My Secret Garden (Women Sexual Fantasies) (22 page)

It’s important to me how the guy talks about what we’re doing: I like to hear the word "fucking," and even more, "balling"

(calling it "cunting" would be absurd, wouldn’t it? Whereas

"intercourse" is too scientific and detached, and "making love" is too liberal and has become an offensive cliché, though if I really love somebody, "making love" is not offensive as long as both people understand that it’s also fucking…then it really
feels
like making love). But I love to get myself worked up thinking or saying things like fuck, cunt, cock, dick, tits, sucking, cocking…it really makes me feel good and lewd, just so long as it’s natural and doesn’t sound like we’re trying
too
hard, using these words.

When I’m really into a fantasy, really into fucking, I love sucking a man – although my arm and hand and mouth sometimes get tired and I hate getting that choking feeling in the throat – and when I’m really aroused I like him to come in my mouth, in my hair, in my eyes, on my tits, on my ass, etc. When this happens I can imagine that he is doing the same thing to me: licking my nipples, running his tongue down the middle of my stomach down to my crotch, licking my clitoris and then right up my back. Do you understand? In my fantasy I can change the whole thing around, and that’s great.

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As for my lesbian fantasies: girls that turn me on the most are not usually friends but relative strangers. They are not necessarily

"pretty"; usually slender, feminine, but not "cutesy pie"; often tomboyish; occasionally mysterious or gypsylike in appearance.

Sometimes a super-bitch appearance turns me on. (Very fascinated to watch superfeminine idiotic types or super-feminine cool sexy type…but I can’t really fantasize this type in sexual activity with me. Not particularly turned on by "Mother Earth" or clean-cut cold look.) I’ve always fantasized about making it with this kind of women. In high school I used to parade around my room by myself with a very tight sweater on, having stuffed my mother’s bra with Kleenex (although I was very modest in public). I’ve had three real sexual experiences with women.

Usually I have to fantasize that they are men, or I think about the time I felt up this crazy chick in a car (I loved her tits!); I think about them when I’m with a girl…those tits. The last time was with a real lesbian, for whom I felt a kind of compassion. I tried thinking of myself as the aggressor, but it just didn’t work.

Now for my fantasies and sex since LSD. I should mention that I was a virgin until I was twenty-one. I’d had this strong feeling that "being felt up" or screwing would make me considered to be a whore. I really wanted to be respected. It seemed to me that all guys had this double

standard: they wanted me to give in, but if I had, they’d have thought me a whore. Finally, when I was seventeen, a guy forced me to feel him up – he tore off my blouse and played with me –and I did it – jerked him off – but I felt a total disgust and hatred.

Then, when I was twenty-one, I met this guy I loved (not my husband) and we took LSD and fucked. It was unlike anything that had ever happened before: I had none of those feelings of

"dirtiness." My mind wasn’t really thinking about the sexual organs; I lost myself in a very tangible, three-dimensional, colorful, blissful something I can’t describe. For the first time I had this strong feeling that this was another human being that I 163

loved it was a kind of fantasy in that it all went on in my mind. It was what I was thinking more than feeling with my body that made it all so beautiful, and I felt good and not at all paranoid.

For the first time I wanted to make love to
everything
in the universe (very unlike me). After that first trip, whenever I was fucking I’d remember the images in my head when I’d done it the first time, the thoughts of love, of thinking love, and I began to have orgasms. Then I had a
bad
trip on LSD, and for the next six months I had, maybe, one half an orgasm.

After that, I tried thinking my old lewd thoughts: I’d think about the guy who’d once stuck a hose up my cunt, and a wine bottle (pouring in the wine). It wasn’t that I’d enjoyed these things, but thinking about it later made me feel very liberated in the sense of letting go, trying new things, and loving a relative stranger as a human, a man whom I really didn’t like. I didn’t think about him, but the fact that we were doing such weird things, it made me feel better, more relaxed about myself and other people. Once I had a fantasy about hitchhiking, of being picked up by a dirty old man and being raped; I thought that if I made love to him and loved him, then it wouldn’t have to be rape; it was an exciting idea, and I rethought it when I was with other guys; it made me enjoy their fucking more.

I really think your book is a good idea, since nonfictional female sexual fantasies and experiences are rarely openly discussed. They are usually only in works of fiction written by men. Thank you. [Letter]

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ROOM NUMBER NINE:

THE EARTH MOTHER ROOM

The letters in the words above this room should be woven in wheat, or embroidered by hand onto a baby-blue sampler. They axe that homey and acceptable. Images of fertility rites, even the fantasy of a matriarchal society where men are fed to satisfy women’s sexual appetites, (as in Marina’s fantasy below, are close enough to mythology and to "nature" to be as acceptable as, for instance, Grimm’s fairy tales – which, despite fashionable psychoanalytic horror at their content, nevertheless put children to sleep.

Many women do, in fact, live the earth mother fantasy from day to day without arousing anxiety in anyone. Of all women’s sexual fantasies, those that depend on the idea of woman as the symbol of fertility are probably the least threatening to both men and women. Other women – women other than the fantasist –even breathe a sigh of jealousy-free relief at such a Ceres, who is usually so all-accepting as to be almost sexless. This accounts, I suppose, for the many mothers who pray that their daughters (should they fall into such a House) would go straight to this room.

But for all its Mother’s Oats cycle-of-life connotations, the image of fertility is as potent to some women as the idea of watching a girl being fucked by an Alsatian might be to the average Playboy reader.

Vivian

Vivian works part time as a secretary for a friend of mine who runs a theatrical production company from his home. She works for him in the evenings and has a fulltime job during the day. She is saving to go to medical school, "but when I start, I want to have enough money saved so that I can concentrate 165

entirely on medicine," she says, "and not have to hassle for money." Her mother and father died in an auto accident, and she lives with a maiden aunt. She is twenty-one, pretty in an unfashionable scrubbed kind of way, and very intense.

I had this fantasy the very first time I had sex. Jimmy was the first man for me. He’s still the only one, but no matter who I sleep with later on, I think I’ll always have these thoughts I have with Jimmy. They just seem to automatically spring to mind whenever I open my legs.

Anyway, that first night, I don’t think we slept very much.

We’d had some grass, and so I can’t remember just how many times. It didn’t hurt a bit and there was hardly any bleeding.

Maybe the second or third time that night, he put me into this position; I think it’s the position that inspired this idea in the first place, the idea that I was being planted. I mean, you can’t have the feeling that you’re being planted unless your cunt is pointed straight up at the sky, can you? Because that’s what it was: I was lying on my back, all my weight on my shoulders, really, with my legs straight up and over his shoulders. He was high above me –

I remember looking up and seeing him looming large over me and coming down into me, boring down on me. Straight
down
into me. Not a frightening picture – on the contrary, I felt very large and accommodating, very wide and open, waiting for him to fill me up with his thrust. Waiting for him to plant seed like I was a large, warm, fertile hole in the earth, there just for him, just for that purpose, to be planted. I was the earth and I was the hole in the earth. In fact, I was all hole, and he, he was like some great International Harvester Seed Planter moving down the field, me, moving from hole to hole with each thrust. And I was all the holes, I was the earth. I was planted again and again. It was so exciting…and so, well, so right, so natural. Lying there on my back with my legs up in the air, my feet facing the ceiling, it seemed, at last, the most natural position in the world. And to be fucked, to be planted by an earth planting machine, this 166

enormous International Harvester that could plunge deeper into the earth than anything, could fill me up and leave me planted, ripe…that was it, I guess: not just the excitement of being planted, but of knowing that with each thrust I would be left whole, complete. Can you understand that? It wasn’t the machine that was exciting – though the inexorable size of it was. What was exciting was the seed part. Or me being the earth. God, I don’t know…but I love that feeling. [Taped interview]

Marina

Marina belongs more to her nomadic social set than to any country. Now she lives in Boston. Last year it was Paris. Her current lover is an Italian banker: her former an English lord. The only thing they have in common is that each is almost three times her age. She is twenty. Her mother is French, her father Swiss, her bank balance high. For all the miles she’s packed into her life, she remains incredibly naive. She speaks half a dozen languages and works for an ad agency.

I had masturbated systematically from a very early age, around three, I think, and so much and so often that my parents consulted a doctor about it. As a child, I used to think of a favorite friend or playmate, or a beautiful lady neighbor of ours, whom I worshipped at the time. Around nine or ten, I started to be aware 9f men and think of them while masturbating. I had a vague idea of what lovemaking was, but it stopped at French kissing. My ignorance was set right by a girl friend, also aged ten

– children mature very early around the Mediterranean – whose father was a gynecologist, so she was obviously au courant. I remember we were munching grapes by a stream in my parents’

country place on a sweltering summer day, and constantly, obsessively discussing boys, boys, boys, love, love, love, kissing, necking, petting…Then she said did I know what really happens between men and women, and how, and she told me, more than 167

lucidly. Immediately I thought: "But that must be like masturbation, only instead of rolled sheets, my favorite tool, there would be juicy, moist flesh." The prospects seemed heady, and I started floating on a lovely haze of possibilities. "And if you’d really like to know what it feels like," she continued, "the thing to do is to get a kettle, fill it with warm, but not too hot, water, open your legs really wide, and slowly pour it in.". There was no time to be lost. We both rushed indoors, pinched Mummy’s best Russian silver, teapot, locked ourselves in the bath, sat at opposite ens of the bathtub with legs wide open, and took turns at pouring the contents of the teapot all over our clitorises, while caressing our bodies with infallible, instinctive verve. I thought of myself alternately as Mother Earth, watered by fertility rain, in a lovely ritual in Eygpt, or Crete, and an autocratic empress, who sampled all the young men of her kingdom at the beginning of spring, to renew herself. (All were handsome because I’d exterminated the others.) I can’t tell you what my friend thought, as I was lost in self-absorption. [Written down on request]

ROOM NUMBER TEN: INCEST

Each of the remaining rooms in the House of Fantasy depends upon the presence or embodiment of a specific fantasy character or characters in order for the female client to fully enjoy her fantasies. I start with the Incest Room because, despite Dr.

Freud’s casual disinterest in the female equivalent of Oedipus, for women the first sexual imagery of fathers, brothers, etc., is often the most potent and lasting. It was interesting, I think, that though Freud at first accepted as fact his female hysterics’ tales of rape by fathers, stepfathers, or older brothers (and became concerned should the Austro-Hungarian, Empire be founded on 168

the sick secret saga of daughter-rape), he later came to view these tales as the fantasies of women brought up under the paternal dictatorship of an age when the image of the Man of the House was so strong as to present an almost unconquerable unconscious rival for any man who came along later.

I am not qualified to discuss the psychological significance of incest, pro or con, even as fantasy. But I do think – despite the relative lack of evidence or interest in literature – that women can have as strong an incestuous preoccupation as men. Not all Sunday-mornings-in-bed-with-Mom-and-Dad have to end as traumatically as Bella’s, below, but I can’t help wondering how many seeds fore later fantasy are sown in this kind of family romp; the adults may be satisfying some very grown-up, harmless image of their own, may have very clear and controlled ideas as to just what is going on with the whole family in their marital bed, but what about the children?

Bella

I am a thirty-two-year-old registered nurse working in a London hospital. I have one son almost fourteen. I was pregnant when I was married. My husband is a doctor.

My own fantasy is so shocking to me that it has been a lifelong secret, and only because it has taken a new twist have I decided to write it down to get some of it out of my system. My fantasies revolve around incest, almost any kind of incest, and over the years I have sought out every: bit of information I could about

"incest," and know all the Greek myths where it occurs. To make a man sexy to my self I just imagine him a member of my family.

I make friends more firmly if they happen to show interest in my subject, and one affair some years ago was almost incestuously inspired. It happened in a Midlands hospital. I was looking after a\nice young man, a probation officer, who had been in a car accident. Among his cases was a father who had 169