me horny and want to ejaculate in a spell of physiological ecstasy.

The community to which I belong is out there, but it's very scattered. As with many other subgenres, it took the World Wide Web to allow us to find each other. The forerunner to the internet was electronic bulletin board systems -- systems one could access with a dial-up modem, and only if one knew where to get the access phone numbers. Fetishists have never had it so good.

A second goal was to communicate just how challenging and frustrating it is to find a partner that shares the very same sexual fetish. In my lifetime I have not had the pleasure of meeting someone in person that "gets" what gets me off. They may express sentiments like, "Oh, that's cute," or "That's really tame compared to what I like" but I have yet to run across someone who says, "That is ME, exactly!" I suppose a motivation for writing "The Orange" was to allow me to experience, if even as a literary fantasy, the sexual completion of getting my deepest sexual fantasies realized. It is difficult enough if one is young and pretty -- it is much harder if one is neither of those things.

I am also writing from the perspective of a gay man, and most certainly not a "twink", "bear", or any of the other popular labels the community takes for itself. This does not mean that if you're straight or female, that you can't get something from this fable. I believe some things really are universal in nature, and desire -- particularly for someone that elicits a stirring of the loins and imagination -- and the pursuit of such an individual are a well-worn path in humanity.

There is one other goal I had in writing "The Orange", and it was this -- to be of some kind of usefulness to the scientific community. Believe me, if I understood everything there was to understand about sexual response, I'd be a billionaire today -- it is a secret that many wish to understand for reasons of good or ill. I am very much hoping that those that study sexuality -- sexologists, but also sociologists, those who study the LGBT community, and those whose subject focus is fetishes, might carry some new insight away from my tale. Parts of the story are autobiographical -- most assuredly, the fetish object is -- but others are situations I have yet to experience, if I ever indeed am so fortunate. I anticipate that when my time comes to leave this life, I, like lots of others with a deep physical longing, will do so unsatisfied, perhaps forbidden from doing so by the universe, but also perhaps something of a self-sabotaging nature within my members.

I chose to characterize "The Orange" as a fable, but you will need to search out any morals for yourself. I do not know your psyche, your motivations, or your longings. I can only hope this work unlocks something for you.

ONE

So I'm a pretty conventional guy as far as they come in America. Middle-aged, white-collar, four-year degree. I like reading a lot. I love great conversation. I have little tolerance for ignorance -- I'm very no-nonsense. Probably has a lot to do with my urban Midwestern upbringing.

One thing I've always liked about cities -- they're always going to be more open-minded than the suburbs or exurbs. Nothing beats diversity -- of race, of age, of culture, of thought.

But it's not quite as diverse in the southern states. I live in Texas -- a state that's a caricature of itself on a regular basis. That's not germane to the story I'm about to tell, but it is an interesting side note, particularly if you've ever lived or even visited here.

My conventionality goes right into my sexuality, too. My discovery in my college years that I was gay was a major surprise -- and a source of great embarrassment for my now departed parents. Some communities are better read on major issues of the day. Mine was not. When gay rights was in the news, no one talked about it. When gay characters began appearing on TV, no one talked about it. I watched with interest, of course -- I was curious.

That curiosity would carry me right into Health & Medicine 208 at the university. The topic: human sexuality. Sure, it was a topic I'd seen in "family planning" in high school as a unit in P.E. class, but this was different. It was being taught to adults without their parents in tow. And I began to notice something different about...myself. On a big campus with tens of thousands of guys -- many of who showered nude in our dorms or at the gym -- I found myself...hungry.

I was hungry for more than their bodies, though. I had a hole in me somewhere. I was never the macho thug type, nor the BMOC. I was a typical nerd in a lot of ways, complete with engineer's glasses. But make no mistake, I liked guys. I just found they never tended to like me back. In college I had one or two experiences, but nothing explosive. I and a partner would go to one of our places, strip, masturbate -- sometimes ourselves, sometimes each other -- come, and that would be the end of it, pretty much. But many of the guys I had the hots for, I never was able to convert on.

I was conventional in what turned me on -- a big, thick cock. I loved length and I loved girth. The average guy I saw was just that -- average. But I'd still enjoy jumping on porn sites and looking through blue magazines, seeing some guys who were obviously freaks of nature -- or incredibly lucky.

I, like many other guys with brains, got cheated by nature in the endowment department. I had to believe that having a huge member was part of what gave these guys the confidence they walked around with. They knew that no matter what other stupid things they did, they would always have those eight, nine, ten inches in their pants (or out of them). It was exceedingly rare I got to get with such a guy.

I recall one guy I made it with -- name was Michael. Met him at a night club late one Saturday night and took him home. I loved his huge schlong -- it was probably about eight or nine inches, in what I call a "cobra" shape, narrow shaft at the base flaring out to the crown and a thick head and tip. But that turned out to be, really, the most interesting thing about him. He was hot, but not in a conventionally pretty way. He stood about 6-2, so he had good stature. But in bed, he wanted me to do all the work -- he didn't have an interest in my body at all. I enjoyed getting him off, but I wanted someone who'd tend to my needs for a change. I understood women's frustrations with guys in general on that count.

Overall, my life, otherwise, was pedestrian. I had an office job with rather uninteresting co-workers. Not great pay, but more than enough for a decent single lifestyle -- just not enough to go luxe. I had my creature comforts, my books, and myself.

***

It was an ordinary Saturday. Was at a local grocery store. For some reason, I'd had a craving for fruit, citrus fruit in particular. I usually didn't eat much fruit, let alone oranges -- I consumed more than my share of junk food, fast food, whatever I didn't have to plan or cook. But I felt a sort of drive from within to go buy some. I got to the market, went to the produce department; it's huge like at most supermarkets.

Way back in the corner, I see a navel orange display with the oranges in a pyramid, three bucks a pound, a sign read in front of it. One particular orange near the bottom of the pyramid, seemed to have (I suppose) a special energy about it, but I only say that in retrospect. It was slightly larger than the other oranges, and it had this navel pattern on top that was decidedly larger, more "twisty", and more pronounced.

I picked that one orange up -- none of the others -- and turned it over in my hand, feeling its heft, its shape, its firmness. With my right-hand fingers I traced the "navel" growth on top of it, taking in its rough texture, contours, general feel.

I dropped it in a plastic bag to be weighed and set it on the hanging scale to weigh it -- the needle on the scale stayed at zero. Very strange. I looked around -- no one else witnessed this oddity but me. The orange had to have weighed at least eight ounces. But it wasn't registering on the scale.

More cautious minds might have put the orange back and gotten another orange -- or, better, still, just bought something else. Not me. I was up for a little adventure -- although, really, how much adventure could an orange provide? It wasn't like a banana, a carrot or a cucumber, after all -- those things were...usable.

***

So I bought this mutant navel orange, got home, and plopped down in my easy chair with the orange in hand. Again, I examined it carefully, held it, felt its weight. As a comic gesture I held it up to my head and shook it -- nothing was ticking, so I guess it was all right. My fingers once again gently traced the navel pattern on top of it, an oddly sensuous sensation in the privacy of my living room.

I began tearing the skin off of it until it was just the wedges, slightly cool at this point.

I pulled one of the wedges firmly away from the whole of it and looked at it carefully one more time -- it seemed normal. I pushed it in my mouth and bit down, filling the inside of my mouth with sweetness -- unlike anything I'd experienced before. I savored the juice, letting it roll around on my tongue. Navel oranges genetically being seedless, there was nothing to spit out, so the experience was pure pleasure.

I took a second wedge off, repeated. A third, repeated. Until the whole orange was gone. It took 25 minutes to eat all the wedges -- I've never eaten an orange that slowly before. Yes, it was a truly yummy orange -- almost as sweet as candy, really. But I couldn't shake the notion there was something different about it.

As I was climbing in bed later that night, I thought about the orange one more time. That was one tasty orange. I didn't even really like oranges all that much. But I really dug that one. I passed out into restful slumber.

***

Came the next morning. Sun gently streaming in around the edges of my bedroom window. Probably about 10 am, my time to get up and hit the gym.

I drove to the gym with bag in hand and workout clothes inside. Produced the badge at the front desk for admission. Went to the men's locker room, almost empty except for one guy. He was changing to get ready to leave, he appeared to have already finished his workout.

He had his khakis on but not his shirt. He wasn't especially muscular, just an average guy, kind of on the skinny side, actually. No hair on the chest, slight of build. Frizzy, dirty blond hair. And an oval shaped bellybutton, an outie, perhaps the size of a copper penny, adorning a flat, undeveloped stomach.

I felt my cock get hard. What was that about? Sure, I'm gay and all, but gay guys were into the crotch. Or washboard abs. Or...other places. What was getting me hard?

In a fleeting flash, I thought it might be the guy's bellybutton, but what a silly notion that was. It's not even a sex organ. How could a bellybutton be erotic?

He pulled a button-down shirt on, slowly buttoning it from top to bottom until his navel was out of sight. I was glad he didn't see me stealing looks at him. He pulled his gym bag out of the locker and left the locker room. We said nothing to each other; our eyes never exchanged glances.

I, on the other hand, went to the rest room and locked myself in a stall. I began to stroke my penis, and as I did, in the video screen of my mind, I saw the frizzy blond guy with his bellybutton showing -- the oval outie bellybutton, clear as day...and I wanted to come, intensely. I just had to. I wanted to. I felt the pressure to burst.

The more I concentrated on the vision of that guy, the more aroused I got, deeper and deeper. And the more I stroked, harder and harder.

Moments later my fingers were coated in jizz. Several drops had fallen on the restroom floor. Fuck it, I thought to myself.

I paused and thought carefully for a moment.

I had just gotten off to a bellybutton.

How ridiculous, I thought. I thought I might be some kind of freak. I mean, I'd heard of other kinds of kink -- leather, bondage, and many others -- but not this.

I pulled some strips of toilet paper off the roll and neatened up, spent. This was going to be an interesting day.

***

Same day, three hours later -- time to have lunch. I swung by a fast-food place; it wasn't too busy. My eyes were caught by another patron waiting in the lobby for his food. Sandy brown hair, long denim blue jeans, and a red half-shirt cut about 2 inches above the belt line, revealing a vertical, deep, dark, oval innie bellybutton.

"Hmmm," I went under my breath. I felt intense erotic feelings, wanting to come very bad. I didn't even order -- I walked to the rest room, closed the stall and started masturbating, thinking of this great-looking guy wearing a shirt that perfectly framed his stomach and bellybutton. I came hard.

I sat for a moment, again reflecting on what just transpired. Then I realized I haven't ordered my food yet. I went to the counter and looked around for the guy -- who was already gone. Wow. What was that?

I got my order to go and headed to the car, carefully peering around to see if he might be on the grounds somewhere -- nope, no such luck. I've seen gay guys get off to bare chests, muscular biceps, but not a navel.

***

My area has a sort of neighborhood town square. It's home to a movie theater, an ice cream parlor, a steak house, and several other boutique type places. I parked nearby and headed there. It was a nice day, fairly warm, mid 70's, and sunny. I figured I'd hit the ice cream parlor.

Approaching the corner I saw a guy in his late 20's, maybe even early 30's. He was in a full blue denim outfit -- jacket, pants. He was sporting a white shirt -- a turtleneck -- that was cut off about an inch above a large, perfectly round outie bellybutton, at least the size of a silver dollar. He was chatting with someone else near a light pole. He might have been a graduate student at the university in the area.

Walking toward him, I found myself staring at the navel in spite of myself. The guy was really hot to begin with -- nice hair, pretty face -- but there was something in his bellybutton showing that made me incredibly horny -- his showing it struck me as naughty, maybe even defiant -- which I liked. I wanted to reach out and feel his bellybutton, but being in public, that would have ended my rather pleasant day. So instead, I stopped at a short distance from him, and pretended to be waiting nonchalantly for someone nearby, looking at my watch and checking my mobile phone.

I couldn't understand it. If the guy's shirt was riding up a little ways and showing just a half-inch strip of belly, that would be something I'd ignore. But there was something brash, confident, daring about this guy showing off his bellybutton -- another outie, too -- I bet those guys get picked on or pointed at, a lot, I thought to myself.

I burned the image into my brain with the video recorder of my mind, looking as many times as I could without getting caught. I wanted to ... to be with this guy. Hell, I wanted an opening line to approach him but nothing at all seemed right. It wasn't going to happen -- we were just two ships passing in the night, again -- the way my luck has gone with those I desired, all my lifetime.

***

I noticed guys with their bellybuttons showing in other places in the coming days, each with the same intense feelings of lust I felt that first time in the locker room with the skinny guy.

At the city park, as shirtless male joggers went by, my eyes went toward their midsections to seek out their navels.

On the bike path, I noticed handsome, long-haired cyclists with their bellybuttons showing in the comfortable balmy air. One skinny blond guy with shoulder length hair who looked like a stoner passed me, with a small, pea-sized outie. I snapped a picture of that in my head.

At the gym another day, in the locker room, I spied on a guy with caramel brown, fairly short hair. He's not the slightest bit self-conscious about his large, quarter-sized, round outie bellybutton. We were the only two in the locker room. I tried not to stare but couldn't help myself, especially since the guy didn't seem to notice who might have been looking at him. He didn't seem proud or vain, he was just...there. He pulled his shirt slowly over his bulbous outie and left the locker room.

Near the college campus, not far from that area, a guy was slowly meandering down the sidewalk. Gray half-shirt. Oval innie, perfect, about an inch high. I tried to be smooth and steal a look but realized quickly the guy has spotted me. When my eyes met the other guy's, the other guy gave me a slight smile. He was a player. He knew what he was doing.

Even at the library -- seemingly one of the most bland places one can imagine -- I had another experience. I was at a table opposite a guy with his laptop. He was clearly not into what he was doing. He paused and rared back in his chair, arching the full of his back until his shirt went up, revealing an oval outie bellybutton, elongated by the stretch of his stomach. I furtively watched every second of this unfold, knowing I'd be masturbating to this image later at home -- if I could make it past the men's room.

***

Later that night, I didn't have much going on. I was always kind of a loner to begin with. So I jumped on my computer and brought up a web browser window. Went to my favorite search engine screen and sat for a few moments, looking at the search box.

I typed "bellybutton" in the box and went to a page with nothing but images. A lot of navels, but all close-ups. That didn't do much for me. I wanted to see, well, everything. I wanted to see a bellybutton, but in context -- framed by a lovely midsection, and with a handsome guy with a nice face and an approachable vibe.

I changed the search term to read "gay bellybutton". Better, more faces, but still not quite doing it for me.

Then, "twink bellybutton", still not quite right. More X-rated entries, though, that was interesting.

And then something came to me -- the guys on the street that I saw, that got me hard -- they were wearing crop tops, or "half shirts" as I thought I had heard them called years ago. I typed "guys crop tops" into the search box.

Like magic, row after row of guys in half shirts filled the screen. My dick got hard real fast. This is what I wanted. I wanted bellybuttons, certainly. But I wanted them on a particular kind of guy.

I didn't want the overly muscular guys with bulging biceps. I didn't want guys overrun with body hair. I didn't want guys who looked mean enough to kick my ass.

I wanted guys who were... pretty. No, not pretty like a girl. I had no use for "glam rock" style fashion -- guys in lip gloss and blush turn me off. Guys with pouts like chick supermodels weren't happening, either. I wanted guys who looked kind of average, guy-next-door. Maybe with a slight touch of androgyny, but just a touch -- no more.

And their stomachs fronting navels? I didn't want them shredded, no washboard abs. I wanted their bellies flat or even undeveloped. Even the slightest bit of roundness could work if it didn't hide the navel.