My Secret Garden (Women Sexual Fantasies) (10 page)

I’ve agreed to help a bachelor friend paint his new apartment, and since it’s a hot day we’ve both shed our clothes to do the job.

He’s up on a high ladder slapping paint on the ceiling with a broad brush, while I’m standing below painting the walls with a roller. It’s a water paint, pale grey and at one point as we are laughing at some joke – we’ve been smoking a joint, and the record player is on loud – I glance up at him as he grins down at me, and from below his balls look so funny (and nice) even though he and I have never been to bed together and I don’t really 67

know him well enough to know how he’ll take it – even so I reach up with my roller dripping grey paint and slather his bouncing balls, and on up to his collarbone. He lets out a yell, and risking his life he’s down the ladder like a flash and lets go –slap! slap! – with his brush, on my tits, left then right, and I go spinning around and he whops me on the can, left then right, with his big, fat brush. So I run my roller up one of his sides from the ankle to the armpit, so he dabs me in the navel, and I double over laughing and he’s on top of me, and we go down in a puddle of grey paint, writhing and wrestling and struggling and both of us suddenly aroused; hot as hell and panting and I’m saying "Put it in" and he’s trying to get me in position so he can, and I get my legs up around his neck in a frenzy so he can find my cunt and it’s all impossible with all the goddam paint, and suddenly I see his eyes widen with panic and I feel it the same second: the paint is burning us up, but it’s only the first second we mind it, then it becomes the greatest sensation in the world and we both start sliding together and the slimy stuff on all our surfaces glues us together and we get it in, and we slide around fucking and fucking and FUCKING and

FFFUUUCCCKKKIIINNNGGG…[aaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh]

[Taped interview]

Molly

Molly specified that this fantasy is not something she thinks about during sex, but that it’s more of a daydream, a little episode she likes to think about while driving to pick up the kids, or while she’s doing housework. As Molly puts it, "It keeps my sexual machinery charged." She has never been a teacher, nor does she want to be, but she does admit to finding the young men her kids bring home attractive. She was married at 18.

"Maybe," she admits, "a little too early for an imaginative girl.

Sometimes I think there is so much I’ve missed."

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The scene is a one-room schoolhouse, somewhere out West.

The teacher is about my age, thirty-five, or even older. But she is a virgin, a frustrated old maid. She has kept one of the pupils after school, a strong, six-foot-tall boy who isn’t too bright. She goes through a stern lecture with him about how he’s not been paying attention during class, etc. She asks him two or three tough questions, and when he can’t answer says she’s going to have to punish him. She tells him to take down his pants; he’s embarrassed but she insists. She sits down on a chair and makes him lie down over her lap, face down, with his pants pulled down around his knees, and she starts spanking him. He gets an erection and she spanks harder, but at the same time more caressingly. Then she starts fingering his penis with her other hand and she keeps spanking. He gets a bigger and harder erection. She asks him if he’s ever fucked a girl and he says no and she moves around on the chair to get her skirt up; she has no pants on. She also moves him about until she can maneuver his penis into her cunt, and at this point she goes back to the lecturing tone she’d had earlier, and tells him all about how he’s going to have to improve his work; etc., while she’s still spanking him, but the spanking is more of a pushing him into her. She’s also moving her pelvis back and forth rhythmically, very actively, so she’s controlling the whole thing for her own mounting pleasure but also giving him a fantastic time.

He starts shouting, "Oh, teacher!" over and over as his climax begins, and she keeps trying to lecture him but the words fuck and cunt keep popping up in the middle of her lecture. They both work up to a noisy climax, by which time they’ve slid off the chair onto the floor. Afterward, she primly buttons her clothes and very mock-disapproving tells him he’s going to have to stay after school again the next day unless he can bring his school work up to scratch, and he agrees that he certainly has been lazy, etc., and he just doesn’t seem to be able to do the work. [Letter]

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Alicia

Alicia has never really left school. She is thirty-four, an associate professor at a Midwestern university, and is to go to Africa to complete one of her many papers on anthropology.

When you meet her, it’s hard to believe she is so professional and self-sufficient, as she looks as vulnerable and appealing as Mississippi honeysuckle. But behind those violet eyes, there is a mind like a precision tool. She has a penchant for difficult men, types who beat her up either physically or mentally. I’ve never known her to be attracted to a "nice guy," and I get the feeling that there’s something in her that would turn even a nice guy into a bastard. I do know one of her former lovers, and he’s as much as said she invites or incites a put-down reaction from her men, that there is something in her that brings out the worst in a guy:

"Maybe it’s just that you always know with Alicia that she isn’t sexually satisfied. No matter how often you tell yourself it’s her and not you yourself that’s sexually unsatisfied or unsatisfying –that there must be something wrong with her because you know, always, that you’ve not really moved that dame – still, a guy can’t help feeling inadequate with her in bed. She just isn’t all there."

I don’t fantasize during sex. My fantasies fall more into occasional daydreams. I like to imagine that I am a unique creature of the future. Ethereally beautiful, of course, but this isn’t central to the idea. What is important is that I am the triumph of some incredibly advanced geneticist’s work aimed at breeding a strain of people equipped for the ultimate in exquisite sensual pleasures – with nerve endings and sensory circuitry so highly pitched that they can experience ecstasies unimaginable for normal, limited human beings.

For me, for those like me (and are there others like me? The excitement of this is that I don’t know; I’m living my intense life in the midst of people who appear to be enjoying the same crude 70

little pleasures as their ancestors and no more)…for me, the touch of a tip of a feather on my knee can produce – if my mood is erotic – a sensation so intense that it would be like twenty orgasms at once for another woman. I experience this all right, but it is invisible, secret, known only to me. It’s not simply a hypersensitivity over all my surfaces – no, I can be impervious, I can make my way through a jostling crowd with only the usual discomfort at the unwelcome human contact. I’m inexhaustibly tuned up exclusively for sensuality, for carnality, for all the feeling and desires of the sexual animal. My sexuality, while animal, is capable of such subtlety that a glance, received a certain way from a man I fancy even mildly, can bring on wave after wave of the sort of piercing sensation that would cause gasps and moans and even screams from another woman. All I may show is a small; smile in his direction, but what I am enjoying inside – just in a split second – is like the sum total of anyone else’s lifetime of erotic experience.

The climax of this fantasy, of course, will be when I meet up with a man whose senses are as fantastically heightened and refined as mine, but I haven’t gotten to that point yet. There’s too much going on here, and I’m only getting started. He’ll come along a few chapters from now, and then I’ll really get going.

[Taped interview]

Lily

Joe and I have been living together for three years now, but we’ve been making it for eight years. I think we’ve got a pretty imaginative sex life together, and I enjoy discussing my fantasies with him. Unless I were to tell him that I’d been thinking of another manduring a particularly passionate session, I don’t think he would ever be jealous of my fantasies.

But I can truthfully say that I’ve never had fantasies of another man while Joe was making love to me. I think most of my 71

fantasies are of the daydream type. I have had several recurring ones:

1. I never had an affair with my ex-boss, but he was extremely attractive and had a moustache. At times I’d find myself staring at him and wondering what it would be like it he were to fondle and kiss my breasts with his moustache rubbing across my nipples. I imagined it would be a very erotic sensation to have him suck my nipples and feel his moustache next to my skin.

2. I find myself staring at well-dressed black men on the subway. I begin by looking at their hair, then their faces, then I let my eye slowly, casually move down their bodies. I try to judge from the bulge just how large their penises are and with a little imagination I see them undressed and feel them inside me. I judge them as lovers individually. Occasionally I will do this with white men, but generally they are black. Joe is black, but I don’t think this is why I do this.

3. Sometimes on my way to work I think about the way Joe made love to me the night before and I get quite aroused. I can feel my clitoris get hard and it starts throbbing. It is always a sudden jolt back to reality when I suddenly see the crowd of people squeezing out of the station.

I enjoyed answering your request. Yours is a great idea.

[Letter]

Eliza

Even when going about my household chores I sometimes think of how it feels to have a man run his hands all over my body. I often remind myself of the pleasure of having a firm penis sliding in and out of my mouth and try mentally to recreate any delicious experience. [Letter]

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Esther

I daydream a lot, which probably accounts for the fact that I enjoy sex so often. I do my housework in the tops of baby-doll pajamas, stay in a half-hot mood most of the time, what with touching myself, or rubbing against different objects. The nozzle of the vacuum cleaner hose, for instance, played lightly over the pubic area is terrific and will bring on an orgasm if desired.

Sometimes I wear a dildo inserted while doing housework. I imagine it to be my boxer dog’s prick. [Letter]

Shirley

I am a nurse and have been married ten years. During boring lectures at the hospital, I often fantasize going down on the lecturer. I try to imagine just how long he could go on talking all that mumbo-jumbo while I was kneeling there in front of him with his penis in my mouth.

I also often find myself fantasizing about those patients who fill my particular fantasy type – usually strong, overwhelming, cavemen types with great staying power. It’s funny: there they are, lying helpless in their little white beds or on the table, but when I’m looking at them and imagining, it’s me who feels helpless and small, as they protect me and give me pleasure.

This has nothing to do with not loving my husband. I do.

[Letter]

Lillian

Sometimes when I’m, say, peeling potatoes, I imagine that Bill will come up behind me, bend me over and enter me, right there at the kitchen sink. [Conversation]

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Viola

When I’m making love, I don’t think of anything else but satisfying my lover. Would he be jealous if he knew I were thinking of someone else? Probably. Which is why I concentrate wholly on making love.

I save my fantasizing for when I’m alone. I wait till evening, take a couple of drinks, and curl up in bed with a sexy book.

Then when the drinks take hold I can imagine my hands are those of my lover.

Other fantasies are just daydreams, which I have constantly.

My favorite daydream is of me cooking or washing dishes, my lover comes in, puts his arms around me, and as we kiss and press against one another and our passion builds, I just reach behind me and turn off the stove, the dishes are forgotten, everything left wonderfully unfinished in this very interrupted state, as we go off to the bedroom to make love. [Interview]

MASTURBATION

Not all idle minds drift to sexual fantasy, as not all sexual fantasy (and idle hands) leads to masturbation. In fact, it’s the old chicken-and-the-egg routine. Fantasy and masturbation: which comes first? But one thing seems certain: that masturbation without fantasy is unlikely, unhappy, unreal. Masurbation doesn’t just require fantasy, it demands it. Without fantasy, masturbation would be too lonely. I don’t even want to think about it.

In my researches I didn’t find one woman who said she had never masturbated. You could say that this has something to do with the nature of my subject, that the kind of people who talked to me were bound to be more sexually candid. Perhaps my surprise at finding that all the women I talked to masturbated is 74

more a comment on me than my contributors. Possibly. But you see, it wasn’t that I didn’t
expect
women to masturbate – to have tried it or stumbled upon it at some point in their lives – I simply didn’t think my own experience was all that universal. It goes back again to how little women know about one another, how inclined we are to feel isolated, different, not like the other girls, because we don’t know about other girls.

We all know about men; they masturbate. Little boys and masturbation are a normal, even charming part of the women’s magazine stories as to how little boys are. I suppose that’s it; we’ve all read so much about it, about little boys discovering it, and being discovered. It’s charming.

But women? We’re as hidden as our clitorises. By the time we’ve found them, hidden away up there, we’re guilty at having located them. If it were meant to be found and enjoyed, wouldn’t it be in the open, hanging down and swinging free like a cock?

(No wonder little girls suffer penis envy.) That, I suppose, is why I was so surprised to find we all do it: I simply assumed without thinking that I was as alone in my discovery as I’d been alone while growing up, with my other female thoughts about my femaleness. Logically, I accepted my similarity to other women – why should I be different? – but emotionally I was as uncertain as to how I stood on the subject of masturbation as I was on whether I was oversexed. No one talked about girls masturbating, it was not a part of the prescribed myth of innocence, of growing up, of becoming a woman. Actually, I don’t think there is a female version of that popular myth: neither Heidi, Nancy Drew, or the Little Women masturbated; there is no female equivalent to Studs Lonigan and Huck Finn.