Having a Hypno-Fetish

This mini-biography is from the female perspective, but I think the feelings expressed apply to males, cross-dressers, and anyone with a fetish for hypnosis:

...when I was 14, I noticed the feeling that I got when a story included mind control was growing stronger — there was a heat to it now. Some new need I couldn’t place drove me to Google “hypnosis stories,” just to see what came up.

Of course, I immediately found erotica, and as I scanned some of the worst prose I have ever read (I eventually found better), the feeling roared into a fire in my stomach. It was one of the most intense sensations I had ever experienced, and I suddenly understood.

The nerdy innocent, I had been the last girl in my class to even learn what intercourse was. And now, a word I had heard maybe a couple of times came bubbling into my mind with startling clarity: “This is a fetish,” I thought. “I have a hypnosis fetish.”

The wonderful thing about having a fetish is that it never gets old. Every single time, without exception, that David hypnotizes me, whether it be with a snap of his fingers, staring into my eyes, or slapping my face (yes, that works), there’s a moment when I think, “Oh my God, it’s happening.” The repression is gone, but every time I go under, I still feel a profound sense of relief.

My pubescent fantasies are all well and good — I still love reading stories where the victim has their identity taken away forever, and that desire is part of the drive of my kinky relationship. But the fantasies can’t compare with the layers of complexity that exist in a relationship that includes both sadomasochism and cuddling. We engage in long-term psychological conditioning (yes, we call it brainwashing), mutually plotting my destruction. But we also talk about the weather, and music, and religion, and complain about work. I still have my friends (including David’s other partners), and family, and a husband I adore (I had a lot of explaining to do when we met). I’ve learned that a fetish is not proscriptive — or prescriptive. It doesn’t have to look like porn for it to be full and real — and it’s better, if arguably stranger, than fiction.