My Secret Garden (Women Sexual Fantasies) (35 page)

We’ve been married seven years, and our sexual life is no different now than it was when we were first married, except that there’s less of it. You would think, or hope, that as people lived together longer they would discover new and interesting things about one another that would help them to give one another more happiness in sex. But it’s only when I imagine that someone is performing cunnilingus on me, which my husband will not do, that sex becomes exciting, and I’ve always felt too guilty to discuss this with anyone. [Letter]

267

MEN’S ANXIETY

Women waste so much time and emotion on guilt, meaningless guilt; fingers of shame imagined in isolation and ignorance. I sometimes think each woman goes through life secretly pursued by her own particular demon, representing her own particular brand of shame; a frenzy after her, not for anything real, but everything imagined. Shame and self-incrimination grow like mad in the dark. If nothing else, I hope this book helps women who fantasize to feel less guilty by letting them know that they aren’t alone…they aren’t the only people in the world with these odd, often unbidden thoughts or ideas; that thinking something "awful" doesn’t mean you are awful or really want something awful; and in the end you shouldn’t be found guilty for what you think. (No Virginia, thought police didn’t go out with the Nazis; they’re very much with us still.)

But not all the guilt that surrounds the subject of female fantasy is imagined. The tension and anxiety the topic arouses in men is very real indeed, and a woman can’t help but pick up on it; if he feels the anxiety,
she’s
guilty.

I can understand a man not wanting to hear about other men in his woman’s life – especially hearing that they are in her mind while he’s making love to her. I also understand why some women feel they want to tell their men everything – but can’t understand why they do. Telling all isn’t necessarily the way to overcome guilt feelings; sometimes it only spreads the anxiety.

(Though I don’t think one, can make a hard-and-fast rule about this; only you yourself, knowing the man, can decide how much you feel he really wants to know.) But more about sharing your fantasies – is it a good idea or not? – in another chapter.

I mentioned earlier that I gave up talking about their fantasies with women when their men were present because, despite the initial interest the topic aroused in everyone, a more detailed 268

discussion always clearly brought on tension in the men. Exactly why they feel threatened by the subject is no mystery.

A woman’s fantasy brings up in him the spectre of the unconquerable rival, with magical abilities and unimaginable proportions, and, above all, a rival over whom he has no control.

Some men don’t react with anger or panic, but with simple denial. I was discussing this subject over drinks one evening with a man friend, when he said, "You really have to talk to my friend Harry. He’ll be here in a minute. Harry will be fascinated with what you’re doing. Why, that man’s the original beast in the jungle. There’s not a sexual experience he hasn’t had, and the number of women he’s been to bed with is like a telephone book." Fair enough, I thought, I’ll meet a man of such vast experience, who’ll be so expansive and broadminded, that at last I’ll be able to discuss women’s fantasies with a man without making him feel nervous. And so I smiled warmly at the Beast in the Jungle when he arrived, and he smiled right back, until my friend started telling him of my work. The Beast’s expression toward me changed as he drew himself up to his full psychological attack position and lit a cigar. "No woman I’ve ever fucked," he said, "has needed sexual fantasies."

This book isn’t about men or
their
fantasies, but I do want to print just this one letter from a man who not only tells me what his wife thinks, but also writes the letter for her, even signing her name.

Tina’s husband

My modest wife has asked me to write for her. So I am telling you herewith that I don’t think she has any peculiar fantasies.

Her fantasy, if any, and she expresses it to me (we have been married thirty-five years), is that she gets a great loving feeling whenever we have sex. She has a right like anyone to her secret feelings or desires,
which
we discuss frankly. She is offended to 269

read of women
who
might fantasize about other women or animals. She doesn’t have to tell me this, as I know.

She has told me that she could – as would I – be aroused to see large animals like horses or elephants having sex. We would very much like to visit a stud farm and see this sort of sexual activity. But I am sure this is not in her mind when we have sex.

As for myself, I have no fantasies during sex. I enjoy thinking of my wife as a healthy, clean-woman, and her one preoccupation, or fantasy, is of herself wearing nice clean clothes, which she knows pleases me. She has never masturbated, and although she used to share a bedroom with her sister, I am sure she has never had a lesbian thought.

Her fantasy, I repeat, is the feeling of love for me she gets when we have sex and she is giving me all the enjoyment she can.

I would, however, like to see more written on fantasies, although I do not think the average woman has the sexual desires and fantasies that many men apparently have.

Thank you for letting me write to you for my wife. [
He
signs
her
name.]

270

Some women feel no guilt at all about their sexual fantasies.

They accept them, act them out, share them with their lovers, even live them on a day-to-day basis, as does Sophie (below). A few have gotten this far on their own; more of them have needed the encouragement of an accepting lover. And a very few, I think, are just lucky; they were born guilt-free.

As you’ve read, most of the women who contributed to this book did so with a feeling of anxiety, almost in a tone of self-reproach or even disgust though many ended on the relieved note of, “Well, thank God, I’ve finally told someone who understands; I thought I was the only freak with these thoughts…”

This relief from the anxiety of being alone with their thoughts, and the greater reality which sharing them can bring, was sometimes such a powerful sexual stimulus in itself that it excited several of my correspondents to interrupt themselves in midletter to masturbate. Carried along on the euphoria of the release, they even told me about this – so, more therapeutic relief from guilt. For example:

Please excuse me if this is rather disjointed, but I am sure you will understand that I could not write this without masturbating, which I am doing at this moment…,

The only fantasies that I speak out loud are the ones I make up to please my husband. I always keep my real fantasies locked up in my mind. I have found it a little exciting to tell you about my fantasies, and a few times I have stopped and manipulated my nipples with my fingertips while I was typing this letter. (The 271

more I did that, the better I felt about telling you these things.) In fact, while I am typing this sentence with one hand, I am manipulating my nipples with my thumb and first finger on the other hand.

Excuse me, I have got myself quite carried away, and so I must go and bring myself off if I can …

After reading through this letter I am wet through to my panties …

This has been a difficult letter to write. My recollections have been so arousing that I have had to stop twice to masturbate with a "phallocrypt" made by my houseboy. This is rather like a dildo and is used by some native women when their men are away to satisfy themselves. My particular one is made exactly to the size of my husband in erection. My thoughts when I use it are that the native boy who made it is standing in for my husband. But this does not matter when I close my eyes and cannot see the boy, just feel the delightful weapon working exactly as my husband does.

If only it could spurt semen or cream into me…right now. [From a correspondent in the Pacific]

"OF COURSE I FANTASIZE,

DOESN’T EVERYONE?".

A guiltless minority never seem to have any hesitations at all about the subject. They contribute as readily as if I’d invited them to a party where they know they’ll have a good time because they already know the guests. "Fantasies? Of course I have fantasies, doesn’t everyone?" In fact, Gloria (below) was 272

convinced that no fantasy anthology could be complete without hers, which, she uses daily in her work as a model. For women like her, there’s no wall between fantasy and reality; what you
think
and what you do needn’t be the same, but they don’t have to be separated as though they were at war with one another. A woman who lives this close to her fantasy isn’t dragging out the dirty laundry from the bottom of the pit when she talks to you; the material is easily available to her. What’s significant isn’t whether her real and fantasy lives coexist, or even whether she acts out her fantasies, but that each does exist and is accepted.

Her fantasies are part of her self-awareness; there is no threat, no anxiety. That’s how she is.

For women like Hannah, there are no secrets or shame in fantasy: she keeps a photo of her fantasy lover in her mirror as she would that of a real lover, and enjoys slipping into her fantasy routine any night she happens to be alone and in the mood. To Sophie, her fantasy is barely a fantasy at all – just a desirable way to live, and she proceeds with no hesitation at all to put her desire to live with two different, equally exciting men immediately into practice. As I said, some people live so close to their fantasies that they live inside them.

I don’t know how significant it is that the four women in the fantasies that follow are young, but I suspect it is. I’ve included my youngest contributor here – fifteen years old and technically still a virgin – because of her simple candor and self-acceptance.

Maybe it says something for fantasy’s future.

Gloria

I really don’t think any anthology of sex fantasies would be complete without mine. It’s got to be the greatest one there is.

I should tell you I use it professionally, when I model. Let’s say I’m in a studio, standing there waiting for the photographer to finish fussing with the lights and everything. I look bored, 273

because I am bored. Then, when he’s ready and we begin, I deliberately "go to market"-that’s how I think of it, and as I get more and more into my fantasy, even though I’m following his directions (I am a genuine professional at this) I
become more
and more interesting to look at.
Every photographer I’ve ever worked with has remarked on it. I don’t tell them how I do it (that’s my business), but I have enjoyed great commercial success with it. Of course I amplify it and change it all the time, but this is what it is basically:

I am strolling with my flunkies through a market, an enormous place with high vaulted glass ceilings, up one aisle and down another, looking at the merchandise to decide what I want. All the merchandise on display in all the booths is simply naked young men, all sorts but all strong looking. I am the only customer in the whole place, and dancing attendance on me are all sorts of salesmen or hawkers or press agents, all trying to sell me on one or another of these studs. Sometimes, if I feel like it, I listen to them as they tell me fantastic stories of what these men are capable of, and this is in itself exciting; at other times I brush them off and stroll on. At some point my attention is caught by one particular young man, then another two or three, or more, depending on how I feel. When I’ve a few candidates, the flunkies assemble them on one platform, while other flunkies get the screen ready. The screen is gigantic, filling one whole side of the hall, fifty times the size of the usual movie screen. All the others in the market, except my own people, are now sent away temporarily, and then the film begins. The film is of me, in glorious Technicolor, stripped and reclining, with the camera at my level at the foot of the bed. As my knees, which are together at the start, move apart, I start writhing on the bed and the camera moves in. The head in the distance thrashes on the pillow, the breasts in the middle distance roll from side to side as the hips churn, and the zoom shot – but slow – gets to the slit, which becomes more and more gigantic as the thighs widen completely 274

and the feet go in the air. As all this goes on on-screen, the studs are watching it and I’m watching them. I walk around to see each of them from all angles, up on the platform above me, and as their erections grow and grow I make my choice.

So I motion to the crew that this one will do, and as they get cameras set for the next filming, I conduct this by now wildly horny stud to a giant bed which is set-up in a curtained studio in a corner of the market, all arranged for this. I get my clothes off, which weren’t much anyway, and get the stud on his back on the bed, and I get on top. With my knees one on each side of his waist, more or less, I raise my ass high in the air and get poised right at the top of his cock, and tease it a little. The poor bastard is panting and heaving at this, but we have to get the cameras angled just right: one camera is behind me, one above, others all around. When everything is right, and with all my teasing his erection has become even more gigantic and hard, we begin. First I ease down on his shaft slowly, then up again, down again, up again, now with a little swiveling, then it gets faster and rougher until I’m riding him like a cowboy and he’s bucking and we’re really fucking up a storm. As we do, up on the giant screen is the multiple-image, split-screen picture of what we’re doing, or what we were doing a second or two before, and everybody in the market is back now, all watching the giant screen, and we see it, too, out of the corners of our eyes, and that contributes to the climax, too, when it comes, and when it does the audience applauds. Sometimes we draw it out for a long time, sometimes we come once and then go down on each other to get started again. But in any case it builds up and up, with variations, until, as we race each other to a fantastic finish, the applause builds up and at the end the whole hall is roaring even louder than I am.