Beyond My Control: Forbidden Fantasies in an Uncensored Age (9 page)

nipples. I can feel their silky hair brushing along my ribs and stomach. As I writhe and moan, they nibble my nipples, making soothing sounds. Every time I come close to release, they suspend their activities. All the while the two men are manipulating my vagina and clitoris. More people come, and they are sucking my fingers and toes. I am sucking a firm breast, and still they won’t let me cum. I am lost in all their bodies, and they are all making love to me.

While many women now own their fantasies of domination, some women seem puzzled by their fantasies of being dominated because they are not like this “in real life.” But isn’t that the point? Fantasies often counter, often try to get what we don’t have in reality. Men have always been into domination. It was thrust upon them. Women have begun to learn what men have always known—that while it’s empowering to have authority, it can be very tiring.To compensate for this sexually, more men and women are getting into being “taken,” being made to lie back and accept the orgasm “beyond my control.” It can be heard up and down the halls of authority where we bring ourselves to erotic life with a quick fantasy of being made, forced to let go the reins of power.

And when the day is finally over, and there’s no one there to cook dinner and take care of us, we have choices. To go out, go online, search for a new love or just an exciting moment of satis- faction. Or we can run a warm bath, close our eyes, and pretend in fantasy that the sensation mounting between our legs and spreading to our brain, erasing all thoughts of responsibility, is being aroused by our dream partner, that person in fantasy who will not take no for an answer.

We are all part of the sexual maelstrom, where it no longer seems worthwhile to argue the right and wrong of any aspect of eros. Somehow, in the state of being dominated, there is a reassuring sense of a force stronger than we are in our world of chaos.

maSTuRBaTiON

m a s T u r B a T i o N

I feel it appropriate to say a few words in honor of masturba- tion when writing a new book about sex. A big word—mastur- bation—four syllables full of weight within the family where it is seldom mentioned, a silence that speaks with more force than words. “No, don’t masturbate, my darling,” was never said, though we are absolutely sure of mother’s opinion.

Most of us are like thieves. We touch our bodies, all the while imagining mother’s footsteps in the hallway, the dire conse- quence of her discovery, and our expulsion from the garden. In time, this imminent threat becomes fuel for the fire of our or- gasm. Ah, the fantasy of almost getting caught! Getting away with our orgasm becomes part of who we are. Fact is, we want our mothers diametrically opposed to what we are doing when we put our hand between our legs; we want to keep mother dear asexual, while we ourselves are bad, bad, bad!

Long before boys entered my young life, there was nothing that raced my adrenaline like putting things that weren’t mine into my pocket. Oh, the thrill at Woolworths, the rapid heartbeat as I walked away from the site of my crime! What if I’d been caught, and I, the president of my class, the straight-A student? I was a true Jekyll and Hyde, an identity I carried into adolescence when a boy’s lips on mine spoke of the most forbidden fruit.

We’re raised on stolen sex, beginning with masturbation. Early on, stealth becomes integral to our sexual history. Lying in bed at night, ears attuned to parental activity—are they up and

about?—we bring ourselves to orgasm, the explosion thrilling at getting away with it. How could thievery of our own bodies not be a part of our ongoing sexual history? In time, we lie in a boy’s arms in a parked car, the dark night all about us, and we feel his hand move between our legs. Our eyes closed, we give ourselves over to what we felt touching our bodies in our virginal bed, only now intensified a thousand times over.

We are creative artists, making stolen sex work for us in fan- tasy. Little did we know back then that, years later and miles away, the scary possibility of approaching footsteps would be the foundation and inspiration of our adult fantasy.

I once believed that the most salient difference between men’s and women’s fantasies was men’s delight in imagining women bringing themselves to orgasm as opposed to women’s total dis- interest in men gratifying themselves. I still find it interesting that many men feel that “women don’t want sex, really want it like men do.” Perhaps men fantasize watching a woman mastur- bate in order to say, “Wow, she loves it as much as I do!”

I’ve known women to admit a certain jealousy or resentment of their man’s fondness for masturbation. But I’ve never heard the reverse. It’s not that women simply turned the idea over in their heads and rejected it. The subject never came up. For most women, a man bringing himself to orgasm was more of a turn- off than a turn-on, possibly because it made her feel unnecessary. Or was it her grudging certainty that a man is connected to his penis in a fond and intimate way that we women don’t share with regard to our vagina? In any case, the penis didn’t have the allure that the vagina had for straight men.

There were certainly exceptions to this rule, but it seemed to me that women who couldn’t get enough of the penis—looking

at it, watching it grow in our hands—tended to be fatherless girls who grew up in a home with no penis in residence. As women have now entered almost every exclusive “Boys’ Club,” perhaps we’re also garnering their fantasies.

Someone once told me, “No one’s going to make a thriv- ing business out of peep shows for women that show guys masturbating.” But the Internet has opened new doors. How many more women, raised by both parents, now visit sites devoted to male masturbation, sites that advertise to both men and women?

Over the years, more and more letters and emails, such as the one following by Susannah, show women raised by both parents increasingly turned on by male masturbation. We are no longer just the exhibitionists and males the voyeurs. More than ever, we are equals and can equally view men solely for our own pleasure as sexual objects. Perhaps there’s a good reason why the term “boy toy” didn’t appear until the late twentieth century.

T h e B o y T o y h a s c o m e — h a l l e l u j a h !

Susannah

Susannah, from a conservative military family, has parents who never discussed sex. and any displays of nudity were looked on with embarrassment. in high school, with her first boyfriend, she discovered: “What a thrill it was to kiss, to have the boy touch my breasts, or to feel his erect penis through his clothes. The first time i felt that hard shaft against my stomach was wonderful because i knew i had done that to him.” Like so many people from sexually repressed parents, she experienced the duality, outwardly the “proper” good girl with the secret

“hot-blooded” sexually insatiable side. “One time, with a special boy, i managed twelve orgasms in two nights…okay, he was very special.” after becoming preg- nant, she married at age twenty.

Zach was a lousy lover, many sexual hang-ups, and after about eight years, I became attracted to Bob, a married coworker of Zach’s. We began a correspondence that was initially innocent, and I discovered he was also attracted to me.
This was the state of my sexual fantasies.
I used to fantasize about him every day and masturbate in the shower by letting the water pound my clitoris until I came. These fantasies were quite innocent in the beginning, kissing, etc. Later, as my confidence and my knowledge of reciprocated desire increased, I expanded my vision to include sex outdoors, on the dining room table, in front of the fireplace, etc. One was a particular favorite: Dressed only in a coat and high boots, I would go to Bob’s office just before he was about to leave, lock the door, and seduce him. I would end up seated in his lap, impaled on his shaft, with the coat open and his face buried in my breasts. I was very frustrated in those days and actually had a couple of group sessions with my best friend’s husband.

This relationship didn’t go anywhere. Then, after another couple of years, I rediscovered sexual fantasies when I was on the verge of becoming totally non-orgasmic again. This is the fantasy that allowed me to cum almost every single time we had sex during the last seven years of our marriage. It is early on a beautiful spring Sunday morning, and I have just come out of the shower. The weather is warm, so I take the newspaper and sit in a lounge chair on my apartment balcony, wearing just my long floral cotton bathrobe. By the way, I am no different from my real self in any way. As I am reading, a motion caches my eye, and I look over to the next apartment building in this cluster, where I find I can see into an apartment on the next lower floor. (In this fantasy,

I have terrific vision, which allows me to see all sorts of details that would normally be invisible at this distance.)

A man in his thirties, a good-looking stranger with curly light brown hair, is lying in bed, just under a sheet. The motion that caught my eye is his yawning and stretching as he wakes up. I see that he is quite handsome, with a tanned, moderately muscular body. After rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair, he glances down the sheet to the place where his morning erection has caused the sheet to lift, and he smiles to himself. Then, he flips the sheet away and lies there totally nude. Sun-bleached hair curls on his legs, arms, and lightly across his chest. His body is gorgeous, and I can’t take my eyes off him. His average-sized penis, released from the sheet, stands almost straight up. He touches it lightly and grins as he watches it bounce. Reaching into a drawer in his night stand, he takes out something and does something to his hands. Although I cannot see clearly, it suddenly dawns on me that he must be rubbing lubricant on his hands in preparation for masturbation! I am full of anticipation, as I have never seen a man jerk off before.

Then, he wraps his hand around the shaft and begins to stroke it up and down slowly, almost lazily. After a few minutes of this, he releases the shaft, and I notice it is longer, thicker, and redder, although still of average size (no giant penises in my fantasies). My paper has dropped to the floor of the balcony, and I am feeling flushed. With one hand, he begins to play with his balls while the other hand reaches up to caress one of his nipples. I find that my right hand is creeping between my legs while the other begins to play with one of my nipples. The hair between my legs is moist with more than the water from the shower, and the labia are beginning to swell.

Nowweare masturbating in tandem—as he pulls at his nipples and rolls them with his fingers, I do the same to mine, feeling the firm flesh on my

breasts, too. He pumps his shaft and caresses his balls as lightly as I tease my clitoris and rub my mons. I have totally forgotten that I am outside in broad daylight, with my bathrobe wide open and my body displayed for all to see. Sometimes, he stops abruptly and just rubs his hands over his body and down his thighs while his penis bounces and quivers as though it were alive and begging for more. I do the same, stroking my body while my nipples ache with desire and my hips gyrate as my clitoris seeks any available stimulation in the absence of my fingers. Then, his hands resume their actions, and I am almost frenzied now as I rest myself, waiting for that magical moment when his penis will spasm and his hot fluid will shoot out. As I approach my orgasm, my body demands more sensation until I am squeezing and pinching my nipples and rubbing my clitoris firmly. Suddenly, his back arches, and he writhes, and both hands wrap around his shaft as white, hot cum shoots up and onto his chest. I plunge two fingers into my spasming vagina, clamping my other hand on top of them, writhing and gasping as I cum more violently. As I relax and my vision clears, I see the man lying back with a big smile of satisfaction and know that I have an identical smile on my face. (This, by the way, is exactly how I masturbate—except not where I can be seen!)

Sometimes, I add another part: As I lie there on the balcony, waiting for my breathing to slow down, I hear a gentle chuckle and look up to see on a balcony opposite and above mine—a strange man with dark hair and a moustache who has obviously been watching me! He is wearing only shorts or swim trunks, and his erection is quite visible. I find that I am only slightly embarrassed. This is where the fantasy ends. It worked every time unless I was coming down with something, so no wonder my husband thought he was the world’s greatest lover.