The flyer in the shop window is new. She nearly chockes on her double shot, butterscotch ristretto when she sees it.
The circus is coming to town.
She bites her bottom lip.
She worries she’s the only one who thinks clowns are hot. She doesn’t know it’s actually a thing. Clown Paraphilia or Bozophilia.
Yep. It’s a thing.
She likes that clowns are honest in their dressing up and performing. All men are clowns, but they pretend not be clowns. Clowns are clowns and they don’t pretend to be anything else.
No-one knows about her secret fetish because society deems it’s ok to have a morbid fear of them, but it’s not ok to want to have sex with them. Which is weird, at least with Clown Paraphilia or Bozophilia, joy is involved. And sweat. And other stuff that doesn’t include a lot of time spent rocking in the corner crying for your Mummy.
The scruffy red wig, the face paint, the squeaky nose, they all add an air of mystique to what is probably a really sexy man underneath. Which is actually an oxymoron. The clown makes the man sexy. The man doesn’t make the clown sexy.
She imagines there are no rules for having sex with clowns. It’s pure fetish and imagination, like sleeping with a naughty nurse or a builder, only there are over sized shoes involved. She shakes her head, she’s been thinking about this for too long, and heads into the shop to purchase her ticket.
This circus better have clowns.