My Secret Garden (Women Sexual Fantasies) (21 page)

Donna

I am thirty years old and have been married for twelve years.

I think my favorite fantasy is of my exciting someone to the point where they have to masturbate. I am not the sort of person who can openly or deliberately excite a stranger. I am very bashful and even somewhat backward sexually. However, accidents happen, and I have excited people in the past and I like the idea. Someday I will work up the courage to excite someone else besides my husband.

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During sex with my husband I sometimes fantasize we are having sex where other men and women can watch, and they get so carried away by the sight that they begin to masturbate. I also think about other men who have. made passes at me, and picture them masturbating or becoming so excited looking at me that they get carried away . and even fondle their penises in full view of the public.

I was very slow developing sexually and was in my late teens before I masturbated at all. Then it was in very secretive circumstances for fear of being caught with my fantasies. As I dated and would often come home aroused, I would fantasize about what could have happened while I masturbated. After marriage I again became fearful of being caught with my fantasies. However, as our experience grew and my husband became a better lover, I would fantasize that his penis became erect in a very embarrassing, compromising situation…and then he would climax.

I don’t know how my husband would react if I told him about these fantasies. He is a very liberal man, but if put to the actual test might think differently. He has expressed his fantasies to me, and while some excite me, others disgust me. [Letter]

ROOM NUMBER EIGHT: THE

TRANSFORMATION ROOM, OR,

"LIFE CAN BE BEAUTIFUL."

Women respond so directly to the promise of m ore beauty that even factories have discovered that better mirrors in the ladies’ room mean higher production from the women workers.

Certainly a House of Fantasy – where the most beautiful act of all relies on the promise of greater beauty – needs a room where 155

everything can be transformed: the plain woman into the beautiful, the beautiful into the even more beautiful, a drab life into a dazzling one…in such a room even sex could be made to seem beautiful to those who fear their own ugliness.

We are told that some of the most beautiful women in the world have lonely doubts about their own desirability and the essential glamour of their lives; magazine sales thrive on it. So no matter what her beauty in reality, or her favorite sexual imagery, every woman who enters the House of Fantasy will want a reassuring moment in the

Transformation Room before going on. Illusions of greater beauty, even fantasy illusions, heighten sex by heightening the woman’s own awareness of her desirability. Some women, like Betty and Monica (below), will look no further than this. The Transformation Room is all they want. Without the complete transformation of themselves and of their narrow, almost sordid view of sex itself, there could be no sex at all, imagined or real.

Fantasy releases them from the dead grip of self-contempt and neurosis and into life itself.

Monica

Monica is nineteen years old, short, messy looking, and about fifteen pounds overweight. She’s always been overshadowed by her older sister, who was the pretty one in the family, she says. "She was the one who always got the lovely clothes, and after a time I just didn’t bother."

Monica idolized her father, and in her daydreams the man was rarely a film star; he was more often her father.

"I didn’t dream about him as if he were my lover," she says.

"We would be a father and daughter. But I would lie in bed, or sit in school for hours, and imagine that he and I were about to go out to dinner in some fabulous place, or go dancing. Sometimes I’d imagine that we were going to do something exciting like 156

driving to some secret place where they illegally allowed you to play roulette."

In all, a typically romantic, adolescent girl, somewhat scruffy, but with her father playing the principal idealized male role in her youthful imagination, and a pretty sister to envy.

Monica’s parents belonged to a religious sect that believed very strongly that sex was a temptation to be resisted, and there was almost never an allusion to the subject in her house. "But somehow it made me admire my mother and father more," she says. "I knew that they were different from other people, purer and cleaner; even when my parents’ religious ideas left me entirely unprepared for the beginning of my menstruation, I didn’t entirely blame them. Oh, maybe I did blame my mother a little for not warning me, but not my father. It was a nasty, ugly business. Why should he talk about it?

"In fact, it left me with a greater admiration for my father. His silence on the subject, I mean. I knew even then, somehow, that men were more interested in, sex than women. But here was my father, this glamorous, wonderful figure who – my daydreams about him were more real to me than he himself was – only cared about the beautiful things in life, like taking me to the theater.

Why should he talk to me about ugly things like my period? You see how I built him up?

"Then one day I was in my parents’ bedroom. They were away, and I just couldn’t resist the temptation to open my father’s chest of drawers and see what I’d find there. I don’t know what I expected. Some glorious symbol of that vague, secret world that men lived in, I suppose. What I found there, under the shirts, were a little pack of those nasty rubber things – even today I hate to say the word – and a copy of Henry Miller’s book,
Tropic of
Cancer
. I’d never heard of Henry Miller. I quickly opened the book and began to read it. Or maybe I had heard of Henry Miller.

Maybe it was because the book was hidden under my father’s shirts. But I knew I was doing something wrong."

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The experience, Monica said, did not leave her so much disgusted or angry or, on the other hand, excited, as filled with fear. The book was a denial of all the pure and noble ideas she had formed about her father; and the description of the sexual acts in the book immediately made her realize that such performances must go on between her mother and father. "I felt I had nothing left to live for," Monica said. "My father wasn’t secretly thinking about living with me some day in a world where we went to the opera, or ran a ranch together out West; he was thinking of all the things in this book. There was nothing left for me but this frightening world that Henry Miller described, filled with all these horrors. I was just a stupid kid, and I tried to commit suicide that night. I swallowed a full bottle of aspirin and all the other pills I could find in the house. Luckily or unluckily, there was nothing very lethal in the; house. I just got sick and vomited all night. But evens today, suicide, it’s never very far from my mind."

I began having these ideas the very first time I had sex.

I’d never thought of it before in my life, and suddenly there it was in my mind. I’d met this good-looking boy at a dance, and I was very surprised that he even looked at me twice. Boys like him never did. But we got into his car and pretty soon I knew why by had singled me out after all. I usually shied away from that kind of thing, but then I suddenly thought, Well, you have to learn about this thing for yourself sooner or later. Everybody in the world knows about it except you. Why not with him? I was also very attracted to him, and maybe I was hoping against hope that if I said Yes, I would see him again.

And to tell the truth, it was very exciting. We got into the back seat of his car, and it was cozy and dark there. We were all alone.

Maybe it was the first time I had ever been alone for so long with a boy in a car when he wasn’t driving. I always feel that empty places are sexy. Empty rooms, especially. I think that was the feeling that took me’ into my parents’ empty bedroom that time.

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There’s always something about an empty room. You never know what’s in there.

Anyway, this boy was an expert lover. Or maybe he had just read a lot of books and knew all the tricks. I was somewhat aware that he was doing these things to me, but all I could think of .was about the moment when he would get on top of me and open my legs to push it into me. I knew somehow that it was going to hurt. But just the idea that he was going to put that thing into me was all the excitement I needed. I wanted to scream at him to forget the, sex techniques and to hurry up. I remember helping him to get my underwear off, and when my panties got stuck on my ankle – wewere in some awkward position, imagine!

– I practically tore them off myself, I was in such a hurry.

After all that, it went in without any pain at all. I remember looking for just a second, being surprised that it grew out of his front, instead of down inside between his legs, like mine. But then when it went in, I felt almost nothing. No pain. Nothing. I just felt dead inside, with all the excitement gone. I was just lying there while he was going through all these funny motions. And then this thought came to me right out of the blue. I was suddenly not my own self. The body he was screwing was not this funny fat thing of mine, it wasn’t me, it was my sister. So it all became a picture in my mind. I could see him just as he was, very handsome. But the body he was putting it in – it wasn’t me. It was my beautiful sister. Part of me was glad it was her. I hated her, and I became angry and happy to think of her in this humiliating position, being fucked by a stranger in the back seat of a car. But the other half of me wanted to be like her, wanted to feel the man inside me. If it was my sister, it was all right. And right with that picture in my mind, all the excitement came back.

I could feel the boy, I could feel myself moving up and back in time to him, but all the time it wasn’t me, it was all happening to these two beautiful people in my mind.

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Ever since then, the girl is never me. If it is, I always feel cold and lifeless and a little disgusted with both myself and the boy.

But as soon as I get this picture, I feel the wildest excitement.

[Interview]

Betty

During the last phase of intercourse is when I fantasize. I pretend I have changed into a very beautiful and glamorous woman (in real life I know I’m somewhat plain), and that my husband and I are in bed in very luxurious surroundings, usually in a hotel, far away from where we live. I can see the bottle of wine in a silver bucket waiting for us when we finish. I think of the people walking along outside our room in the corridor who are unaware of what we are doing only a few feet away from them, and how they’d envy us if they did know. Most of all, I like the idea that it is not our house but a hotel room, because hotels are only temporary, anything can happen. When I was a little girl I always imagined that only the most beautiful women lived in the huge marvelous hotels I’d see in the movies. There weren’t any large hotels in the town where I grew up, and so I only saw them in the movies, and of course, since it was in films, all the women were beautiful.

I am quite myself before the stage mentioned above, but when I begin feeling myself to be this other woman, I usually mount my husband and give myself a good working out on his gorgeous cock. This is still part of what I think of as the "final stage," and while I am sitting there above him, moving myself up and down on him, I close my eyes and seem to be watching this other beautiful’ woman who is me from some other place, outside myself. I can see her so vividly that I want to shout encouragement to her…she loves it so much. "Go on, go on, give it to yourself," I want to say to her. "Enjoy it, you deserve it." The 160

funny thing is that this other woman isn’t me. In fact, she’s not always the same woman. [Letter]

Phyllis

Hi. I am twenty-six, upper middle-class background, and had three and one-half years of college before I dropped out and bummed around the world. I have been legally married for almost four years. I am presently employed as a bartender. I am in favor of self-determination for both men and women in all areas, sexual included.

In general, I would say that my fantasies are pretty free, but my actions, though perhaps more far out than those of many people, are still conservative when compared to the possibilities of human sexuality.

I’d separate my fantasies into those I had before I had LSD

and those after. Before, they included fucking everything from guys I knew (kind of tender scenes) to very repulsive or "lewd"

dirty old men. Or a fantasy where I would make it with a girl, including kissing, rubbing tits, lying on top of one another. Or dreams of making it with a three-year-old girl, a priest, even an erotic kind of image of walking upstairs inside of an elephant (very erotic). One fantasy included my being raped by twelve black men (though I haven’t any conscious prejudice against blacks when awake). And, of course, there were the general lewd fantasies of making it with my father, an uncle, or a cousin.

Other rather general fantasies I’ve had involve seeing myself as a kind of pin-up in a porn magazine…sticking out my tits, playing with my nipples, making little catlike expressions, moving my pelvis in slow circular motions while keeping my eyes just slightly open. I’ve thought of myself this way when I’m with guys I like, as well as guys I find distasteful. Actually, sometimes if I’m fucking a guy who fills me with disgust or anger or resentment, I think to myself, "Okay, you want to fuck, 161

you creepy, slimy bastard, I’ll fuck you all right. I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll die from it." Other times, I fantasize about the guy I’m with being with another guy, or a lot of other people watching us, or the guy I’m with watching me make it with another girl. Once I fantasized about lying back on the floor and having ten different people (men and women) fondling different parts of my body.

Sometimes, if I love a guy, think his body is beautiful, but hate his technique, I have a kind of "mystical" fantasy: visions of stained glass, the suffering Christ, Virgin Mary, the organ playing…but I haven’t had this for about four years.