Sam White is your better than average guy – short clipped grey hair washed every third day, clean fingernails, polite to woman, kind to children and is morally sound. Well, almost.
At 63, Sam would still be actively engaged in sex but his wife ran off with her fitness trainer, so he's not bothered to find a replacement and that means going without. When you're going without it rather occupies your mind a lot so Sam spent a few days hunched over his laptop writing a sizzler for Harlequin American Romance – the brief requirements being 'upbeat and lively, fast-paced and well plotted that celebrates the pursuit of love in the backyards, big cities and wide-open spaces of America'.
Sam hadn't been to America but that didn't stop him. He created a curvaceous red-head with big breasts who wears short dresses and very high heels and stuck her on a ranch surrounded by lusty cowboys. Sam hadn't been on a ranch but that didn't stop him churning out 3000 words of rubbish a day. What stopped him was his elder sister Mavis, who read a few pages and tossed the printout back at him.
"This is rubbish, Sam. Women living in high heels don't live on ranches and what are all these references to tunefully moving boobs? You dirty old man – you have a breast fetish," she accused, crossing her arms of her modest hangers.
Mavis got drunk on his whisky and went home, leaving Sam psychologically wounded and his creative literary juices replaced with writer's block.
Sam had a vague idea there are thousands of identified fetishes ranging from sweet to disgusting – indeed, anything from rather normal to utterly depraved. For example he knew there were people with a fetish for being tightly strung up in a corset or had a fascination for blood, panty hose, sucking toes or sticking rings into eyebrows, labia or through their penis. He also knew that the annual excitement of running outside the homestead when the first drought-breaking rains arrive is a fetish as is wearing punk apparel. But breasts – him?
Okay, he'd admit his 'favourites' of sites on his web browser consisted mostly of breast sites and he did have an old bra somewhere that he used to wear and he'd once walked into a street pole – well, on several occasions actually - while looking at some woman's really delightful pair bouncing along attempting to escape from captivity.
Sam though he must be sick, so went to seek a 'healing health consultant' whose fees would only a hundredth of the fees charged by consultants with doctorates qualifying them to counsel him.
Madam Sabrina operated a discreet booth at the flea market and clutched Sam to her tiny bosom and cried, "Oh, my poor boy" when Sam confessed his fetish.
She undid the front of her dress (she had no need of a bra) and asked: "What do you think of these?"
Sam looked at them, looked at the ceiling of her booth and yawned.
"You twerp; you impostor!" she shouted.
Indignantly denying the charge, Sam informed her: "It's those breasts in all their glory where my addiction is centred."
Madam Sabrina asked Sam to stay seated while she went out for a minute. She returned with a sullen-faced woman and told her to strip to the waist. An enormous amount of flesh hung off this woman's breast bone, two very brown nipples reaching just past her navel.
"Any reaction?"
"Sorry."
