Submechanophobia?!?!?

Submechanophobia is the fear of man-made machines that are fully or partially submerged in water.

I first learned of submechanophobia because I kept seeing the word pop up in the comment sections of YouTube’s Defunctland series, a favorite of mine. Finally, I Googled it, and discovered that not only does submechanophobia exist, it has its own subreddit. As of today, it boasts 328,446 subscribers, yours truly included.

Before I discovered Gone Wild Audio, I didn’t spend much time on Reddit. I had been warned that it could be a hostile, toxic place, and so aside from a few Game of Thrones rabbit holes, I stayed away.

It’s funny to remember this now that Reddit is, in a sense, my office, and it’s still where most my clients find me. It’s also funny that my first real introduction to Reddit was via the audio porn watering hole. I remember thinking how specific a place GWA was, attracting a specific kind of fan with a specific interest. And how interesting—almost touching—it was that a place existed where people who enjoyed a specific medium of porn, could come together (pun intended) and enjoy that medium. It provided a welcoming sense of community, and any strangeness or apprehension I felt upon joining, quickly dissipated.

My experience with Reddit has been largely positive, and I know this isn’t the case for everyone. Obviously, when I talk about subreddits, I’m not referring to any that encourage community through shared hatred or ignorance.  

Which brings us to r/submechanophobia: a decidedly not hateful, though somewhat bewildering place.

Surprisingly or not, this subreddit devoted to the fear of man-made objects underwater, is filled with pictures of man-made objects underwater. The eponymous phobia is on display for all users to observe, and arguably, to revel in.

I don’t think I’m a full-blown submechanophobic, though there have been nights when I’ve lain awake thinking about how after the Magic Kingdom closes, the hippos on the Jungle Cruise are still there. In the water. Turned off. It’s a queasy thought: unreal, uncanny, and somehow frightening, even though I’m not exactly sure why.

You can find pictures of underwater animatronics on r/submechanophobia, along with pictures of shipwrecks, submarines, rusted propellers, and statues on the ocean floor. Just to name a few. Under each picture: a litany of comments from self-proclaimed submechanophobics gushing about the image. It’s unsettling to them, but also compelling.

Since I discovered this subreddit over a year ago, I’ve been fascinated by it. If you’re afraid of something, it makes sense to seek out a community of people who share your phobia. But to gleefully take pleasure in the phobia with other people who share it, in a community, together? My admittedly warped brain can’t help but see the line between phobia and fetish start to blur.  

Why do we watch horror movies other than to experience fear in a safe and controlled environment? Anyone can be afraid of anything, and sometimes, when we have control over it, fear can be fun. Why do so many horror movies include images of scantily clad women, panting in ripped clothing, screaming or gasping in a way that feels borderline orgasmic?

I’m not breaking new ground when I point out the exploitative sexual nature of many horror films, even the ones that punish sex and reward virginity. If you’re watching a movie and a fictional character makes noises while being murdered that remind you of something else, and you happen to become aroused….you wouldn’t be the first. Emotions are high; you’re tense. You’re afraid. The call is coming from inside the house.

This doesn’t apply just to movies, either. The overwhelming popularity of True Crime, as a genre of entertainment invites similar speculation. Thrill-seeking, maybe? Dealing with fear by rolling around in it? What’s the point exactly?

Lust and fear are two sides of the same coin. They’re both involuntary responses to external stimuli. They both provoke shame, and invite secrecy. They work together. Sex can be scary, and fear can be thrilling.

While I doubt anyone is self-abusing to these pictures of underwater machinery—though I never like to assume—examining my fascination with r/submechanophobia keeps bringing me back to my initial fascination with Gone Wild Audio. Of course, the Internet is full of communities built by people who enjoy and celebrate the things they love together. But this isn’t love; this is fear. And reveling in fear creates a certain kind of glee. One that can feel unique. Maybe even the good kind of wrong.  

A Word About "What Are You Wearing?"

It usually comes out as a joke. They ask coyly. I can always hear the edge of a laugh. Even when a sincere answer is expected, there’s still a note of irony. We both know it’s a cliché.

But as with many clichés, it exists for a reason.

The fun of phone is sex is being extremely intimate with another actual person, but without actually seeing or touching them. What they’re wearing becomes inherently more sensual; the idea of it makes them more real while keeping them tantalizingly out of touch.

The beginnings of a phone sex call tend to be awkward, especially if you’ve never talked before. Even if you have a history and a good rapport, the segue from pleasant conversation to sex can be…fraught.  

It’s a good icebreaker. I have to be wearing something. And if I’m not, that’s a story in itself.

I keep hearing men are visual creatures, and yet they prove to me time and again that they have astonishing powers of imagination.

The first time I got the immortal question, I had been working the job for a few days. I was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner, and yet as soon as he asked, I froze. What WAS I wearing? A ratty tank top, no bra, sweatpants, and plain cotton panties that I would not have worn on a date.

In other words, the way a woman dresses when there is no man to stare upon her (or at least not until well after a bond is secure.)

But I couldn’t tell him that. This was a paying customer calling for a fantasy. He wanted the woman who can and does lounge in a matching lingerie set, complete with garter belt, high heels, and a full face of makeup that doesn’t look like makeup. And if he didn’t get it on the phone, he could find it in 30 seconds on the Internet.

So, I tried to give him the fantasy. I thought of those iconic phone sex commercials from the 90s. I described a red lace teddy I just happened to be wearing mid-afternoon on a Saturday.    

It’s probable that my delivery was terrible because I was still very green. Or because I am and have always been a truly terrible liar. But I knew it sounded bad as I was saying it.

“Uh huh,” the guy said, after a polite beat. “Now tell me what you’re really wearing.”

Maybe it was his wry, domineering tone, but I liked this. Instead of being embarrassed, I laughed. And I told him.

“You see?” he said after another beat. “That is so much hotter than what you said before.”

And judging by what followed, he was telling the truth.

I wish I could remember this man’s name. I owe him a great deal.

Now I practice what improvisers call, “Truth in Comedy”: the idea that humor is rooted in the truths of human nature. I’ve found the same applies to eroticism. The truth can be hotter than fantasy simply because it’s true. Even when it’s a little off center.

Of course, plenty of guys DO want the fantasy, especially those for whom fancy lingerie IS the turn on. The same goes for fans of the popular “Bimbofication” genre, which is marked by women with extensive plastic surgery, body modification, “trashy” makeup and dress. But these are fantasy scenarios, and acknowledged as such by all parties, explicitly or implicitly.  

The fact is, when you call me, I’m probably wearing a pair of old linen shorts and a tank top. Or, now that it’s getting colder, pajama pants, a t-shirt, and cardigan. Sometimes I will wear “sexy” panties for fun or for intrigue, but more often than not, there’s a worn-out waistband and faded proof that I’m a person who menstruates.   

Such is the nature of fantasy.

But consider also that I like to put on red lipstick before my calls. Revlon #745: Love is On. My chosen color after many years of searching. It makes me look and feel alive and confident and sexy. It makes the faded phone-wear look and feel sexy, too. Lived in. My own.

The truth often contains contradictions.

Flirting with Exhibitionism

I just got out of the shower, and in the warm, clean after-haze, I’m sitting here surprised by how I feel.

There’s a frosted window in my shower. The view is obscured, but I can see the lights of my neighbors’ houses. When I’m in my kitchen, I can see these neighbors walking around their own kitchens, living their lives, a little thrilled by the fact that I can watch them, wondering if they watch me, too, when I’m not looking. Tonight, standing under the hot water, feeling each tiny bead run down my naked body, I thought how it would feel to look out the window and see someone staring at me. Taking in my body. Taking me.   

I don’t consider myself an exhibitionist, but right now in this moment, I want to be.

While imagining this, I didn’t masturbate, but I imagined masturbating. I touched my breasts, teased my nipples, briefly entertained the idea of doing more, but I ended up just standing still. It felt good all on its own.  

I imagined pressing my body against the window, silently thrilled no one would be able to tell.

Is there a word for fantasizing about fantasizing?

What is turning me on when this happens? The thought of being watched, or the thought of my own body? Is it possible I’m turning myself on? Is this just a perverse narcissism?

Already, I feel like I should apologize. I’m being arrogant, but in a world where it often feels that every facet of society is trying its best to make me hate myself, just for existing inside a body, getting turned on by that same body feels downright radical.

The pandemic has made me somewhat feral. My body hair has grown out in several regions. But in the shower, this just enhanced my pleasure. I felt reckless. Wild. 

Unmoored by expectation.

It feels good to feel good about my body. To take pleasure in it the way someone else would. To be reminded that this is a possibility.

I’m writing this in my robe, with my hair in a towel. Parts of my body are still wet, and the process of putting this experience into words has left me physically aroused.

I might touch myself, but I probably won’t. Right now, it’s enough just to feel this.