My Secret Garden (Women Sexual Fantasies) (36 page)

[Written down on request]

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Hannah

My introduction to Hannah was a letter in which she described what she felt were the most important facts about herself. "I am twenty-three, married (separated), have a baby daughter, and am bisexual – love both men and girls!"

When we met, I learned the rest: She is from Wales, as is her husband; both their fathers were coal miners. But they met in London and decided to marry when they learned Hannah was pregnant. She had half wanted to have an abortion, but Harry had strong feelings against it. "He never knew I was bisexual before we were married," says Hannah. "In fact, I never knew it myself, except that I knew I had these kinky thoughts now and then.

About other girls." After they were married, Harry and Hannah fell in with a group of young London people who regularly went to parties where sexual partners were exchanged.

("Wife-swapping" would be a provincial description of these parties, since most of the participants, living together or not, were not married.)

"It was at one of these parties that I discovered I was bisexual," Hannah said. "While Harry would only get excited when we’d get home and he’d make me tell him about what other men were like, when he opened a bedroom door once and found me with another girl, he blew up. The idea of other men never made him jealous, only excited. But the idea of competing with a woman drove him up the wall." She left him, and they’ve been separated for several months.

I mostly have these daydreams when I’m alone. It puts me off even to have the baby in the room with me. I discovered this when I used to leave her with my mum when I wanted to go away for a week-end. When I got back home, suddenly my whole little flat was different. Just being alone in it made it all so sexy.

It’s strange, isn’t it? After all, what can an infant only a few months old know or see? They don’t understand anything yet.

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But there it was. When I’m alone in the flat is almost my favorite time in the world. I sometimes think I like it so much that I never want to live with a man again. With anyone.

What I like to do is when I come home at night from work, I pull the curtains so that I feel really alone. I turn the radio on to Radio One – the pop station – and I imagine it’s a man in the other room, talking to me while he’s putting different records on my machine. When I found photos of the best-looking disc jockey in magazines, I’d cut them out and put them in the edge of my mirror. This helps me imagine the man in the next room.

Then I begin taking my clothes off. I even talk back to the man in the other room. I put on a G-string, suspender belt, black stockings, fluffy garters (no bra), a frilly, or see-through, blouse or transparent negligee, no skirt, and a blond wig. First of all, I like to put a Tampax in. Putting in a Tampax is thrilling at any time, but I get an especial thrill when I don’t really need it.

I like to walk around the bedroom while I’m getting dressed this way, and imagine the man in the other room. Ire sounds very cool, just putting these records on and chatting me up as he does through the half-open door, talking away as if he had nothing on his mind but the Beatles or Blood, Sweat and Tears, but all the time I know that he’s there, having a fantasy about me in here getting ready for him. I like the idea of his voice sounding so cool and friendly, so relaxed, while all the time I know he’s growing an erection like a battleship underneath his trousers, for me. I like to imagine his face – that’s when I like to look at the photo – as he walks about the other room, trying to control himself. I like to think that little beads of sweat are breaking out on his face and rolling down his cheeks – he’s so impatient, you see, but he knows that if he lets me know how hot he’s getting waiting for me, that I’ll enjoy it so much I’ll just let him wait even longer. I just reach down and give the Tampax a little shove further up when I think of his sweating face.

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What gives me another kind of satisfaction is practicing a certain kind of walk when I’m alone and dressed like that. It makes me laugh when I go to the films and see the way they make the girls walk in one of those sexy movies. Girls don’t walk like that. But it excites me to see it, even in films – I suppose that’s why they do it. So when I’m alone, I practice it. Do you know the way that Maurice Chevalier used to walk – with his arse jutting out just that little bit? I practice that. I imagine that I’m a teen-age girl walking like that – I peer at myself in the mirror; that’s when I most like to see myself in a frilly blouse, as if I were in the street, not at home. I think that I’m a young girl, walking past myself, just to turn me on. And I imagine taking this girl home with me. The first thing I do is take off her G-string. (I act this out, while I think about it.) And I find that she’s clean-shaven there. (That’s how I like to be – white all over.) It makes me very excited, and I imagine myself kissing her on her tiny little white triangle. The girl in this dream is always younger than me, and she half doesn’t know what she’s doing.

She just likes to walk around with her arse stuck out like that because she knows it excites other people, and excites herself.

But she doesn’t know what to do with the excitement, you understand, until I teach her: So her little white thing is so fragile looking, so vulnerable. I’m dark, you see, and I can imagine my dark hand on that white piece of skin…my dark fingers slowly disappearing into all that white flesh…just disappearing inside her as if into a white cream jelly. It gives me goose bumps to think about it.

My husband left some of his clothes behind when he was last here, and the other thing I like to do is dress up in them. I especially like to put on his underwear. The fly front just fascinates me. That’s when I like to put another Tampax in, through the slit opening, and I try to get it so that it hangs out…not all the way in, you know? But the angle is wrong, isn’t it? I mean, men have it coming out in front, but the Tampax just 278

points down, and you can’t sit down naturally. But it’s very exciting, and I imagine that I’m Harry, just dressed in these slit-front shorts, and there’s a black man with me. I like the idea of the contrast of color. The black man is really black, and he’s covered with sweat, so that he almost shines. It makes my own skin even whiter. I like to imagine that the black man has an enormous prick, and that he’s secretly waiting for me to tire of walking around in this special way. He’s having a fantasy of his own, you see, of putting that giant prick up my little white arse, but I feel him, and come up behind him while I’m walking around and shove my Tampax right up him, and grab him around the waist, by the balls, so that he can’t move without me doing him an injury. Every time he tries to wiggle away, I just give his balls a twist, and finally, he has to give in, and in goes this giant white prick I have, and in the middle, he begins to love it, and he drops down on his hands and knees so that I can get in easier.

"Shake it!" I yell at him, and he begins to wiggle his arse in little circular motions to feel it better.

I always enjoy these little games the most because I know that I still have the whole evening and night ahead of me. I don’t really have an orgasm when I have these thoughts, but I get very excited and my breathing changes. So I usually have a bath and turn on the telly. It makes me feel so peaceful. I’ll tell you something – all this business about orgasms must be a lot of twaddle. I’ve had orgasms with men and with girls. But they always leave me feeling a bit on edge, anyway. Exhausted perhaps, but still ready to have another go. But when I have my fantasies, and I take a bath after they’re over, I can just drift off into the most peaceful sleep of my life. So somehow they must be more satisfying than the real thing. At least, that’s how it seems to me sometimes. [Taped interview]

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Sophie

Sophie is eighteen but already has a full and varied sex life.

When she was sixteen her parents found out about it and she left home after the subsequent quarrel. She took a bus to Chicago and lives there now on the Near North Side, which is the Chicago equivalent, more or less, of New York’s Greenwich Village. She holds no steady job but finds various things to do when she – or the friends with whom she lives – are out of money. Her job at the moment is shampooing in one of the fashionable new barber shops where both young men and women come to have their hair trimmed and shaped, where loud music plays, coffee is served, and waiting customers may even be dancing. She likes this job and says she has no plans for leaving it at the moment.

Sophie lives communally, as she puts it. An older generation would call it living with two men. It is also typical, I think, of Sophie’s generation that she is very aware of her fantasies, and is not only unembarrassed to admit having them or talking about them, but indeed tries to live them out in her life.

I never had any hang-ups about sex; it was something people did when they felt like it, and so I didn’t like it when my family came down on me so heavy about it. I told them they had their scene, I had mine, we didn’t have to quarrel. But they insisted that I only make their scene – two-by-two, married – so I split.

It wasn’t sex that was my hang-up, but the kind of man I wanted it with. What chick wants to be alone? But all my life, I’ve always dug two different kinds of guys. The first was always tall and dark and’ I was never sure that he really liked me. Or anybody else, if you stop to think about it. A hard kind of guy who never took crap from anybody. Naturally, a guy like that, all the girls were after him. Which was all right with him. I remember one. Practically any chick who wasn’t a horror could ball him for a night or two, but after that it was all over, and if 280

she cried or told him she loved him, that was tough titty, he just laughed and took a walk.

My other type, Type B, is just the opposite. He’s mostly small, and maybe with kind of washed-out blond hair. But good-looking and sad, as if he had TB and wasn’t going to live very long. Type A, the rough one, was a school dropout, but Type B was very hipped on books and reading and had all sorts of theories about philosophy…about the way the world really is. He has this kind of appeal, you see, he could talk to you, and explain why certain things were happening. He made you feel calm. But his main appeal, of course, was that you wanted to take care of him.

So ever since I started going out with guys, I’m like a grandfather clock, tick tock swinging between these two opposite types, thinking about the one type when I was with the other. But it wasn’t ever that clear to me. Until some movie house had a Clark Gable festival and I dug right away that this chick in the picture,
Gone With the Wind,
she was hung-up between Type A and Type B, too. Clark Gable and Leslie Howard. Leslie Howard, Jesus, what a Type B he was, perfect. So when you ask about fantasy, I knew right away that my fantasy wasn’t some story I made up myself to get it off better with some guy. Some of the guys I know, they’re always reading to you from these books, about lesbians, and eight people going down on each other. But that’s all in the mind, it doesn’t affect me much. Anyway, it doesn’t get me all turned on the way it turns on the men. I don’t know what you’d call my own story. It’s just the way I live and that’s what I think is so exciting for me in the bed scenes.

And the scenes we have! Like, when I’m in the sack with Type A, he’ll order B to bring our big portable mirror closer so we can see ourselves better. Or else he tells him to roll some joints for us while we finish, and then the three of us light up and have a friendly smoke afterwards. But all the time I’m making it with A, I know B is there in the room, too, and he’s thinking about me, 281

watching out for me, digging that I’m enjoying it, and I’m digging that B is enjoying it, too.

A lot of times I make it with B, too, of course, but it’s always different with him. He’s not so freaky as A. He likes it when I take the lead. Sometimes, with him, I get the feeling that it’s almost like having a baby in bed with me. Once A got mad at something I’d done, and slapped me across the face so hard that I fell down. Then A took whatever loot we had in the house at the moment and split. But B stayed with me, and he was so tender, even trying to explain A’s psychology to me, so that I wouldn’t hate him so much. He’s so cool that he dug it that down beneath, I really liked A so much it would be bad for me to hate him.

Sometimes I get the feeling that B is in love with A. Maybe A thinks so, too. He often calls him "sweetie" or "dearie" or some other faggoty name. In fact, I think the reason B gets so excited when I’m screwing A is because he doesn’t know which of us he’d rather be fucking himself, A or me. Or both. In fact, we’ve tried that, too, a few times. Talk about a chick living in a dream, having the two of them in me at the same time and groping each other, too, all at once. But we don’t do it often, because after one of those scenes A gets mad and disappears for a day or two, and I hear that he’s balling some other chick somewhere.

So you see, I don’t have to make up any stories to turn myself on. I’m really living in one. I don’t like the word "fantasy." It sounds like some neurotic thing you’re into, and the next thing they’re coming for you with the psycho nets. So I wouldn’t say I have a fantasy about sex. Or if I do, it’s my whole life. [Letter]

Bobbie

I am only fifteen years old, so I don’t want to tell you my name, so that I can be sure that my parents won’t find out any of this. I saw your questionnaire in one of my big brother’s magazines, and I just felt like replying to it because I guess I 282

think about sex quite a bit of the time. I pet with boys a lot, but the only guy I ever tried to go all the way with came before he was able to get his penis into me. I thought you ought to know that so it would help you understand my answers better.

Most of the guys that I have had sex with wouldn’t get uptight about knowing that I was thinking about someone else when I was having sex with them. I’m sure that sexy girls who turn them on come into their thoughts, too. Besides, a guy has no right to get angry about what I’m thinking about as long as I’m giving him what he wants.