Does an interest in women's bottoms count as a fetish?

I never realised I was a pervert.

Everyone's a pervert. That's one of the things that keeps life exciting.

Rob, I think it just makes you a fetishist. It's having no interest in women's bottoms that would make you a pervert.

hmm
 

Somehow the specific 'proprietorial pinching' element has been elided.

I am standing outside Mindy’s one morning when Jack the Donkey appears. “How are you, Eeyore?” I ask him, for that is his local moniker. “Not so good”, he tells me, “I am losing my tail.” I peer round him, but there is no sign in his snappy suit of even a rudimentary tail. I ask him to tell me more. He explains that he is referring to a piece of tail called Maisie who ditches him after a squabble. “I am sure she comes back to you”, I tell him.“No”, he says, “She informs me yesterday it is over.” “So what will you do?” I ask. “The best I can”, he sighs, and pulls a rod from beneath his coat which he sticks in his ear. “Do not do it!” I say. “There must be another solution. Let us consult Olly Bubo, who is a wise old bird indeed.”

I have removed the Dick.

Does an interest in women's bottoms count as a fetish?
I never realised I was a pervert.

Rob, perhaps in France you would be a culvert.

That's clever

The Gorila of St Custards
 

I'm trying to work up something for N Molesworth but struggling, struggling....

The usual evening murk: Molesworth paused at the dorm door. He didn’t know what was balanced above it, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be nice. Peason was in the San, Grabber, the shit, was having “cocoa” with Grimes: and Foth-Tom was busy with his tadpoles. The daisy’d be gone a good while. He caressed the solid warmth of the Intergalactic Prune-Blaster in his blazer pocket: the theft of the Mrs Joyful Prize for Rafia-work was being pinned on Porridge Court, but Molesworth’s hunch centred on the soppy verse-lover. Big-time. That nature stuff was just the kind of cover they’d swallow whole at St Custard’s and then order seconds. Jamming an extra-strong gob-stopper between pursed lips, he eased the door. The crash of a jar packed with dead tadpoles – there must have been thousands but who had time to count – shattered the silence. That boob couldn’t even fix a trap.

Business was slacker than a boozer's belly. I was sitting at my desk hoping that drumming my fingernails would help to drum up some trade.

And apparently it worked. Three creepy-looking individuals appeared in my doorway: one was dressed in black velvet, the second in some kind of stripy outfit, and the third had a face like a rat. Still, times were tough, so I asked how I could help them.

“We have a friend who keeps getting into trouble, Mr Marlowe, and we’d like you to keep an eye on him.”

I was about to point out that I don’t do baby-sitting unless I’m looking after a genuine babe. But then they mentioned the fee. It would keep me in hooch for weeks.

“OK”, I said, “where do I need to go?”

“It’s a place in England”, said the rat-faced one. “A rather handsome country-house called Toad Hall.”