FETISHIST
By Misha Firer



1.

With a keyhole saw I cut out a round 4” by 4” inch hole in my bedroom wall four feet two inches from the floor level. I cleared out polystyrene and compressed wood debris and carefully abraded the rugged interior sides first with 60-grit then with 120-grit sandpaper. On the other side of the wall, I lowered the toilet seat, stepped on it and unscrewed the casing of the ceiling lamp and swapped a 100Volt bulb with a 60Volt. With electric lights dimmed, I took the frameless 12” by 15” mirror off the wall, scotch-taped a DR-64 sound-activated digital recorder and fed its interface USB cable towards my room. I, then, fixed in a customized 4” convex mirror hidden video security camera that combined a see-through convex with a built-in high-resolution hidden microvideo security camera; the latter provided a panoramic view of the entire ladies’ restroom of the “World Ground” restaurant, which ladies’ restroom happened to be adjacent to my ground-floor apartment. I fed its cable along with the USB one and superglued the convex mirror’s acrylic edges. I held a flat unframed one-way see-through mirror (which I cut with a band-saw from its standard 24” by 24” frame through the masking tape to the 12” by 15” parameters). I had the coated side face the restroom and mounted it on the plastic pegs. I returned to my bedroom, fished out the cables and connected them to CCTV (close circuit television), a Sony WEGA 50” in. Flat Panel. I positioned my red-velvet love-chair directly in front of the opening and aimed my remote control at it. I panned the camera (wall-to-wall), then tilted (ceiling to floor) and zoomed (in and out the toilet bowl), the image superimposed on my 1365 by 768 resolution TV that sat slightly off to the right from the round hole in the wall.

2.

The restroom door was pulled open and a woman — late twenties, darkish skin, insignificant breasts, bulging behind — stepped in, bolted the door for privacy, unzipped and lowered her semi-casual linen trousers, her pink thongs and mounted the white throne made of vitreous china. I, in turn, pulled myself out of my denim jeans and boxers, switched off the lights, and, with the index finger of my left hand readjusting the camera angle via remote control kneaded softly the shaft of my penis with my right hand.
I was sucked into the vacuum of my fantasy; my mind clouded. But from the fridges of consciousness, I was still capable of formulating my thoughts clearly in relation to, what I termed, temporary delirum.
My pragmatic, high-educated self, what I unflinchingly believed to be my core, perceived the moving image on the TV for what it really was: electronic transmission rendered visually in digital pixel by pixel format. I knew exactly how the technology worked that provided an escape route for my repressed manhood.
What I saw with my eyes now was a visual fabrication of the real person. I watched simulacra of the woman fifteen feet away on my TV screen relax her pelvic muscles and begin to urinate. Upon that soulless, two-dimensional ersatz, did I project whatever my already hallucinating naked-woman-body-hungry mind wished to.
I promptly freed my imagination from its civilized constraints, and thus for a moment I could visually project myself into the imaginative restroom humiliating the woman, or more precisely, her simulacra. I was urinating on her seated body, my acidulous, pungent fountain hitting her against her face, the warm salty liquid would then trickle down on her perky breasts, her bared belly, her moist hirsute triangle of rosebud flesh. Or I could as easily pretend I was fucking her, wedging my pulsating cork into her pussy real-time, or killing her, wringing her poultry-paltry neck. All fantasies were equally possible and permissible. It was daydreaming, a dark fairy tale for adults. Technology and my monitoring device provided suspension of disbelief, the magic wand that stirred the murky recesses of my soul.

3.

Nancy called me. On my cell phone speaker her voice taken out of bodily context sounded overly recognizable. After a while of talking, I easily separated the exaggerated familiarity of her melodic, slightly lisping voice from the real Nancy, my Nancy, my now ex-girlfriend.