FOREWORD (62 page)

We have all met men who send out Johnny-One-Note signals: “I am never jealous” or “Nobody can hurt my feelings.” Not much insight is necessary to sense that an opposite fear is being defended against. Flexible personalities like those of the men in this chapter can take troubling aspects of life and find satisfaction by reversing them in fantasy. Men who must ever boast “I am the biggest, 200 percent male macho stud you’ll ever meet” get no rest. All they can do when their anxiety button is pushed is repeat their stereotype, only louder.

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In a restaurant, if someone else’s order looks better than our own, don’t we often ask for a taste to appease our envy and curiosity? If a man likes women, and enjoys their breasts and vaginas, isn’t it logical that he might occasionally fantasize about what it might “taste” like to, have female organs for himself for once?

Fantasy has the power to take us back to that magic time of childhood when it seemed possible to have a penis, and a vagina, and to be a blue pony, too, all at the same time.

Alex’s fantasy (above) fits right into this mood; what a romp to have both a cock and a cunt. Brewster covets the multiple orgasms “a lot of females enjoy.” Neither of these men gives me the feeling he would like to be a woman; on the contrary, they seem so strongly centered in their masculinity that they can toy with an idea that would give most men the shudders: swapping genders. Whatever anxiety is present in these fantasies has been turned around, expressed, and made into an Alice-in-Wonderland trip.

If Alex and Brewster make games of their fantasies, Horatio (above) approaches his like a roller coaster … first there is fear at the bottom of the stomach, then the dare is taken, the ticket bought, followed by a ride of ever – increasing excitement. Having a fantasy in which he himself had enormous breasts was anxious – making at first for Horatio; the thought

“disgusted” him. But he finds the idea thrilling, too, and is determined to pursue his wild ride of the imagination to the end. In a fantasy foursome, he grows enormous breasts, his wife has a giant cock, and all the rest, he says, is “heaven” –

one of the most unusual and imaginative fantasies I’ve ever heard.

“JOAN”

I am a male but have always wanted to be a girl. Not that I would go for men, though I do hear how wonderful it is and Nancy Friday

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wonder what it would be like. Nevertheless, I still ardently prefer women.

I think I was about eight when I first discovered girls wore garments described as “bloomers,” not the gym knickers type, but pink silk ones. These and long stockings I would have given my eye teeth to wear. If I were single and young, I should have a sex change operation. What about a six-foot female with measurements of 44-38, and a face like a horse?

I have come a long way since those early days, and climb into female gear whenever the chance presents itself. I love the marvelous tight feeling of a long-line bra and panty girdle, and/or corsets. The strange feeling of a tight stocking top around the thigh and the brush of one silken clad leg against the other really sends me. I have walked over the hills on a moonlit summer night in girl’s clothes, including high heels and full makeup.

This is my favorite fantasy: I have been invited to this gathering of girls (anonymously) and go out of curiosity. It is a beautiful house in about ten acres of grounds at the cliff edge.

There are eight girls when I enter. Two are sitting naked by the fire rubbing each other with oil. The organizer, Helga, says, “You must meet Connie. This is her house. She only joined last month and doesn’t know anyone yet. So I have asked her to look after you today.”

Connie is slightly on the small side, just my height, her hair a mass of tight black curls, contrasting with my crimson mane, and what a figure, it must be 37-22-36.

“Right,” says Helga to me, “you can take your clothes off, after all, we are all girls together.”

I am a bit mystified.

“Come along to my bedroom,” says Connie, “you must hang up that long dress and also check your makeup. There won’t be another chance.” I go along. She is wearing such pretty blue frilly underwear, I feel a sudden urge to throw my arms around her and hug her. What a pair of tits she has.

They are beautifully sloped, hard and firm, and the nipples Men In Love

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are standing right out. Actually our figures are exactly the same and neither of us has a hair on our bodies. With a bag over our heads, you couldn’t tell us apart. Although I haven’t looked, I can tell my nipples are as hard as Connie’s.

She comes over and plants a soft kiss on my lips. This time I yield to the temptation. I fling my arms around her and hug her close. “Oh, Connie,” I say, “what is going to happen?” She just leans against me, soft and warm. “Don’t worry,” she says, “you are going to enjoy yourself.” She catches my hand and we return to the main room.

I am sitting in the center of the settee, Connie on my lap.

She puts her arm around me. “It’s all right,” she says, “I had to go through it last month, but it’s really quite nice.” I don’t know what it is, but don’t worry.

She pulls gently as I close my eyes, and I lie back against her. I can feel her hot breasts against my back. Her other arm is round me now feeling the other tit. “I think,” she says,

“that from your reaction, you are going to enjoy your initiation more than all the rest of us put together. I was a virgin,” says Connie, “as I think you are, and the gag was quite necessary. I should have screamed the place down. They left me with the vibrators going for half an hour. Then they let the men in. After they had tossed me up and down in a blanket for fifteen minutes –”

“Men!” I scream and struggle.

“Yes,” she says, “that’s why we have to gag you. Anyway,” she whispers in my ear, “I have organized it so that you can’t be screwed by the men either. The others don’t know about this yet!” I can feel my nipples standing straight as she presses against my tits.

Next the girls drag me forward. My body is suspended from the rafter and I am hanging by the wrists. Now it is about to happen. Another pull and I am swinging like a pendulum, twisting and turning. At last, they lower me till my feet are on the floor, my hands still high above my head. It doesn’t hurt my wrists, as the straps are so well padded. The girls rub cream all over my body. They are quite expert, the Nancy Friday

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sensations are fantastic. Between them, they keep me just below coming for an hour. I am mad with desire.

Someone is running a finger up and down the nylon covering my sex. I scream and struggle, but am firmly held. Connie redoubles her efforts with her mouth. The shooting stars all seem to go off at once. It takes a tremendous time, my mind is blowing for ages, but suddenly I come.

They take off the gag and one girl gives me a stiff drink. I am so dizzy, the whole room seems to be sliding sideways.

They release my wrists and ankles and carry me over to a cushion-strewn table and chain me out in an X to the extremities. I am too dizzy to resist.

I can see Connie has an enormous artificial penis sticking out in front of her. You couldn’t get one of those into a girl, I think. With a shock I realize it’s for me.

Now she is lying on top of me squirming. She darts her little tongue into my mouth. I wish it would go right down my throat.

“I love you, Connie. I love you!” I murmur.

“I love you too,” she whispers. She lines up the device.

Four girls get behind her while another checks the line-up and applies some more grease. Then the girls chant,

“Ten…nine…eight…” I shall know exactly when it is going to happen, what will it be like? Then I think: Something I can never get back will be gone in a few seconds. It seems an age between each count. “Two…one,” and the four girls all rush together. My single shriek is cut to a gurgle at this most exquisite moment. I feel I have been transfixed by an artillery shell, which turns into a tree trunk as it slams home. I must have come. I scream once more and realize Connie is on top of me still going. Her eyes are glazed and mouth open. Her tongue goes right down my throat. What a sensation) I kiss Connie, her hands are on my tits, pushing them backwards and forwards across hers. The rest of the girls watch fascinated.

“Stop it, you two,” says Helga, “the men are coming in now.” As the men enter, Connie and I are stood up, still Men In Love

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chained to one another. The other girls pair off with the men.

Rough hands reach for me and Connie and we hug one another, pressing our tits together, our tongues intertwined. The men enter us in the only available place. It hurts, but the two of us cling together. Eventually the men leave. “I’ve never seen anything like the two of you lovebirds,” says Helga. “I think you were made for each other. You will never be subjected to men again.”

Helga and the others leave. Connie and I decide to spend the rest of our lives together.

As you can see, I am an out-and-out lesbian.

DEAN

I am a forty-year-old male.

My sexual fantasy is to have my hand inside my panties, with my palm on my mound of love and middle finger between the lips of my pussy touching my clitoris.

I believe I am transsexual. Ever since reading about Christine Jorgensen, twenty-five years ago, I have wanted to be rid of my dick and balls and that muscle root where a pussy should be.

I want to lie on my belly in bed and rub my mound of love against the mattress. I want to walk briskly and have a feeling of freedom and nothingness between my legs. I want to cross my legs tightly and squeeze an empty crotch.

I want to run nude and swim nude, free of confining clothes and free of the dick and balls I have hated so much for so long. I want a mound of love I can shave ... and oil ...

and powder ... and love.

“Joan” (above) has always “wanted to be a girl,” and even chooses a woman’s name for signature. But the fantasy itself is about sex with a woman. “As you see,” says Joan, “I am a lesbian.” The usual name for someone who has a penis and Nancy Friday

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desires sex with women is man. Joan may have strong transvestite desires, but nowhere in “her” long fantasy is there a word about the over-riding passion of the true transsexual: hatred and loathing for one’s own penis.

In 1952, moved exactly by this fierce dislike of the male organ, the woman we know today as Christine Jorgensen went through the first highly publicized sex-change operation. In a recent newspaper interview, Christine was asked, now that she has lived so long as a woman, would she undergo the operation if she had to do it all over again? The answer was an unhesitating yes. This is gender identity of a very high order – psychological belief so strong it absolutely denies anatomical evidence.

The only man in this chapter who does voice hatred for his penis is Dean (above). He won’t touch it, even when he masturbates. Says psychotherapist Dr. Schaefer, “Rubbing up against the sheets in bed is a common form of masturbation among transsexual men. They don’t want to see their penis, they don’t want to acknowledge it the way you would if it were handled.”

Another trait Dean has in common with most transsexuals, Dr. Schaefer continues, is that his fantasy is not so much about sex as a woman as life as a woman. “Transsexuals are gender oriented,” Dr. Schaefer says, “much more than sex oriented. Their fantasies may more often be about darning a man’s socks, or cooking for him, than focused on going to bed with him.” Dean’s imagination is gripped not so much by ideas of sex as by the pleasures of feeling oneself female.

Dr. Schaefer continues: “People who are searching for identities are quick to grab any label, even an unflattering one, to tell themselves who they are. I can understand that they want to end their frustrations, their gnawing feelings of bewilderment; but it is a very dangerous game. All the men in this chapter play with the idea of being women in one way or another; but in my professional opinion, Dean’s fantasy is the only one that might signal a therapist that here is a transsexual.”

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Sadomasochism:

The Chains of Love

Enslaved in Egypt, the Jews cried out, asking why God was so cruel. The prophets replied that the punishment must be accepted; because He loved them so, God was disciplining His chosen people for their own good.

Faced with the problem of what gift could be made as proof of devotion to an omnipotent Being, the Christian saints offered up their voluntary suffering.

The idea that love and pain are inextricably mixed is enshrined in the Bible itself.

I have always hated the cliché that women are the masochistic sex. I am not excited by movie violence, and the emotions of shame and humiliation trouble me more than any other. Again and again as I went over the material for this chapter, I almost gave up the effort to understand the devil’s rage of S&M fantasies.

And yet, if we could come to see how pleasure can be born of pain, if we could make contact in ourselves with that left-handed love that makes a man dream of degrading the woman he desires most, couldn’t we understand almost anything else in human sexuality?

To begin, I had to move from the point of view of the shocked judgmental observer; get rid of the relentlessly egocentric picture of myself as possible victim. I was to Perhaps the idea most difficult to understand is that sexuality can be tangled up with nursery emotions. Dear God, if we aren’t separated from childhood when in bed with our lovers, when does adult life begin?

I personally have resisted this inference all my life, and assume most readers have, too – especially men, who are supposed to have cut the cord to home and mother so much earlier than women. But no understanding of these fantasies of torture masters, groveling slaves, and pain can be reached Nancy Friday

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without accepting that they are both infantile and grandiose at the same time.

Beneath their wildly differing and exotic details, the
common denominator is fury at the loss of authority and
control to women.
In our society, father usually abdicates the raising and discipline of small children to mother. You may remember father as harsh or kind, but all of us tend to forget how relatively late he enters our emotional lives. He is not usually the one who feeds and nurtures the baby, covers him when he is cold, picks him up when frightened – or punishes him into acceptance of civilization’s first rules.