My Secret Garden (Women Sexual Fantasies) (9 page)

responds, his tongue circling downward as my hand spreads round his crotch, the fingers arched and separated over the pressure beneath. In one motion I unzip his fly, setting him free like some giant bird. Now his tongue is in my hair, reaching for it just below the top of my low-slung pants. His hands tug to ease them down so that he can get at me. I can feel his breath just above my clitoris and can feel him inhale the scent of me; I am wet with my own juices. His hands work quickly at the fastening on my pants and I am free, too, his mouth open wide now, his tongue full out for where I want it. I lean back, resting on my hands, raising myself up to him, and he holds my buttocks, pressing my upturned cunt to his mouth like some big, wet persimmon. The lips of my cunt seem to move like real lips in anticipation, begging him for his tongue until I feel it, warm and full on that little spot, sucking it in a kiss. I strain, arching my back to give him that whole part of my body, the music all around me, Shirley wailing away for more, my head thrown back, so far away from that other part of me, so lonely, until I open my eyes and see Richard watching us, fascinated, his own erection big and eager to share. "Come," my own lips form the word, and he is on us, on top of me, his grateful mouth on mine, his cock dangling in front of the other man’s face. But only for a second, as the man raises his mouth from my cunt to Richard’s cock, while thrusting his own cock into me with such force that my scream of pleasure is drowned in the thunderous ovation from the audience. [Taped interview]

INSATIABILITY

Why do women fantasize about sex when they’ve got it, when they’re right in the midst of it, Why do unashamed and sexually satisfied women like Carol and Faye imagine more sex when they already have their hands (etc.) full? Maybe because physically 60

women, most women, are never full, never sated sexually beyond their imagination.

It need have nothing to do with reality, with whether the real man can (or even would if he could) totally satisfy her; as I said earlier, to reduce fantasy to the "nothing but" kind of thinking, which says it is "only" frustration, is too simple. Fantasy, by definition, is about something that isn’t happening, and some of the most vivid fantasies I’ve collected are from women who are clear about not wanting their fantasies to be reality.

No, rather than a frustrated cry for more real sex, I think that a lot of female fantasy is a psychic need for a more complete exploration of everything that was kept from them as girls, of everything that conceivably could be thought sexual.

"The Road of Excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom," wrote William Blake, and the unconscious mind knows this is true.

Fantasy means more involvement, more spontaneity, more take as well as give, more focus on herself, and maybe more noise, more black men, women, dogs, audiences, parents, experiences, attitudes, roles. For women, sex is still the infinite and inexhaustible variable, the one way she can unravel the mystery of what it is to be and feel a woman. I think women have enormous sexual appetites – far greater than is publicly acknowledged.

Of course, these appetites could be fed in reality; often they are not. But they do exist and can be made known to the woman herself in fantasy.

Clarissa

When my husband first begins to make love to me, just feeling me and kissing me, there is one imaginary scene that comes to my mind, and that is that I am an African fertility image or statuette with long pointed breasts grotesquely exaggerated in size, and that instead of my husband I am being loved by the 61

male counterpart, a fertility figure with an enormous penis far out of proportion to his body.

This image seems to turn itself on without my trying or doing anything about it, almost as soon as I am sure we will have intercourse, and continues until I have had an orgasm. It has nothing to do with my being dissatisfied with my husband’s penis, which is a very good-sized one that fully satisfies me. I just somehow seem to imagine that this enormous, long, thick penis (with a giant knob on the end) is entering me. When we are just starting, I imagine this huge organ is rubbing my enormous breasts, and especially is more or less dueling with them, trying to slide up between them and poking at first one and then the other, and that I am holding it off from me by sticking my huge breasts in the way. This is when my husband is stroking or sucking my nipples. Again, it is not jealousy on my part or any feeling of inadequacy, since I am quite sure he thinks I am adequate in this respect.

For example, I’ll try to describe our very relaxed and loving habits with one another and our happy appreciation and acceptance of one another’s bodies: We sleep nude, and he almost always is in bed before my hair is put up. I do this in the nude, standing in front of the large dresser mirror in our bedroom. He watches because he likes to see my breasts lift as I raise my arms to put in curlers, and then lower them. While we ordinarily are very old fashioned in our language, he almost invariably tells me, "You sure have yummy tits, kid," at such times. When I am done, I walk to the bed, bend over so he can nibble each nipple in turn for a moment, then turn the covers down so he is exposed, and bend over and give his penis a quick kiss. We do this every night, although we have sex only every second or third night on the average. If he already has an erection or a partial one, I linger longer on his penis since I know this is

"the" night. If it is not, but I feel I would like a little loving and don’t think he is tired or worried or something, I will work on his 62

penis a bit more to see if he responds. But many nights it is only a wifely kiss and nothing more happens. (Of course we kiss mouth to mouth before going to sleep, too.) So you can see by the above that my fantasy of these over-enlarged sex organs doesn’t come from any feeling of frustration or lack of appreciation. Looking further back, I can’t remember any fantasy as a child other than that of erect penises.

Although I don’t do it much now, I can’t remember when I wasn’t masturbating some as a child…I am sure it was as young as eleven years old, because my mother caught a girl friend and me doing it together with candles when we were twelve, and I had been doing it a long time then. The candles were my friend’s idea, since she had found some of those wicked comic books in her brother’s room, showing Dagwood and Blondie and Harold Teen and Lillums and others having sex, both genital and oral, with the man in each case always endowed with an enormous and constantly erect penis. I kept that image in my mind the whole time I masturbated…the sort of scary and exciting pictures of those hug comic book penises. Actually, they weren’t scary in the forbidden sense; sex was not a forbidden topic in our house.

My mother had given me very full and complete sex instruction from a very early age, including the fact that sex is fun, which most parents never mention. Mother didn’t scold us and didn’t even tell my friend’s mother what we had been up to. She just made us stop and told us to be careful not to hurt ourselves using candles or anything like that. Although I did not experience my first intercourse until I was fourteen, I always was definitely interested in boys’ penises from that day on, as well as before. I do not know if this has anything to do with my African sex-god fantasy or not. It may have, I suppose.

I might mention that I’ve never told my husband of this fantasy, and I’m afraid I never will, because he would think I thought he was too small, and I really don’t at all. [Letter]

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Annabel

My fantasy is nearly always the same: I am being raped by not one man, but three or four. But the strange thing is that as each man takes his turn, I have to take a bigger penis. Some of the sizes of them in my fantasies are nine and twelve inches. And as I have to open my legs wide to take them, the erotic pleasure I have always brings on the most wonderful orgasm. The pleasure I get is so intense that my husband also gets added pleasure, thinking that it is he alone who is giving it to me. [Letter]

Iris

I am twenty-three years old, have been married two years, and have two children. The earliest fantasies I can remember were when I was nine or ten years old; I would imagine that the boys in my class were looking at me and touching me and discussing my anatomy. Nowadays my fantasies are similar. I often fantasize that the man I am with is closely examining my sexual organs, not as a doctor, but as a lover. Sometimes I imagine he’s discussing me with a friend while they both examine me and bring me to orgasm manually while they watch. I often practice this fantasy in front of a mirror while masturbating.

It was only recently that my husband and I admitted to one another that we had fantasies. We have never described them, just simply acknowledged their existence. I do sometimes think of other men while my husband and I are making love. I most often imagine men we know whom I find particularly attractive. I usually imagine that these men have begged me to have an affair with them and I’ve finally given in.

I don’t think my husband would be jealous if I told him of this fantasy. Perhaps if I fulfilled it, he would be. He does know that I enjoy thinking about men, and that I always wish I knew what’s behind the zipper of every man I look at. [Letter]

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Nora

My husband is not an imaginative man and our lovemaking is not at all varied. I used to attempt to get him to try different things, but he never wanted to. The reason that I was more advanced was not that I’d had more experience before marriage than he had, but I had had
some
, and I guess what took place was what the man wanted, in all cases. Anyway, he was clearly offended, for example, when I tried once to push his head down toward my cunt, and he stubbornly pushed it up again to give me a conventional kiss on the mouth. He doesn’t even seem happy with me on top, although he lets me once in a while.

In every other area except bed I consider him an ideal husband

– or at least a good one, so I’m determined to reconcile myself to a somewhat deprived sex life. The way I do it is I achieve variety with my fantasies, and I achieve an orgasm almost every time by using them. I think variety is the key to the whole thing, and the reason so many marriages go stale is that they just do the same thing over and over. Well, so do we, but in my head it’s different every time.

I do it all quite deliberately. I can tell, when I’m getting ready for bed, whether my husband is in the mood or not, and if he is I get myself all sexed up mentally, even before I get near the bed, while I’m brushing my hair and undressing and so forth.

Sometimes I linger longer in the bathroom just so I can get to the right point in my fantasy. Then, when we’re having the same old version of sex, I’m having my old Arabian Nights. I mean it; it’s like the one thousand and one nights, with me as Scheherazade telling myself a different sex story each time. For the first dozen or so times, it was just me and a man; I’d describe all the different things we did. Then I went on to think of different settings, like doing it on the kitchen floor (maybe with a delivery boy) or in my neighbor’s garage when I went to borrow a tool (Freudian slip). Then I got involved for a long time with doing 65

sixty-nine with people watching. Then I started thinking of myself with two men, and just lately I’ve been in a whole group, both men and women (but the women were involved with the other men, not touching me). I’ve never imagined myself with a woman, but other than that I’ll try anything mentally. I’m able to pace the flow of my thoughts to what’s really going on, and this way it works for me almost every time. [Letter]

DAYDREAMS

You could say that a woman’s life was made for fantasy.

All those idle hours, the boring repetitive jobs that her hands do automatically, the endless opportunities to reflect, construct and reconstruct. In a sense we were born to dream, to stay at home…it is how most men dream of us. Even today’s superwomen who leave the house to go to work have at least as much opportunity for the odd idle fantasy as the guy at the next desk (and more natural talent and practice at it) – the tedious subway rides, the dull business conferences, hungover days when you just can’t concentrate on anything except the erotic possibilities of the boss’s moustache, the provocative way the new account executive dresses on the right, last night’s abandoned fuck with Harry, the prospect of tonight’s with George.

Does the adage "The idle mind is the devil’s playground"

indeed apply only to one sex? Why do advertisers consistently use a picture of a pretty girl with a faraway look in her eye to sell almost anything? Because it’s universally accepted that women, dreamers all, dream the good pure thoughts that hold us all together – especially material things connected with the home.

(And homemaking.) Whereas men, those lusty scoundrels, will dream only of things that might make their naughty dreams come true. What are men in advertisements wistful for? Automobiles, 66

whiskey, rugged pipe tobacco…anything that might lead them more successfully to sex.

I suggest that next time you see that pretty female face with the Mona Lisa smile you consider, just consider, that she may not be thinking of a knight on a horse, just the horse.

This lifelong habit of rumination is what makes women so good at fantasy; daydreams are often as close as they ever get to what they really want. A man finding desire upon him can pick up the phone, go see someone, ask a girl out, or order one. But it is not so easy for a woman to reach out as readily and shamelessly for what she wantsto take his clothes off, take him to bed, take him from above, below, and if he won’t take her from behind, take a whore to bed who will ….

Instead, women dream about it.

Corinne

This fantasy really happened. What I mean is that it was told to me by the guy involved; it happened to him and another girl.

But I’ve always loved the story so, and I like him so much, even though we’ve never made it together, that I fantasize that I am the girl, that he and I do make it in this very jolly way. Sometimes I’ll be on the subway and find I have this foolish smile on my face as I think about this fantasy. I wish it would happen. Even if it never does it’s helped me pass a lot of otherwise boring hours.