Beyond My Control: Forbidden Fantasies in an Uncensored Age (15 page)

I believe masturbation is a form of self-gratification and is basically therefore a sin. But I like it. It’s sort of addictive because I can’t stop, though I know I should be doing more important things.

Through recent interviews, I’ve found that a woman mastur- bating may not be as appealing to men as it was thirty years ago. Perhaps, because of the Internet, it’s now so accessible. Or that competing with women in the workplace has taken some

of the blush off the rose. But when the mating dance does begin, most males expect that we are as fond of our vaginas as they are of their penises. What a jolt to learn the reason we are reluctant to accept his adoration of what lies between our legs isn’t because we prize it so dearly but instead disparage the sight and smell of it.

How did it get such a bad name, touching this place between our legs? It’s clean, easy, cheap, takes the edges off anxiety, and, yes, teaches us that our orgasm is our responsibility, that our sexuality resides within ourselves and isn’t a gift that another person controls. Where did anti-masturbatory rules come from? In an age such as ours, plagued by violence, drug addiction, sexu- ally transmitted diseases, it should be made a law that parents encourage their children to do what is natural.

Th individual’s need to be in control has accelerated as the world grows more chaotic. I am not weighing erotic pleasure opposite today’s disasters, simply suggesting that what God gave us might be reassessed and acknowledged as the gifts they are.

The vagina has come into its own in recent years, and nothing has been more helpful than masturbation. How can you deni- grate a place that can give so much pleasure with so little effort? A man rejoices, “Women really do love sex, just like me!” He is overjoyed, full of surprise and gratitude at the idea of women en- joying masturbation, that a woman would be so hot—like him— and would reach orgasm simply by putting her hands between her legs—like him. But nothing convinces a man that women enjoy sex as much as when she initiates the sex—actually lays

him down and does him.

c o N F e s s i o N s o F a B o y T o y

Ryan

The son of irish Catholic parents and a professor of literature, Ryan writes in great and exquisite detail of his “sunrise” fantasy with his girlfriend, who is studying art in Venice, and “sunset” fantasy with a woman who is off-limits.

My fantasy in the afternoon involves a young Latin American girl who lives in my same apartment building. I’ll call her Martina. She’s studying art and photography at the same university where I teach. Incidentally, this prevents me from asking her out. I am completely intoxicated by her. When I see her pull up in her car, I’ll often change into my running shorts and go out my door, descending the stairs as she goes up. We often exchange greetings. A few times, she has even knocked on my door, seeking advice, usually something related to her studies.

In my fantasy, I see her pull up in her car. I take my shirt off. (I’m in excellent physical shape—blond, tanned, well-toned body—so why not try to seduce her?) I see that she’s depressed and ask her what’s wrong. She tells me her model cancelled on her the last minute and her portfolio is due tomorrow. What model? I ask her. She blushes slightly, saying she needs some photographs of a male. Why don’t you photograph me, I suggest. She throws her arms round my neck, telling me, could I be serious? I say, sure, why not? Then, she looks past me, biting her lip, her dark hair falling past her eyes, before she looks into my eyes, and almost whispers, “Will you model for me—nude?”

I tell her to let me think about it while I run a few miles. As I run, I have a hard-on the whole time. When I get back to the apartment, there’s a note on my door: “Ryan, I will always be in your debt. Martina.” I go to her door, and just as I get ready to knock, she answers, handing me a glass of white wine. She’s playing jazz, and she’s wearing a kind of

kimono. I can see her nipples peeking out slightly to the side of the silky material as she leans over to pick up her camera from a table. She tells me she’ll step out of the room a minute while I get out of my clothes. My hard-on has gone down, but I’m afraid it will return when Martina re-enters. I think about baseball and football, fishing, anything to put heat out of my loins. I step out of my gym shorts and wait. Martina comes back into the room, smiles, and compliments me for having a sexy body. She says my body is much sexier than the guy who cancelled on her in the last minute. She begins snapping photos, asking me to try to move to the rhythm of the music. She keeps saying, “Beautiful, baby, beautiful,” as she snaps photo after photo from a variety of angles. She then says she wants me to lean facedown on her bed, as she photographs me from behind, telling me the whole time I have one sexy bottom.

She tells me to stand in the middle of the room as she opens the shades and lets the soft sunlight into the room. She wants me wet and asks me not to move as she rubs mineral water into my hair, brushing her pelvis up against my cock (now hardening). She then towel-dries my hair slightly, her tits and hard nipples now protruding out of her kimono, nearly touching my lips as she rubs me on tiptoes. By now I’m completely hard and throbbing against her pelvis. She then squirts baby lotion over my chest and buttocks, rubbing the oil all over my body, sometimes teasing my cock as she runs her palm lightly over my thighs. She begins photographing me, telling me I have a delicious cock, that I’m as sexy as Michelangelo’s David, and that if I don’t cum, she’s going to be very nice to me.

She lets the kimono fall to the fl and her cunt is absolutely beautiful, with her dark moist pubis in front of me. She tells me, pointing to her lithe body, that this is all mine for modeling for her. I rush to her, embrace her legs, and lick her thighs before circling her dripping clit with my tongue, taking in her delicious scent, before plunging my tongue

deeper, licking and sucking, and she writhes with pleasure. She whimpers with delight and then has a shattering orgasm, causing her to buckle and fall to the floor. I won’t let her go. I begin sucking her breasts, kissing her neck, turning her on her belly, kissing her peach-shaped ass. I then fuck her with slow gentle strokes, caressing her wet vaginal lips with the tip of my cock, before slowly sliding it into her deeper, with long rhythmic strokes, sticking my index finger up her tight ass.

She begins screaming and moaning as I finally let out a tremendous flow of semen deep into her cunt. I turn her over, let her kiss her own juices off my lips, and then she moves down on me, lapping my belly and taking my once again hard dick into her mouth, her lipstick-coated lips leaving a ring around my shaft as I have another orgasm. She then tells me to leave, handing me some money, and tells me she might want me to model again for her soon.

I listen to my contributors in this book, read the headlines in the morning paper, the Internet’s endless coverage of every- thing, and wonder how today’s world affects eros. Growing up now, physical and emotional boundaries ever expanding, a sure- ness of life vanishing, we live in a kind of chaos. I am deeply moved by the self-portraits of young people in this book. Can we be surprised when they speak of masturbatory fantasies of torture and punishment, both physical and emotional?

We no longer need a partner to “complete” ourselves. Aside from anatomical differences, men and women duplicate one an- other, do the same jobs, and raise children without the oppo- site sex. Before we had the answer to everything—thanks to the Internet—we cosseted the mysteries, the unknowns that were

aroused by sex. Without the crucial differences between the sexes, we say to ourselves, “I don’t need anyone. I am complete unto myself.”

Masturbation has never been more prevalent. What has di- minished is romantic music, the feelings of longing, the excruci- ating sense of “I’ll die if you leave me, if I don’t see you soon, if you don’t hold me and arouse in me that deep sense of urgency.”

Is it any wonder that fantasies of being
made
to succumb and

forced to lay down are so prevalent?

j a N e T a k e s T a r z a N

Sam

Sam, a thirty-two-year-old, handsome Latin american, happened to walk in on a neighbor couple’s hot sex as a teenager. as the woman was on top of the man, he perceived her to be dominant, taking him. Excited by what he saw, he im- mediately went home to masturbate and now has a plethora of fantasies in his arsenal of women who are in a position of power over him sexually. in contrast to Ryan, he is not just a sex symbol but a powerful man overtaken by an even more powerful woman.

My current fantasies tend to be very well-developed and quite involved. I am usually a character of popular folklore. For example, in one, I am Tarzan, King of the Jungle. I am handsome, well-built, and wear only a skimpy leopard-skin bikini. I rule by virtue of my strength and fighting ability. One day, some of the male natives tell me of rumors about a woman named Sheena who rules another part of the jungle. They say that they are finding it increasingly difficult to control their women because it is said that this Sheena is coming to confront and defeat Tarzan and will then establish a society dominated by women.

Finally, we meet and engage in a no-holds-barred, winner-take- all battle in front of the natives. Sheena is tall, beautiful, and very muscular. She is dressed in a tiny zebra-skin bikini. At first, the battle is closely contested. The men cheer whenever I gain the advantage; the women do the same for my opponent. Eventually, Sheena’s superior strength and fighting ability allow her to take control and dominate. At one point, I am reduced to tears of frustration as I realize that defeat is inevitable and I, and all of the men, shall soon be slaves of women.

The battle ends with me on my knees begging for mercy. Sheena then encircles my neck with a leather collar to which she attaches a leash. She strips me naked and makes me kneel and kiss her feet. She then announces that this is the natural order and that all should comply. Most of the men immediately strip and sink to their knees as the women remove the collars from around their own necks and affix them to the necks of the men. The few men that resist are immediately subdued and beaten into submission. In their jubilation, many of the women rape their new slaves and/or force them to service them orally.

Sheena then leads me to her treehouse, where I am instructed as to my domestic duties and learn that my role in life is to serve my mistress’s pleasure. I am kept naked at all times, and I am taught to use my tongue with great skill. I am trained to stay hard for long periods of time. I am never to have an orgasm without permission but must provide her with several every day. I am given permission to cum only rarely and if I do by accident am administered with various devices.

masTurBa TioN: pure Freedom!

I believe in masturbation, as I do in fantasy. There is so much to be learned from it, beginning with “Know thyself.” Until we have

masturbated and discovered that we share a unique compatibil- ity with our genitals, we are cheating ourselves. There are many that believe lying to their child about sex is for their own good, pretending that sex doesn’t exist—their genitals, at best, are in- visible—will help the child’s acceptance into society. I wish they would take a closer look, not just at the surface but at the deeper effects these lies have had on their children. Perhaps they would become more open, honest, and, yes, permissive as parents.