FOREWORD (40 page)

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she deeply enjoyed the experience. As I embrace her and enter her, she trembles all over, but her trembling is as much for him as it is for me.

Michael (above) gives us an example of someone gripped by the macho imperative society has dealt him, unhappy with it, but unable to move beyond it except in fantasy. The conflict can be heard in his own words. He is the kind of man who gets angry when a woman’s high heels make her taller than he, but he “fantasizes being raped by a woman.” The dash in this sentence denotes his astonishment, but does the event arouse his male fury? No. “I’m really caring about pleasing her,” he says. “It’s as if I’ve really given myself to her” – something he has not been able to do with his real-life one-night stands. What bewilders and shocks him is that once he’s relieved of the necessity for being ever dominant, his tenderness comes out.

If Michael were a masochist, he might pick a whore or a lady wrestler as his aggressive, conquering antagonist. Instead, he chooses “sweet looking” Evelyn, “not a bit like what myself and my buddies find, feel, fuck and forget on the singles bar scene.” He dolefully admits he is a product of the

“all-American male double standard” – an admission I doubt really embarrasses him. Conceding you’re a male chauvinist may make you a pig to a feminist, but it certainly does not make you less of a man, at least in your own eyes. In fact, much as his fantasy turns him on, Michael will probably marry an Evelyn, whom he will put on a pedestal at home, while continuing on to find, fuck, and forget other, less sweet women ... wondering all the while why he never found his dream girl.

If Michael is an example of how the new male attitudes toward tenderness have not yet been fully integrated into the contemporary male character, Conrad seems more all of a piece; his desire to be seduced in fantasy seems to be more closely meshed with what he is like in real life – he is gentle, Men In Love

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less aggressive than Michael. Conrad’s plight is equal and opposite to the position of those women – also victims of society’s war against individual temperament who are basically sexually aggressive, but who repress these desires for fear they are “unwomanly.”

Then we have Ned. His two fantasies map his basic split.

In the first, the woman takes the lead – as he has always wished. But the second fantasy shows identification with the man who brutally tears his wife’s nightgown – an image of traditional, overpowering male sexuality.

It is notorious that in times of stress such as ours, when both sexes are trying to break out of limiting roles, people become anxious that they have gone too far, and fall back on older, more conventional forms first learned in childhood.

The model for this is in childhood itself: The baby goes crawling away from mother to explore the fascinating new world in the next room, then becomes frightened at finding itself alone in new circumstances. It comes rushing back to mother’s skirts.

Ned’s first fantasy about women taking the lead is new and unexplored territory to him. It is exciting, but fearsome, too, stirring up anxieties of loss of masculinity. Ned hastens back to safety, dreaming up a second fantasy, one that posits old-fashioned notions about barbed-wire masculinity.

The ideas in the air today on gender identity and role reversal are so new, so untested, that neither sex feel they can completely trust the other to play their part wholeheartedly.

No matter how a man may fantasize about sexually assertive, take-charge women, he often becomes inhibited when he meets one in real life.

There can be several reasons for this. First, while it feels good to be sexually done to in fantasy where you control everything – no pain or humiliation – it is not so easy to find the right woman or situation in reality. Second, while fantasies end in glorious climaxes, real relationships go on the next morning. It may feel good to give in to the woman the Nancy Friday

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night before; but when she continues her assertive ways in front of your friends, it is less appealing.

A man meets an up-front woman who says, “Let’s skip the movie and just go back to my place right now.” She tells him what she wants. She likes her nipples sucked, she likes her oral sex this way and not that. At one point she may take over and command him to just lie there while she does this and that wonderful thing to him. When they say goodbye that night or the next morning, does he just feel it, does he see it in her eyes, or does she actually say – all hope and yearning dependence – “Will you call tonight? When will I be seeing you again?” Last night’s sex began as shared responsibility; she even implied it was all her idea; but intimacy has a way of regressing us, and the morning sun shines now on a curious reversal. He has retreated back into his role as the man who takes care of the woman. She has once again become someone who wants to be taken care of, someone who ever needs to see sex in terms of romance, growing intimacy, and a hold on him.

And so it goes. Men and women long to meet on some new, common ground fertile to happiness; but the profound revolution of freedom for both sexes cannot be won just by declaring you are different; we do not change merely because we’ve read a few magazine articles or books such as this.

Attitudes and action can almost be said to be functions of the will. We can decide that we like this, or want to do that.

What we feel in our gut moves to a much slower rhythm, and in accordance with emotional developments that have a life of their own. Our deepest feelings – what we learned from our parents – change between generations, if they change at all.

We take one step backward for every step and a half forward. Many women have found to their sorrow that men sigh for up-front women, but once they are back in his apartment, things are different. She excuses herself to go to the bathroom and emerges stark naked – only to find he is put off by her cool, in-control manner.

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This is one of the characteristic sexual impasses of our time. The man may turn angry or impotent; the woman feels she could kill herself for shame. To confuse what we want in fantasy with what we can handle in reality is naive.

GILBERT

I had a relatively uneventful life until puberty. Early puberty was a wrestling match between God and the Devil. Finally, I gave in to sexual fantasies (with guilt for a while) and during one of these I came for the first time at age fourteen.

Since then until now (age thirty-eight) I have only come about once or twice without a fantasy. The range of these fantasies has covered almost everything. The greatest variety occurred during my young years while masturbating.

The Sexy Female is the most powerful theme. She takes many forms but the basis for her existence is related to a “human female in heat” who will do almost anything to get the sex “she needs”! She has to have it – and some male(s) have to give it to her any and all ways. She needs her pussy licked and I or someone else has to do it. She needs to be fucked and I or someone else has to give it to her. It is her strong powerful desire that triggers my desires. She is sometimes sophisticated, sometimes a floozy, sometimes a straight woman trying to be “good” (but her sexual desires are too strong). We do it her way and I’m glad. I can love her like a male would and I can love her like a lesbian would.

My current fantasy involves my wife and allowing her sexual identity to go as far as it can go. Fantasy and reality get mixed together. I come to her pleasure, her excitement, her thrills, her “jumping for joy,” her emotions – and I come often. I have fucked numerous women, but can never come except with a fantasy. My wife is too fucking sexy and I love every minute of it!

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MORT

I’m only sixteen, but have an okay sex life. I’m an artist (love to paint girls). I’m fairly tall (6’1”) and get an erection the second someone says girl(s).

They say guys don’t fantasize but I fantasize quite a bit. It goes something like this:

It’s a heat-wave type of day at a sandy beach. I’m walking down the beach looking at the girls. They get up one by one and follow me. Then I go back toward some woods beyond the beach. (By now I am calmly masturbating.) All of a sudden the girls all jump on me. I start eating out one, but there are so many I never get a chance to finish on one of them.

They are kissing and licking me like crazy! One is sucking on my cock and another licking my balls. I come, and then tell them that they all can suck on me. By now I really come, and this one ends. For some reason I don’t lose my erection.

I usually read or look at books and magazines when masturbating. I go to the bathroom and sit on the “pot.” I like to look at hot cunts in magazines. They turn me on past no return. Sometimes if I am feeling guilty, my fantasy answers by having the girls bite off or stomp on my dick.

CLEMENT

I am 27, and my only sexual experience has been with prostitutes since I am quite shy and socially introverted.

However, I do masturbate frequently and have fantasies while doing so. In most all cases they involve sexually aggressive women.

For example, in fantasy number one a woman in a leather jumpsuit holds me on the bed and essentially rapes me, holding me tight and giving me deep soul kisses. Sometimes she straps on a dildo and shoves it up my, ass.

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In fantasy number two it is a female vampire who while sucking my neck is sucking on my dick with her pussy. This really brings me off.

And in fantasy number three I am a beautiful lesbian mud can feel what my lover feels when we make love. I’ve even had a dream about such an experience and did I ever hate to wake up.

The women in these and other fantasies actively work at making love to me. I suppose it is society’s requirement that men always be the aggressor; and yet, I do wish that I someday could find a woman who will take some of the pressure to perform onto herself. Hopefully I am not the only man to feel this way.

DEKE

I have gone to a strange apartment to deliver a package. A beautiful girl answers the door and lets me in. She has long honey-blond hair, a sexy face and a superb set of high, firm tits. She has on a pair of red “hot pants,” a tight white silklike blouse, and a pair of eight-inch high heels with small black straps that have tiny padlocks on them instead of regular straps. As I hand her the package, she “accidentally” pushes her breasts against my arm and I feel her erect nipples through the taut cloth. I notice her eyes giving me the “once over,” but they linger on my crotch. I notice also that there are several pairs of panties laying around and a bunch of brassieres with locks on the couch.

Then her roommate walks in; and I can feel my eyes bulge. She is a luscious redhead with a tiny waist, big green eyes and she is wearing only a pair of black lace bikini panties and the eight-inch high-heel shoes with the tiny locks. Her bare breasts are firm, round globes of bouncing flesh, each crested with a hard pink nipple on a tan, quarter-size areola.

She comes right up to me and puts her arms around me and gives me such a long, warm, lingering kiss – I can feel my Nancy Friday

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cock “come to attention” as she presses against my body. My hands find her breasts and I’m squeezing them as she pushes her tongue into my mouth. They offer me a “Whiskey Sour” and turn on the hi-fi. I take turns dancing with them and they tell me their names. The blond one is Mona and the redhead is Laura. While I dance with Mona, my hands slip down on her buttocks and find their way under her tight blouse. Her boobs are superb also, with erect nipples that I can feel as I thrust my hand inside her 38D bra.

Then with Laura helping hold Mona, I suddenly unbutton the blouse and unhook the bra, and peel off the tight red hot pants. She is laughing and gasping as we hold her down on the rug and we wrestle around. I kiss her big breasts and flat belly as Laura works Mona’s panties down her squirming bottom, and pulls them off her long legs. I have Mona’s nipples in my mouth, sucking them eagerly, as I feel Laura’s hand grab my stiffening cock; her hand pushes between my legs and she proceeds to stroke me into a full erection. Having unzipped my pants, opened my belt and pulled off my pants and slipped off my Jockey shorts, Laura then brings out a black leather “harness” with all kinds of belts and velvet ropes, which she straps onto Mona’s body. As I watch, the young woman is bound with the thing. It is like a corset with a full zipper on the back, but straps on the sides, allowing a person’s arms to be secured in place. Mona’s full breasts are thrust up and bulge seductively as the cups grip her snugly and velvet ropes bind her ankles and wrists. A leather gag with a rubber ball fixed to it is inserted into her open mouth and she is “finished.”

We lift Mona and place her on a large queen-sized bed in the girls’ bedroom, and Laura puts a record on the stereo. It is Ravel’s Bolero, and at Laura’s urging, I place myself at her service and follow her suggestions. The music begins slow, and I guide my stiff cock slowly into Mona’s parted thighs and thrust into her damp cleft. The music gradually gets louder and my hip action tries to match the tempo of the music as I plunge deep into her. Mona’s eyes are wide and she is Men In Love

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moaning deep in her throat; her hands opening and closing and her hips moving up to meet me with each stroke. As the classical piece nears the end, I can feel her body tense and a pressure building up in my loins, and I speed up. Then the climax and I erupt in a series of tremendous pulsations, as the record comes to an end.

Out of what notion of human nature comes the widespread feeling that men are terrifically non-monogamous fellows who feel no sexual guilt at all? In reality, no boy goes through the oedipal stages of life without learning inhibition; but the role playing goes on – men must at least pretend to feel no shyness or guilt. Women are the ones who usually resort to erotic imaginings for encouragement to let go. Gilbert is one of the few men I’ve heard from who cannot climax – during masturbation or intercourse— without the guilt-melting heat of fantasy.