Coulrophilia is a sexual attraction to clowns. People who have coulrophilia, known as coulrophiles, may find themselves spending a lot of time thinking about clowns or having erotic fantasies about clowns. They might also seek out clowns as sexual partners or prefer to dress as clowns themselves during sexual encounters.
I have a confession to make. Ever since Halloween, when my partner dressed up as a scary clown and we had a very intense scene involving rope, a hog tie, a dildo, and a really hard cock behind a really thin, colorful jumpsuit, I’ve had a thing for clowns.
Well, not just any clown, but him as a clown.
Since Halloween, he’s brought ol’ bozo by my place a couple times. The first time it was an unannounced surprise. It was hot as fuck.
The second time was last night. This time, it was planned. He’d had me perform a “clown summoning” ritual all week long. This entailed my paying tribute to the clown by having orgasms in public places. Not like, in front of people. Just in private, like in the work bathroom or in the elevator.
For tasks like theses, it’s very convenient that I am highly orgasmic. But, I digress.
The night before, he and I had attended a rope event. He was …he is sadistic. I was tied in some form of pretzel shape, complete with predicamental neck rope (shut up, it’s a word now) and with thin, scratchy coconut rope futomomo as the icing on the hurty rope cake.
I was squirming in delicious agony. I couldn’t see what he’d done, so I asked him: “Is it pretty?”
He nodded, and then looked lovingly into my eyes. He melts me when he says and does things like this. I’m there, mostly naked, bound and vulnerable, and he stares into my eyes and says, “but I keep getting distracted by your face.”
After he untied me and I was rubbing at the rope marks on my legs, I looked up at him. I knew the clown was coming out the following night. “Is the clown going to hurt me tomorrow?” I asked.
His expression grew wide-eyed and innocent. “I don’t know,” he responded. “You’ll have to ask him.”
And so began the little game where he’s Peter Parker to the clown’s Spiderman. He knows how to summon him. But he’s totally not him.
As he walked me to my car, I asked him “Will I see you tomorrow? After the clown?”
“Yeah, I may come by after he’s done.” he smiled.
When he arrived last night, I was up in my room, preparing. See, the clown summoning ritual summoned more than just the clown. Apparently, it also brought on my period, a few days early.
Ah well. So I lay some towels on the bed, and some baby wipes and a trash can by the nightstand and waited for his instructions to come via text.
I’m not going to go into the details. It was HOT. It always is with him. I mean, the clown.
Afterwards, we went to separate bathrooms to clean up. I mean, I’m not usually one for gore, but the insane clown thing combined with day-one of period thing was kind of …you know, on the nose in a poetic sense.
When I came back down after a quick shower, he was there, wearing his street clothes and looking handsome and gorgeous with his regular, beautiful face. I kissed him hello.
“Listen, I may as well tell you now,” I started. “I’ve decided to just embrace it. I’m going poly.” I paused only for a second. “I’m totally fucking the clown.”
I smiled. He raised his eyebrows. “Is that going to be a problem? Do you want to talk about it?”
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Well, fine then,” he responded. “Go ahead and fuck the clown. Do what you want.”
I love this man.