Forbidden Flowers (19 page)

time. I have never told anyone about my fantasies before, and I feel relieved that I can write it to someone (also very horny right now).

Thank you again for a great book.

Gloria

I feel as if I can address you by your first name, since you shared with me and your other readers such an intimate part of yourself. Right now I am lying on a bed, with your book in front of me. For some reason, none of my fantasies, except for one shortly alluded to, is in your book.

I am one of those people who do not fantasize while making love; I more or less lose consciousness instead, being aware only of physical sensations. I do fantasize when I am bored, or horny and alone. Although I consider myself
very
sophisticated sexually (nothing ever surprised me), I'm just finding out some new things now. My new lover is my sexual
ideal,
shows me positions I've never heard of. Nor is he inhibited about talking during or after sex, and asks me about what turns me on, or how something feels. Maybe one day I'll tell him about my fantasies, since he's one of the few men who are really secure about their masculinity. He feels no need to prove anything to anyone, which is one of the reasons I love him more than anyone.

But about my fantasies themselves. My favorite one is also the longest and most detailed.

I imagine myself driving a convertible sports car. (Speed is a sexual turn-on, something racing drivers don't admit to as a reason for liking fast driving.) Anyway, I am going about ninety miles an hour down a freeway, and I pull up beside another sports car with its top down, as mine is. Driving the car is an attractive boy of about seventeen. He looks over at me, grins, and speeds up his car, so that he is going as fast as I am.

This willingness to play along with me and his appearance turn me on. (It only takes five minutes to arouse me to orgasm.) He turns off the same exit I do, so I begin to follow him. He is very aware of me and drives to a secluded area and pulls over to the 128

side of the road. I pull up behind him and get out of the car immediately. I am wearing hot pants and a halter top (great legs and shoulders). I decide to handle the situation as directly as possible. When I reach his car window, I bend down close to him and say, “Driving like that is really a turn-on.” He smiles at me rather shyly and agrees. Before long, we are discussing cars enthusiastically, and one topic leads to another.

Soon I am sitting in his car with him, and we move closer and closer together, until we are embracing and kissing instead of talking. We become aroused quickly, and he tells me, reluctantly, that he is a virgin. I tell him that we all have to start somewhere, then invite him to come home with me; he agrees eagerly.

The next two hours are so unique to me, for I have never made love to a virgin before. I enjoy the look on his face as he enters me for the first time, and thrill to the sound of his moan and gasp when he comes. Altogether, we make love three times, and I come at least eight times. Finally, he says he must go home. He writes down my phone number before he leaves, and I know I will hear from him again.

I once came close to acting out this fantasy. I met the man the way I met the boy in my fantasy, but he was by no means a virgin, but a rather lazy, selfish lover.

I have another fantasy involving a pool under a gentle water-fall, and one in which I make love with another woman. It would not be traumatic for me to enact my fantasies in real life, as I do not fantasize about rape or sadism or anything that I wouldn't like to try sometime. I guess I don't feel even subconsciously guilty or hostile, at least not where my sexuality is concerned. I do sometimes fantasize clobbering somebody over the head with a baseball bat, but only when I'm mad at them.

I am going to read your book again, and I am looking forward to reading your second one. It would be interesting to see my fantasy printed in a book like yours, as I encourage people to become more open about this aspect of their sexuality. Perhaps, when, or if, men are able to accept this aspect of women, we will be able to better understand each other on all levels.

I was impressed by your openness and philosophy of liking yourself. I believe self-acceptance is one of the true keys to 129

happiness with one's life, which is why I am not ashamed to give my real name. Thanks and best wishes for success with your next book.

Please excuse the odd handwriting, but I am stoned, which allowed me to be honest.

One of the great needs that sexual fantasy fulfills for a woman is that of foreplay. Fantasy helps us reach that level of arousal he is at already … or he wouldn't have invited us into the bedroom to begin with. In a more egalitarian society, it will not matter if the man or the woman is the sexual initiator; if one is in the mood and the other is not, there will be no great feeling of rejection, because the roles can as easily be switched next time.

Right now, however, given the male-oriented rules under which we live, it is usually the man who gets the action going
when he's ready.
Almost conspiratorially, women go along with this idea, perpetuating the myth of man as the lusty beast who must half-coax, half-wrestle his powerless, shy maiden into bed. In her heart, every woman knows how incomplete this picture is.

It doesn't take into account the times when she's lusty as hell, and he's a hundred miles away, or times when he's panting like a bull, and she has a roast in the oven, the children to pick up in an hour, or simply her mind on other things. But the cold hand that grips the heart of America when we see a wife in some television drama unwittingly reject a sexually aroused husband grips our own hearts when our husband/lover reaches for us and we start to push him away. “You just don't do that to a man!” is the sampler mother silently stitched in our brains.

The “correct” thing is to let the roast burn, your own work go undone, and, yes, fake pleasure and orgasm if you don't feel like it. Satisfy his lust if you love him, because there is something mysteriously unexplained about what will happen to the male ego if he is sexually rejected. It's not just that he'll get warts on his scrotum, turn to some other (probably socially diseased) woman for an outlet; what is equally awful is that we 130

ourselves will feel less of a woman for having rejected him.

Our womanliness rests on his desiring us. Our “selfishness” (as we have been trained to call it) may risk our entire future sexual happiness together. He may not try the next time; he may lose interest; something terrible and bad may happen not just to his cock as well as temporarily to his male ego but perhaps permanently to our shaky status as “real women” To be fair, it is a lovely feeling to be surprised in the middle of a household chore, or while at the typewriter, to find that your lover has this giant erection and is dying for you. He's frantically working that damn jammed zipper, leading you toward the bedroom while covering you with kisses and fondling your breasts … you are pleased, laughing with pleasure and amusement and need no great urging at all. You're both enjoying his spontaneous moment together,
but you are running on different timetables.
Specifically, he's already had (or is having) his fantasy of fucking you, and is fully aroused. You are miles behind, because somewhere at the back of your mind, you're still in the middle of that complicated recipe you were following in the kitchen or unraveling that snarled paragraph in the typewriter.

The problem is further complicated by the medically documented fact that physiologically men usually reach climax sooner than women. So not only is he mentally ready for sex long before he's made you aware of his intentions but his glands and nerve endings are physically geared to race ahead of yours too. The result is that many of the most loving women often finish their sexual experiences feeling a little rushed, unsatisfied, even left out. Callie is lucky enough to have a husband who is aware of these problems. He uses sexual fantasies as a form of foreplay to ensure that his wife always reaches orgasm. In fact, he is the one who tells them to her. “The only problem,” she writes about his practice of using sexual fantasies as a form of foreplay, “is that usually your mind is racing ahead of the logical progression of the story … many times, my husband or I are unable to reach thègood part’ … because the anticipation of what's to come is all that is required” … to reach orgasm:

131

Unfortunately, not many women have husbands who are prepared to go to these lengths to stimulate their wives before penetration. Arlene writes unhappily that her husband “doesn't believe in any type of foreplay at all… Sex lasts a total of three minutes if we are lucky.”

The thing to remember is that you have a form of foreplay available to you at a moment's notice. You carry it in your mind. Try to remember one of your favorite sexual fantasies –

one that you may have read in this book, or a new one you may have invented yourself. It is a marvelous way to quickly rev yourself up to his level of excitement … to join or even beat him in the headlong rush to climax.

One of the ironies of fantasy is that the hero of our erotic reveries is rarely the man we love. Perhaps it is the very fulfillment and satisfaction we get from him that leaves nothing to the imagination, and so we need these strangers in the night to people our imaginary sexual worlds. They bring us the excitement of the unknown.

Arlene is one of the rare exceptions to the rule. Perhaps it is because her husband
does
leave her so unsatisfied that she says it is he who is making love to her when she masturbates. “I imagine us both climaxing together, and I almost go out of my mind with pleasure.”

Her fantasies show us that Arlene is hardly a sexually insatiable or strange woman. All she is asking for is something any woman is entitled to; in one of the fantasies she has sent in, perhaps she herself has found a way to get what she wants in reality. When she masturbates, Arlene writes that she uses her hairbrush, sausages, a cucumber … “I think I would die if he caught me, but I sometimes imagine him walking in, and it excites me even more.”

Perhaps she might be very happily surprised if she let him do just that?

Callie

Thank you so much for
My
Secret Garden
. I
haven't thought that I was weird, but I have wondered if other women fantasize 132

as much as I do. I am just forty years old and have been married for twenty-two years. Since I didn't have any relations prior to marriage and haven't had any with anyone except my husband, I have fantasized as to what it would be like.

During foreplay, my husband always masturbates me to a climax. I usually climax very easily, but at times need mental help – that's where the fantasies come in. My husband and I share them – in fact, he usually relates them to me. We have two favorites that we use at this time in our foreplay.

Fantasy 1:
The brush salesman arrives. He has so many items to show, I tell him to spread them on the floor in front of the couch. I excuse myself for a moment, go to the bedroom, and remove my panties. I am wearing a miniskirt, so as I sit on the edge of the couch to better see his display, I am quite exposed. He is kneeling on the floor. As he shows me his items, I show him mine. Whenever I reach down to pick up a brush, I carelessly open my thighs. I watch his eyes out of the corner of mine, and he is practically staring at my exposed cunt. I increase the exposure. He finally takes a chance and mentions something appropriate. I act semi-shocked. He says he will be gentle and logically adds that I must want him to otherwise I would have been more careful. I weaken and finally give in, but I tell him that he cannot fuck me – only my husband can do that. The best I can offer is to let him play with my cunt and suck it. He eagerly accepts. I lay back, pull my skirt all the way up, spread my legs, and he starts to move toward me. I reach down and open the lips and I usually come now, if not before.

Fantasy 2:
A variation of the first. I promise a sales appointment to a salesperson at one of those lingerie parties, in return for a hostess gift for my friend. The salesperson arrives at my house, and he is a very good-looking man. I act flustered, and he assures me that he helps women try on bras and under-garments all of the time and thinks nothing of it. I go in the bedroom and put on my robe over panties and bra. He gives me a bra to try on. I slip my robe to my waist, turn my back, and try to change bras. My robe is too hard to try to hold, and with his reassurances, I figure what the heck and let it drop. I complain of the fit – rubs and pulls in the front. He says that I 133

probably did not lay my breasts in the cups properly. He has me lean over after he has undone the bra. He reaches under and cups my breasts while explaining how it should go and feel.

While cupping my tits, he has very gently rubbed the nipples, and they are erecting. The bra fits, and I decide to take it, but after removing the demonstrator, I don't put my other one back on. I am thrilled to stand there with my lovely tits completely bare, the nipples now erected like pencil erasers, and see him looking at them. He gets out the panty hose, and I try on a pair.

I again complain of the fit. He says my panties are wrinkling up under the panty hose and suggests that, for the purpose of fitting them, I should remove my panties. By now I quickly agree. After putting the panty hose back on, I look in the full-length mirror. The hose is so sheer that nothing is left to the imagination. My cunt is really quite hairy and extends up toward my belly quite a ways. I see him looking at it in the mirror over my shoulder. By now, both in and out of the fantasy, I am very hot. I tell him that it is pulling in the crotch – knowing full well what he will do. He slips his hand down the front, over my bush, and places his fingers on the lips. He moves them about and asks if that feels better. I say somewhat, but it still isn't right. He sits in a chair nearby and asks me to come over, so he can see what the problem is. As I stand inches from him, he rolls the panty hose down over my hips and on down off of one leg. He asks me to put one foot on the arm of his chair, and he will see what was bothering me. As I do this, he leans forward into my spread legs, using his fingers to open the lips, and very gently lays his tongue between them – and I come, both in the fantasy and for real.