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Jane is a strange one. Twentynine-years-old, pretty, with what most would term a voluptuous figure . . . looking at her in photographs you wouldn’t suspect she was the kind to suffer from a strange and disturbing compulsion.
Her problems began when her parents presented her with a Barbie Doll on her sixth birthday. Jane loved that doll. She’d comb its long hair, admire its slender curves, and generally mather it to death (as the phrase goes). But her innocent fondness for her Barbie awakened something deep in her psyche, which in later years would ruin her life.
You see, Jane has an uncontrollable impulse to touch-and-feel everything she sees. She’s what psychologists call “a Fondlemaniac”, and as you can imagine, this condition has, over the years, landed her in all sorts of trouble.
Like the time she couldn’t resist a dualhanded squeeze of a businessman’s beerbelly on a crowded bus. Or like when she dived onto a pool table and lovingly caressed a teenage boy’s cue-tip. And what about when she frantically chased an old lady’s poodle around an amusement park demanding a feel of its soft wet snout!
These were relatively minor incidents, but as time passed her touchy-feely compulsion intensified, and Jane found herself descending into realms where simple fondling became twisted meddling.
Like when she stroked and petted a neighbour’s gerbil till it bled. Or like when she was discovered naked in a barn luxuriating in the touch-sensation of a pregnant cow’s udders. And then came the incident that drew the attention of the authorities, when she inadvertently slaughtered seven ducks near a beautyspot in what the tabloids dubbed, THE FONDLE FRENZY OF A MAD WOMAN!
Of course, these days Jane is locked away in a secure psychiatric unit, separated from other inmates for her own (and there) welfare. But if we were to pay a visit to that secure unit right now, and we zoomed into her cell, what would we see and hear? Well, let’s do it — [shaky camera footage slowly focusing] . . . . . There she is! Combing her greasy yellow curls over and over, jabbering to her pale reflection in the mirror above the faucet:
“When I get outta here, I’m gonna be a porn star. Yes ma’am. At least in that world my fondness-for-fondlin’ will be appreciated. I got style. My own unique style. I could go real far. To the top! They’ll love me. Missy, they’ll say, you’re the best babydoll in the business. I think I’ll call myself Jane Fondle. I’ll do anythang. Yes, you betcha. Jane Fondle, I like that name. If I could only get lonesome ass outta this place. I’d be big, real big. I’d be a star, I just know I would.”
Jane, what a curiously deranged woman, she seems incapable of admitting to herself that she has a major problem. If she doesn’t change (and it doesn’t seem likely), she’ll always be nothing more than a faceless statistic filed under “misfit”, forgotten by society, and hopelessly alone within her isolated cell till her dying day.
Her problems began when her parents presented her with a Barbie Doll on her sixth birthday. Jane loved that doll. She’d comb its long hair, admire its slender curves, and generally mather it to death (as the phrase goes). But her innocent fondness for her Barbie awakened something deep in her psyche, which in later years would ruin her life.
You see, Jane has an uncontrollable impulse to touch-and-feel everything she sees. She’s what psychologists call “a Fondlemaniac”, and as you can imagine, this condition has, over the years, landed her in all sorts of trouble.
Like the time she couldn’t resist a dualhanded squeeze of a businessman’s beerbelly on a crowded bus. Or like when she dived onto a pool table and lovingly caressed a teenage boy’s cue-tip. And what about when she frantically chased an old lady’s poodle around an amusement park demanding a feel of its soft wet snout!
These were relatively minor incidents, but as time passed her touchy-feely compulsion intensified, and Jane found herself descending into realms where simple fondling became twisted meddling.
Like when she stroked and petted a neighbour’s gerbil till it bled. Or like when she was discovered naked in a barn luxuriating in the touch-sensation of a pregnant cow’s udders. And then came the incident that drew the attention of the authorities, when she inadvertently slaughtered seven ducks near a beautyspot in what the tabloids dubbed, THE FONDLE FRENZY OF A MAD WOMAN!
Of course, these days Jane is locked away in a secure psychiatric unit, separated from other inmates for her own (and there) welfare. But if we were to pay a visit to that secure unit right now, and we zoomed into her cell, what would we see and hear? Well, let’s do it — [shaky camera footage slowly focusing] . . . . . There she is! Combing her greasy yellow curls over and over, jabbering to her pale reflection in the mirror above the faucet:
“When I get outta here, I’m gonna be a porn star. Yes ma’am. At least in that world my fondness-for-fondlin’ will be appreciated. I got style. My own unique style. I could go real far. To the top! They’ll love me. Missy, they’ll say, you’re the best babydoll in the business. I think I’ll call myself Jane Fondle. I’ll do anythang. Yes, you betcha. Jane Fondle, I like that name. If I could only get lonesome ass outta this place. I’d be big, real big. I’d be a star, I just know I would.”
Jane, what a curiously deranged woman, she seems incapable of admitting to herself that she has a major problem. If she doesn’t change (and it doesn’t seem likely), she’ll always be nothing more than a faceless statistic filed under “misfit”, forgotten by society, and hopelessly alone within her isolated cell till her dying day.
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I liked that. Another insight into how your twisted mind works. :D
Jane is a strange one. Twentynine-years-old, pretty, with what most would term a voluptuous figure . . . looking at her in photographs you wouldn’t suspect she was the kind to suffer from a strange and disturbing compulsion.
Her problems began when her parents presented her with a Barbie Doll on her sixth birthday. Jane loved that doll. She’d comb its long hair, admire its slender curves, and generally mather it to death (as the phrase goes). But her innocent fondness for her Barbie awakened something deep in her psyche, which in later years would ruin her life.
You see, Jane has an uncontrollable impulse to touch-and-feel everything she sees. She’s what psychologists call “a Fondlemaniac”, and as you can imagine, this condition has, over the years, landed her in all sorts of trouble.
Like the time she couldn’t resist a dualhanded squeeze of a businessman’s beerbelly on a crowded bus. Or like when she dived onto a pool table and lovingly caressed a teenage boy’s cue-tip. And what about when she frantically chased an old lady’s poodle around an amusement park demanding a feel of its soft wet snout!
These were relatively minor incidents, but as time passed her touchy-feely compulsion intensified, and Jane found herself descending into realms where simple fondling became twisted meddling.
Like when she stroked and petted a neighbour’s gerbil till it bled. Or like when she was discovered naked in a barn luxuriating in the touch-sensation of a pregnant cow’s udders. And then came the incident that drew the attention of the authorities, when she inadvertently slaughtered seven ducks near a beautyspot in what the tabloids dubbed, THE FONDLE FRENZY OF A MAD WOMAN!
Of course, these days Jane is locked away in a secure psychiatric unit, separated from other inmates for her own (and there) welfare. But if we were to pay a visit to that secure unit right now, and we zoomed into her cell, what would we see and hear? Well, let’s do it — [shaky camera footage slowly focusing] . . . . . There she is! Combing her greasy yellow curls over and over, jabbering to her pale reflection in the mirror above the faucet:
“When I get outta here, I’m gonna be a porn star. Yes ma’am. At least in that world my fondness-for-fondlin’ will be appreciated. I got style. My own unique style. I could go real far. To the top! They’ll love me. Missy, they’ll say, you’re the best babydoll in the business. I think I’ll call myself Jane Fondle. I’ll do anythang. Yes, you betcha. Jane Fondle, I like that name. If I could only get lonesome ass outta this place. I’d be big, real big. I’d be a star, I just know I would.”
Jane, what a curiously deranged woman, she seems incapable of admitting to herself that she has a major problem. If she doesn’t change (and it doesn’t seem likely), she’ll always be nothing more than a faceless statistic filed under “misfit”, forgotten by society, and hopelessly alone within her isolated cell till her dying day.
Her problems began when her parents presented her with a Barbie Doll on her sixth birthday. Jane loved that doll. She’d comb its long hair, admire its slender curves, and generally mather it to death (as the phrase goes). But her innocent fondness for her Barbie awakened something deep in her psyche, which in later years would ruin her life.
You see, Jane has an uncontrollable impulse to touch-and-feel everything she sees. She’s what psychologists call “a Fondlemaniac”, and as you can imagine, this condition has, over the years, landed her in all sorts of trouble.
Like the time she couldn’t resist a dualhanded squeeze of a businessman’s beerbelly on a crowded bus. Or like when she dived onto a pool table and lovingly caressed a teenage boy’s cue-tip. And what about when she frantically chased an old lady’s poodle around an amusement park demanding a feel of its soft wet snout!
These were relatively minor incidents, but as time passed her touchy-feely compulsion intensified, and Jane found herself descending into realms where simple fondling became twisted meddling.
Like when she stroked and petted a neighbour’s gerbil till it bled. Or like when she was discovered naked in a barn luxuriating in the touch-sensation of a pregnant cow’s udders. And then came the incident that drew the attention of the authorities, when she inadvertently slaughtered seven ducks near a beautyspot in what the tabloids dubbed, THE FONDLE FRENZY OF A MAD WOMAN!
Of course, these days Jane is locked away in a secure psychiatric unit, separated from other inmates for her own (and there) welfare. But if we were to pay a visit to that secure unit right now, and we zoomed into her cell, what would we see and hear? Well, let’s do it — [shaky camera footage slowly focusing] . . . . . There she is! Combing her greasy yellow curls over and over, jabbering to her pale reflection in the mirror above the faucet:
“When I get outta here, I’m gonna be a porn star. Yes ma’am. At least in that world my fondness-for-fondlin’ will be appreciated. I got style. My own unique style. I could go real far. To the top! They’ll love me. Missy, they’ll say, you’re the best babydoll in the business. I think I’ll call myself Jane Fondle. I’ll do anythang. Yes, you betcha. Jane Fondle, I like that name. If I could only get lonesome ass outta this place. I’d be big, real big. I’d be a star, I just know I would.”
Jane, what a curiously deranged woman, she seems incapable of admitting to herself that she has a major problem. If she doesn’t change (and it doesn’t seem likely), she’ll always be nothing more than a faceless statistic filed under “misfit”, forgotten by society, and hopelessly alone within her isolated cell till her dying day.
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