Kirk Semple had an entertaining piece in last Friday’s Times Style section about a guy who wraps himself in a carpet and then lies still in a bar or nightclub so that people can stand on him for hours on end.
The piece was well done — particularly the detail that Giorgio T., a Maltan immigrant who calls himself The Human Carpet, has managed to find a way to convince bar owners that they should pay him for his sexual fetish. He’s getting $200 to be a piece of furniture and conversation starter at various New York night spots.
But it surprised us that the Times provided almost no context for the crush fetish itself, which has been around for a long time and is well documented.
Plenty of articles have been written about men who fantasize about getting trampled by women, who love the sensation of heavy weights on them, and who also traffic in bizarre videos of women crushing small animals in high heels.
And for one of the ultimate expressions of the crush fetish, check out this story our Broward-Palm Beach newspaper did three years ago about one of the most bizarre, unsolved murders in Florida history.
After you read Julia Reischel’s “Crush Me, Kill Me,” you might feel differently about stepping on a ‘human carpet’ at your local watering hole.