I have something very important to say: Pain makes me horny.

Before you come to my house in order to slug me in the mug and check my Levis for an admirable erection, allow me to explain.

In an odd coincidence, my sexual awakening took place during the same weeks that the city of Saratoga chose to resurface several of its main streets. Despite the better efforts of the city, one thoroughfare in particular, the stretch of pavement that connected my residence to the domicile of my high school darling, was born again as a gravel-stricken roadway of bump and doom. Every time I skated to her house for those early handfuls of hymen remodeling and pubic discovery, it was a given that I would fall whilst en route. I would arrive, knees and palms raw with asphalt, and we would go at it with the enthusiasm of — well, two teenagers fucking for the first time.

The pain would hardly give way to those early tastes of ecstasy, but rather, coexist with it; my scrapes and their sting became synonymous with climax. A few weeks later and I was a Pavlovian case study, the sterling example of conditioning to the point of fetishism. For me, craving one meant craving the other. They were a pair: Boris and Natasha, Homer and Marge, pleasure and pain. Just so we are all riding the same monorail, your dad defines a fetish as:

1: Something, such as an object or a nonsexual part of the body, that arouses sexual desire and may become necessary for sexual gratification.

2: An abnormally obsessive preoccupation or attachment.

If any of you out there subscribe to some sort of “dictionary definition” fetish, enjoy your cigarette.

While I never developed the taste for the rough stuff, such as stilettos dug into testicles or midnight trysts with Marv Albert, I align with the masochist, a form of fetishism. And as I am the most prominent voice on campus when it comes to all things related to the pee-pee and cha-cha, I am here to say that while my contemporaries label my behavior “typical sexual deviancy” — I am still trying to figure out what the fuck that means — in reality I am no deviant, only adventurous.

A sidewalk on campus this week poses the question, “When was the last time you had queer sex?” I propose a section of the Arbor cement be reserved in order to ask the average passerby, “When was the last time you got kicked in the crotch… and liked it?” or perhaps “Bite my face, you have my permission.” I don’t see why not. Why hide our little kinks in the shadows? Why not embrace them? After all, fetishism is everywhere.

A viewing of a Tarantino film reads like a steamy issue of Hustler for the average foot lover. He embraces his infatuation; he throws Uma’s toes upon the silver screen, 10 feet high and bulbous for all to see. That attitude is what I’m getting at. In the middle of a week devoted to the celebration of being who you are — and doing so with palpable amounts of pride rocketing from your very soul, despite the opinion of others — I’m doing just that.

My admission is small beans in the universal sense, but I admire the spirit of Queer Pride Week to the point that I’m taking up their cause as best I can. In the name of all things kinky, I’m proclaiming it, throwin’ it up, saying it loud: I’m different than you and I don’t give a shit.

If you always wanted to fuck on top of a grand piano with a partner dressed up like Princess Leia in her gold Jedi bikini, this is the week to get it done. If you want somebody to feed you bonbons while they spank you, this be the time. If you can’t climax without watching all of the subliminal sexual messages from old Disney movies beforehand, just do it. And if I may make a suggestion: The priest’s erection from “The Little Mermaid” is particularly stunning in the spring.

More than that, dear readers, be proud of who you are and what floats your boat in bed. Kink and fetish are what got us to where we are today. Buzz Aldrin went to the moon because he had a thing for masturbating with asteroids. George Washington crossed the Delaware just so he could look at hentai websites at Ben Franklin’s house. And you read this entire column because you know that deep down inside, you’re a little queer too.

Don’t blue-ball Daily Nexus sex columnist Dave Franzese — kick him in the junk.