I have always had this obsession with red hair. I can’t explain it, exactly. It isn’t sexual, per se. Throughout my life there was been women I’ve idolized (Dr. Judy, Angela Chase, a best friend), men I’ve wanted, and even women I’ve wanted. I am infatuated with them. As Roxanne’s mom says to Angela’s mom about how Roxanne sees Angela, I see them in color! When I was little there was this complicated conundrum because I went to Paris with my mom and she wanted to get me this very expensive Corolle Doll, and I picked out this beautiful, freckly red-head with a lavender dress. My mom, who hates red hair, particularly on girls, strongly encouraged me to get a boring brunette who came with a cool carrying case, a suitcase resembling a hat box. I concurred because of the case. But once we found out you could also get the red-head with the cool case, I had already resigned to getting the lesser doll. I didn’t want to undo my decision that I already felt shitty about, reopening the shittiness surrounding the situation, so I settled. Once people are psychologically committed, they don’t want to recommit; it would be admitting they were wrong in the first place. I have never gotten over this doll situation. I hate that fucking brown boring doll that has been sitting on the top shelf in my closet for the past 18 years. Fuck that stupid doll. I wanted the one with red hair and freckles! (I just googled ‘Corolle red hair,’ and it seems as if doll descriptions are written by pedophiles: “Calin Smiling is another precious Calin doll from Corolle; 12 inch, soft-body doll with the traditional Corolle vanilla scent. But what makes this Calin doll different from the rest is the face. Calin Smiling has mocha brown eyes perfectly off-set by burnt red hair and the slightest array of freckles sprinkled along his cheeks.” Where do I purchase my grown-up, man-scented doll? Ball sweat, optional.)
Don’t people get it? Red heads are alive, captivating. Why would you want anything else? There is nothing quite so seductive and alluring as a devious ginger. A devil child. I’m not sure whether it started with Danny Cooksey, Budnick from Salute your shorts, or Axl Rose. But it progressed rapidly to Scott Weiland and anyone else. Seth Green. Who cares whom? It isn’t even about the person, just the hair. Once I even had a shrink with red hair. Oh what a disaster that was. It was the phase in my life when I thought I might be gay, but I couldn’t talk to her about it because I was attracted to her. She has that soft, even-toned shrink voice. See also: porn star voice. I didn’t get off to her or anything. And I really did understand the phenomenon of transference even then and that people are supposed to get sort of attracted to their shrinks. But it just seemed like my biggest fear confirmed. And then I found out she had a husband and kids and felt kind of betrayed, like I wasn’t hers, like I couldn’t be hers because she wasn’t a lesbian. She was a red-haired Connecticut hippie with natural-colored couches in her office that might as well have been beanbag chairs. And that incredibly soothing voice.
The roots of my obsession are inexplicable. Fast forward to my new conception of red hair. My life goal is to have babies with red hair, and although I’d sort of rather adopt, I’d say my red-haired fetish manifests itself in wanting guys with red hair, guys with red-haired genes. Presumably to ultimately procreate with, but since I don’t want babies now, I’ll gladly settle for the sex. It is a weird eugenics thing, where I think it is my biological imperative to spread the genes of the master race. If I could have this honor, I would feel almost like a chosen one—chosen by the chosen himself. Unfortunately, I have heard all sorts’ of things about how red hair is recessive and my brother even told me that he thinks gingers are dying out because of inter-mating. Could I be part of the downfall of civilization, single-handedly responsible for the annihilation of the master race? Oh, the horror.
But for serious, that is probably my way of justifying my biological drive to fuck boys with red hair. It is so enduring and deeply rooted in me, yet inexplicable. I think the eugenics explanation is as good as any. Really, I just want to fuck guys with red hair, badly. Nothing turns me on like red hair and skinniness. Well, that and the prospect of fucking guys whom my mother would like. The ultimate, though, the fantasy that would ruin all other fantasies and would pretty much leave me with no reason to proceed in life once it is fulfilled, is the fire bush. There is no travesty of the modern age more severe than the popularization of pubic hair removal. The fire bush has nearly been annihilated. What I wouldn’t do to hook up with a girl who had red hair and reveled in it.
I cannot think of anything more alluring than the combination of vagina and red hair, vagina partially obscured by red hair, being showcased by it. The eye-catching brightness and transparency. The frame and the prize. Just thinking about it makes me want to cum all over myself. I’d imagine, if I had red pubes, I would cum all over myself all day long. Mmm, vaginal fluids and red hair, elusive and light-catching in their own ways.
There is this guy with red hair in my stats class and I don’t even care who he is. It turns out that he is awesome, but that is just incidental, a pleasant coincidence. He could totally suck, be a miserable person and terrible conversationalist, and I’d still want to fuck him. But I am hesitant about this situation because I don’t want to squander it. And I certainly don’t want to throw myself at him. So I haven’t tried at all. Well, I tried to sit next to him in class everyday for two month and I failed. It is that ridiculous. Some middle school-style story about a crush. Everyday I would come home and give my mom the report (except in middle school I would have never given a report, because it would have been way too embarrassing, instead of farcical). She told me it sounded like something out of a Peanuts comic.
Even getting to see him from whatever angle my seat is in class makes me smile. He lightens up my day, fills me with joy at the opportunity to gaze at his red beauty. Mesmerizing can’t even begin to describe how I feel about him. I am infatuated. I would do anything to acquire this red-haired boy. I want him to be mine–because that would mean I was special. Like I had the approval of the superior race, the mark. It sounds like some kind of sick, sexual conquest thing, using someone else to get the divine light shined upon you. But if I fucked a red-haired boy, I would inextricably be tied up into all things red and it would elicit the approval of the chosen race, convolutedly making me the chosen of the chosen.
On an unconvoluted level, I really like this guy. He is: red-haired, skinny, gay-looking, hipster (which is my type physically, style-wise), personable, friendly, funny, chill, and a good conversationalist (which obviously makes him enjoyable and genuinely pleasant to hang out with. I bet he is even nice. But really it doesn’t matter. And here is why I am self-conscious about, or embarrassed by, my obsession with red hair, besides the fact that it is so deep-rooted and biological (not at all socially constructed) that it is who I am unmistakably:
I think my red-haired fetish is even worse than other people’s fetishes, albeit more vanilla, because it is even less about the person (although, the person can be an added bonus, as with this instance where I actually think I would like the guy irrespective of his red hair). Let’s take other people’s fetishes–that are mildly weird but relatively common, like cum or spanking or whatever–for example. A fetish is technically only a fetish if a person’s sexual encounters are entirely focused on a fetish object rather than a partner, their partner is involved merely as vehicle by which they achieve or attain the fetish object, and they cannot perform sexually without anticipation of achieving or attaining the fetish object. Obviously, the word fetish is a little extreme for my purposes. What I mean to reference here, when I discuss fetishes, are simply unusual or particular things that unfailingly get people off–sexual idiosyncrasies.
Minor fetishes that are somewhat tolerable aren’t hard to come by because most people would willingly engage, if they could appreciate and enjoy simply based on loving to watch their partner get off and knowing how much it got their partner off. The thing about these sexual fetishes is that, because anyone can do them, it is more about the person. It doesn’t take any special talent; it just takes tolerance. And thus, if someone chose you to be his or her partner with whom he or she was going to engage in the fetish, you’d still feel special, because he or she picked you and anyone could have enacted the fetish. But with red hair, choices are limited; there is a specific quality I am looking for when I am looking for someone with red hair—redness—and it won’t necessarily coincide with other features, in a person, which I am looking for. It is possible for me to want someone both because of his red hair and because they are a cool person, but without the coolness, I would likely still want them, anyway; the coolness is an added bonus, maybe a sign that they are worth more to me than the immediate utility I have for most redheads. But if you have red hair, regardless of who you are as a person, I will still give extra consideration to you as compared to your non-red cohorts. Thus you should wonder whether I actually like you or whether I am just using you for your hair. And I don’t want to make guys feel used. This is why I am so tentative about stuff with this guy in my stats class, besides the fact that I am shy and have a crush, and this is why I would never reveal my red-haired obsession to him: I don’t want him to feel used, like this was a set-up. Because, even though I would hook up with him regardless, I like him, too.