DESIRES UNSUITABLE for MODERN ROMANCE, or

le pokéholé

Ash Ketchum was not a man renowned for his penis. Though he was considered a best-in-class pokemon trainer, and the exploits in his teenage years were still the stuff of legend, he had one persistent problem.

“It’s okay,” says Misty, her eyes gentle. Her tone is so compassionate it hurts. “It happens to every guy somet—”

Ash snatches his boxers from the floor and rises from their bed, slamming the door on the way out.

#

Researchers into the phenomenon are shy to discuss it at length at parties, but they do exist. And once they’ve properly established professionalism around speaking on their own field of work—lest anyone think that they’re interested interested, y’know?—they acknowledge that poképhilia tends to be a sticky equilibria.

There are strong attractors to the condition, relational and...mechanical.

#

“Yeah,” says Brock, with a long sigh. He doesn’t meet Ash’s eyes. He reaches out to stroke Onyx’s sinuous body, fingertips dancing light across the polished stone. “I can’t go back either.”

#

There’s the camaraderie, of course. The thrill of us-against-the-world during the trainers’ most formative years. Depending on whether they stick to the professional circuits, or leave the town and have wilderness adventures, the pair may be literally saving one another’s lives on a daily basis.

Like the bond between siblings who grew up in abusive homes—the bond between trainer and animal is deep, unique, and intimate.

#

“I don’t know how it happened,” says Ash, voice hollow as he lay on the couch. “I never wanted to be...this.”

His face is hard and wary, like he might bare his teeth at the first hint of judgement. “And, you know, it’s not every Pokémon, like some of those degenerates on the news.”

He turns away; takes a long, shuddering breath.

“It’s just...one.”

#

Paraphilia researchers have long since cracked the code: people develop fetishes via exposure during their formative years.

Some thirteen year old stumbles upon a porno mag which happens to feature a lot of women in boots, and then they spend the next twenty years masturbating to those mental images. Eventually, just the boots alone are enough to trigger the sexual excitement. Now they’re into boots.

Whoops.

Some thirteen year old sees another thirteen-year-old bathing, and masturbates to the mental image for years. They keep getting older, but the mental image does not. Now they’re into thirteen year olds.

Whoops.

This is really how it works, for most people. But this is, counterintuitively, a good thing—an association created via pavlovian conditioning can be extinguished the same way.

Pair images of the boots with ugly men. Pair images of the boots with pictures of eye surgery. Pair images of the boots with electric shocks to the penis. The attraction will be extinguished.

This is really how it works, for most people.

Unless you’re one of the poor fuckers for whom this is your orientation—some unlucky roll of the genetic dice causes you to be strongly into your unusual sexual flavor, de novo.

Then, using behaviorism to extinguish the attraction works about as well as Pray The Gay Away.

#

“I’ve tried!” Ash’s voice is raw, and his eyes are red. His knuckles are scraped from where he punched the wall. “Don’t you believe I’ve tried?!”

“Ash!—” Misty holds her hands out, placating. She’s trembling. “Please, honey, calm down—”

He buries his face in his hands, and weeps.

#

The relational and the mechanical.

Yes, yes, formative years, life-or-death situations together. Bond of trust. Save each others’ lives.

These factors are all true, and nice, but not what we’re here for.

Let’s talk about Pokécunts.

One awkward-to-explain fact we hear from the zoophiles—once you’ve fucked a dog, the human vagina is something of a letdown. It’s less tight, and less hot. And when you’re the same size as your partner, sexual positions are much harder than “just slam them onto your ween.”

Contrast: Jigglypuff, whose entire body is basically a fuckable Tengu egg.

#

Ash lay on his back on the mat, looking up at the darkened ceiling of the PokeGym. Nestled against his neck was his life, his love; the sin of his heart, the fire of his loins; Pikachu.

“We can’t keep doing this,” murmured Ash, without conviction. His hands were sticky with seed as he stroked Pikachu’s soft fur.

“Pikachu,” said Pikachu.

“Yeah, she knows,” said Ash, nuzzling in to better breathe Pikachu’s comforting kitten-scent. “And she says she understands, and that she’ll support me no matter what. That our marriage isn’t defined just by what we do—or,” he grimaces, “don’t do in the bedroom. But...”

“Pika, pika,” said Pikachu.

“This is ruining my life,” Ash says, with a pained smile. “I should be happy—I’ve got prize money out the ass, I’ve got every gym badge worth getting, and I have a loving wife, who deserves someone better than me. But none of it—”

He swallows, throat tight.

“But I can’t be happy, Pikachu, unless I also have you.”

“Pika-pika,” said Pikachu. “Pikachu, pi.”

“Pi-pika, pikaaaaa. Pika, pika.”

“Pika-piiii~.”

Ash smiles.

“Thanks, old friend,” he says, snuggling close with a sigh. “You always know what to say.”