august 2, 2002
H UM O R
90.7 PORTLAND
The boiling point
The accidental fetishist
N E W S , P U B L I C A F F A I R S AN D
MUSIC T H A T YOU W O N 'T HEAR
AN YW H ER E E L S E . LISTEN
FOR
THIS WAY OUT
A T 6 PM E V E R Y TU E SD AY .
ight now I’m wearing a diaper. No, it’s
not a fetish, it’s a medical necessity. Per
haps I’d better explain.
It all started with this boil that, for
some unknown reason, decided my crotch was
a nice, friendly place to take up residence. I
can’t say I blame it; I like to think of my groin
as a warm, welcoming spot—hut only if you’ve
bought me a drink first.
For those of you who’ve never experienced
a boil, imagine a pimple the size of a pingpong
ball. Now imagine it in the space between
your genitals and your anus. Now imagine try
ing to walk. It’s like having a third testicle—a
horribly painful testicle from an evil, alien
universe.
Deciding there wasn’t enough room down
there for both of us, I went to the emergency
room to have the evil boil lanced.
Now, I’m a good patient. I bring my own
magazines, and 1 don’t even mind the back
less gown. But when my blond, tan, muscled
doctor swept in, I began to panic. I took one
look at the soul patch, the beaded necklace
and, most importantly, the naked ring finger,
and my gaydar went off in such a big way it
shorted out some poor guy’s heart monitor
down the hall.
Normally I wouldn’t object
to a gorgeous stranger
asking for a closer
look at my groin,
but the lighting in
the emergency room
is so unflattering.
Regardless, l \ .
Hottie no stxmer had
me on my back with my
legs apart when he asked if
he could stick his finger
up my ass. He gave
me the medical rea
son for the inspec
tion, but I was tcx)
preoccupied
imagining our
tasteful little
wedding in
Vermont.
“This might
hurt a little,” he said
as he put on the rub
ber glove.
“That’s what you
think,” I replied.
He didn’t get it.
Guess he was a
straight hoy after all.
“Just remember,
Doc,” I added, “any gold
or diamonds you find in
there are mine.”
Foreplay completed, Dr. Hottie
pnx:eeded with the S/M part of
our session. I’ll spare you the
painful details of lancing a boil
and packing it with gauze, but
suffice to say it involves a raw, open
wound and a very sharp object. It was like
root canal but near a different root.
Explaining that my boil would have to
drain for several days, Dr. Hottie suggested I
wear an adult diaper to keep from ruining my
clothes, then handed me something that
looked like it was from Gandhi’s new fall line.
I went straight to the grocery store to fill
a prescription for painkillers and to find a
THE GOSPEL
ACCORDING
TO MARC
by M arc Acito
diaper that didn’t make my butt look so big.
Sauntering bowlegged down the aisle like I
was John Wayne ready to rid Junction City
forever of Black Bart and his gang, I noticed
a chic senior citizen in a tailored suit and
Hermes scarf breeze past the diaper shelf.
Without even slowing down, she reached for
a package with a beautifully manicured hand
and tossed it into her cart nonchalantly as if
to say: “So I piddle in my pants. Big deal.”
Figuring this woman would only wear
the most fashionable diapers, I bought the
same ones. (The package did say “unisex,”
after all.) But when I got home, I discov
ered they looked like a pair of pleated
bloomers from a Merchant-Ivory movie,
complete with lace trim.
I spent the next day lying on the couch
in my 19th century pantalettes,
unable to move because of
the pain. As I struggled to
get up to pee, an idea
suddenly occurred to
me: "Hey, wait a
minute,” I thought.
“I’m wearing a dia
per. I don’t have
to get up.” So I
piddled in my
pants. Big deal.
But I did it for
you, dear readers,
because that’s the
kind of sacrifice I
make for my art.
For those of you
who haven’t soiled
yourselves in a
while, I can hon
estly say it was not
an entirely disgust
ing experience. In
fact, it felt pleas
antly warm at first;
if I wiggled my
hips, it was like
having a Jacuzzi in
my pants.
More impor
tantly, however,
I’ve gained signifi
cant insights into the
diversity of our community. I
now understand you fetish
ists out there, particu-
M . larly those of you
•J? who like being peed
on. And what better
way to understand
piercing than to have some
one stick a sharp object in a sensitive place?
Yes, I’ve learned firsthand something very
important I shall never forget: You people
are completely wacko.
And that, my friends, is The Gospel
According to Marc. JH
Syndicated writer M arc ACTTO is accepting
get'Well wishes at rnarcacitc@attbi.com.
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