My Secret Garden (Women Sexual Fantasies) (14 page)

And so for every rich, highly stylized, and imaginatively plotted fantasy I’ve heard or read, there have been a dozen concise repeats of the obvious favorites, the Big Sixteen. (For a psychoanalyst’s interpretation of these themes, read the afterword by Dr. Martin Shepard.) They are the old tried-and-true darlings that never really do grow old, or wear out; and no male house of 99

prostitution should fail to take account of them, giving each female client at least a starting chance of getting what she’s paid for. As Genet’s characters in his play
The Balcony
come to the female bordello to live out their sexual dreams, so should women in a true House of Fantasy be encouraged to do the same by an understanding and sympathetic management.

In time, I think, women would go far beyond the obvious, building new wings beyond the Domination Room, finding new roles for the staff to play in addition to the Big Black Bully. But for now, let no House of Fantasy call itself complete unless it has rooms with the following signs above their doors.

ROOM NUMBER ONE:

ANONYMITY, OR, "TAKEN BY THE

FACELESS STRANGER"

Anonymity is fantasy’s best friend. It heightens romance and adds drama; it increases pleasure and eliminates guilt, fantasy’s enemy. Whether the concealing device be simply night’s darkness or a sudden power failure in the fantasy restaurant; whether the mask be an unfriendly rapist’s handkerchief or the familiar hygienic face mask worn by the doctor; whether the man fucks her from behind so that she cannot see him, or is a visible total stranger…no matter how it’s achieved, a woman will try for anonymity, even in passing, for its known sure-fire power of release and lift.

With it she is Madame X, sexually free at last to do and be done to; with no relationship beyond the purely physical one of the moment, she is free for a one-night stand, free to play Sailors Ashore, with all inhibitions thousands of miles away. The not knowing – her not knowing who he is, and his not knowing who 100

she is – reduces them both to sex objects, reduces the relationship to a purely physical one with no previous or promised commitments. While there are none of the more tender emotions, they are not what is wanted for the moment.

Anonymity frees a woman to take what she’s always wanted sexually, taking it the way she’s always wanted it, with no one to face; no known face, either, to account to afterward. As long as no one will ever know, since the strangers by the law of fantasy will never meet again, and while this is the first time with all its sexual excitement, it is also the last, with all the urgency that comes before farewell…why not try anything?

Linda

Linda is an old friend of mine, and in my mind she’s always just come back from Paris. She is a syndicated fashion illustrator.

When you see drawings in your local newspaper of the latest European collections, chances may well be that Linda did them.

She has been married twice and now lives in New York with a man who is not her second husband. He has a certain amount of money, and Linda herself makes a good salary. They live very well and quarrel constantly, not always quietly. I sometimes think their relationship is spiced by – if not based on – a certain amount of antagonism, like so many couples whose highest sexual moments follow their bitterest quarrels.

Linda is about thirty, small featured, blond – pretty in a kind of old-fashioned movie star way (which by the time you .read this will probably no longer be old fashioned). I’m not surprised by her fantasy of "the hair store" (as she’s always called a beauty salon). She was talking freely and imaginatively about sex before it was fashionable to do so.

Gerald doesn’t know this one. I can’t wait until he reads it…I suppose that’s why I’m telling you. He thinks he’s such a stud that there isn’t anything he hasn’t done, or wouldn’t do. But this 101

fantasy…well, he doesn’t even enter into it, does he? But I don’t want to be unfair to the guy. He really is fantastic in bed. And what kind of a man – except some nut, and even I don’t want that

– could give me this kind of thing? But that’s what fantasies are for, right? For what you don’t get in life?

I’m at this hair store, a very posh number like Lizzy Arden’s or one of the Revlon emporiums. Some fag with a very vulgar idea of elegance has decorated it with chandeliers and fountains, gold basins and shocking pink Barca-lounger reclining chairs where you half lie while your hair’s drying and you’re having a manicure or a facial. All these chairs are in a long row, with a discreet distance between each, where green potted things grow, giving all us ladies the feeling of privacy.

I’ve just had a facial, so I’ve got this mask on, and there are cool cotton pads on my eyes. I can’t see a thing. Not that I could see what’s going on anyway, because there’s a white silk curtain that falls from the ceiling down to my waist, then on down to the floor. No one can see me from the waist down. Neither can I. I can’t see what’s on the other side of the curtain. But I know.

Over there, on the other side, is a young man – actually, lots of them, a row of young, big, strapping types, half nude. They’re wearing a kind of loin cloth, and their bodies glisten with sweat as they go about their business. Their business is us ladies. They are there to service us. But as posh as our set-up is on our side of the curtain – with the chandeliers and fountains and privacy –these guys are over there on their side of the curtain working like galley slaves, one alongside the other, no nice lights, no pretty music, just the crack-crack of the whip as the guy in charge strides up and down making sure none of them misses a stroke –so to speak.

My particular guy is dark, good-looking in a hard, impersonal sort of way. After all, he can’t see me either; to him I’m just another cunt. For all I know, he could be a fag…which doesn’t lessen or heighten the enjoyment for me. But the important thing 102

is that this is his job, his employment. He is a service this swell salon offers, like a masseur. He crouches there between my legs, and with the greatest expertise in the world, he goes down on me.

That first moment is wildly exciting: I’m lying there, my legs in a big V, waiting for him, and I can’t see him approach, I don’t know he’s near, until his tongue, the tip of it, suddenly flicks me with the most excruciating Zing!

So there he is, working away on me wonderfully, and me lying over there on the other side of the curtain, my expression of bliss concealed by my mask, the fountains and the Muzak playing away. His head moves from side to side as he expertly, but mechanically, builds and teases me, builds and teases…but mostly builds. Now, generally, he gets nothing out of this himself

– except his pay. His little cock just dangles there, small as a thumb between his legs as he squats and nibbles away perfunctorily. But suddenly, with me, it’s different. I’m special.

The life he’s aroused in my cunt communicates to him, this incredible sexuality I have…maybe it’s the pulse in my cunt that he can feel beating. Haven’t you ever felt the pulse there? With me it’s like drums when it starts…when I start.

But back to my
mise en scène.
Suddenly the mean old whipmaster realizes that my guy has slowed down on the job. By that, I mean that he’s giving it too much valuable time, that he’s really
into
what he’s doing, giving the client more than is required. He gives my guy a smart flick of the whip, but my boy doesn’t even turn around. He’s groaning and pressed into my cunt as though there’s no tomorrow, and his cock is enormous now, his hand stroking it, bringing himself to climax as he brings me closer. The whiprnaster gives him a terrible blow, but the guy is lost to everything but me…we’re getting closer and closer, together now, and I suddenly start praying that the ogre whipmaster won’t drag him away just as we’re about to reach the most glorious climax of our lives. The whipmaster grabs him by the shoulder – my heart almost sinks – he can’t understand it.

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He’s never seen one of these gorgeous flunkies behaving like this, getting turned on by a client, by a client’s cunt! Then, just at the crucial point, the whipmaster, dumbfounded, loses his professional cool, our excitement communicates to him. Like when the cynical stage manager hears little Judy Garland audition "Over the Rainbow" and realizes a star is born.

"I’ve never seen this happen before!" the whip guy yells. "Why this man is so delirious with pleasure he refuses to be paid!" (I don’t know how he’s managed to communicate this, with his mouth full.)

But that does it: The whipmaster is so whipped up himself, he takes out
his
cock and works feverishly to our pitch, so that when we come, he comes…and oh boy, it’s quite a day in the old hair store! [Taped interview]

Pamela

I am on an absolutely deserted beach, lying on my back, sound asleep. I am wearing only a bikini, the bottom part fastened on each side with only a tiny bow, and the top fastened in front only with a bow, too, between my enormous breasts, which are already almost overwhelming the little bit of cloth that is the bra.

I breathe deeply and evenly, shifting positions lightly as I sleep.

A man’s shadow falls across me; he stands looking down at me as I sleep. He’s very tanned and wears only swimming trunks. He watches, and as he watches me sleeping he gets excited. He kneels beside me, very softly and gently so as not to awaken me, and very carefully unties the bow at one of my hips, then reaches over me to untie the other side. He lays the bikini back, exposing me to his gaze.

For a moment he just sits there, taking me all in. I murmur in my sleep and shift position slightly, separating my thighs somewhat, which angles my slit upwards. His erection grows enormous; he slips out of his shorts and then kneels over me with 104

one knee on each side of my thighs. Although I don’t even open my eyes, I glide one hand out to his penis and caress it gently, and then glide it, to his surprise, right into my cunt. He then fucks the bejesus out of me and I rock along with him. But I never open my eyes, just murmur as if I were sleeping and enjoying a good dream. [Taped interview]

Marie

Marie has the scrubbed good looks of the other young women who live in the suburban area where she and her husband moved following the birth of their second child. She told me that she was a virgin when she and Phil married, that she’s been tempted once or twice to continue one of the idle flirtations that started up at the country club or at some neighbor’s party, but that she was always scared off by the consequences.

I don’t think I could look Phil in the eye if I ever really went to bed with another man. I’d really like to be able to do it, because I’ve had so little sex, and I feel so out of things, so inexperienced…so dull. But I just haven’t got the nerve. I really envy girls a few years younger than me who’ve been able to cash in on all this sexual freedom. I even feel guilty about having this fantasy, but I can’t keep it from popping into my mind every time we do have sex now. It makes it so much more exciting, and I try to tell myself I deserve it…just the fantasy, if not the reality. Who knows? If it ever happened in reality, as it does in m y mind, I just might go through with it. I even find myself thinking about it if I’m standing around at someone’s party outdoors. I stand there holding my gin and tonic, wishing he knew what was on my mind, the man I’m talking to.

In my imagination I picture this garden party, very much like one of the evenings that go on around here two and three times a week during the summer. I practically landscape the setting in my mind: the sloping lawns, the big trees, the rows of hedges, all 105

very nicely kept up. I can even hear the gardeners delicately snipping away at the shrubs somewhere off in the night… not that gardeners work at night, except in my fantasy. It is night, because all the men are in black tie. I’m in a short dress, the only really short dress I ever bought (my concession to the mini craze).

More important, I’m not wearing any stockings.

Not even panty hose, which is not at all like me. My dress is a very pretty blue – like the real one was – and all the waiters are in short red jackets. Is it normal to fantasize in color? Well, I do.

I’ve wandered off to a rather distant corner of the garden on my own. That’s typical, as I love flowers and always investigate every new garden I see. Suddenly I meet a man, another guest, and we begin to discuss flowers and things. I don’t know him.

I’ve never seen him before. He’s probably someone’s husband; most of the men at these parties generally are. In fact, I know in my fantasy that he belongs to someone else…which both makes it easier and more exciting.

He bends down to pick a flower for me. But he doesn’t get up; I mean, he doesn’t stand up. He comes up under my dress. I stand there, not protesting, just holding my drink and smiling vaguely at the other distant guests, who can only see me from the waist up because I’m standing behind this rather high hedge. I think it’s a boxwood, or a yew. Anyway, it’s very thick and sturdy, which is meaningful because it almost supports me as I lean against it in the excitement that follows. You see, this man has discovered that I’m not’ wearing any underwear, which so surprises him
(no
woman where we live would think of going without
something)
that he doesn’t waste any time: He presses his mouth right up against me, sticks his tongue right up into me.

I practically fall into the hedge, I get so weak in the knees. There might have been a minute there, when he first came up under my dress, when I would have stepped away, but his mouth is too much and now I pray for him to go on.

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I look down around this point and see that he’s unzipped his fly, and that he’s playing with himself and has an erection the size of which I’ve never seen. I keep staring at his penis, which grows as my own excitement grows. His mouth is like nothing I’ve ever felt before, it’s like magic, it’s tender and demanding, and his own hand on his cock, the veins are as strained as the veins in his penis. My legs become so weak, it’s almost as if I’m poised there on his mouth, that it’s holding me up, and I feel if I take my eyes off his hand, his penis, that I’ll faint. Suddenly, as I’m just about to climax, but not quite – just as I
know
I’m going to, though – these little bubbles begin to appear at the tip of his penis, bubbles, faster and faster, one after the other, and I begin to worry he’ll finish before I do and .that he will stop.