Beyond My Control: Forbidden Fantasies in an Uncensored Age (23 page)

It is plain as day to see the almost exact replication—with some additions—to the actual experience of taking a bath at her aunt’s house, with everyone looking on.

Grace

The setting is a large bar, kind of country-western style. (I don’t know why, as I am heavy metal all the way.) I am a hired “waitress.” I waltz around the room, serving beers and liquor to the customers. Suddenly, I feel a hand snaking up my thigh. I notice that it isn’t one of the “authorized” men, but I let him have his way for a few minutes. This gets me a little wet, but the next touch I feel is more aggressive; my tray is taken from me, and in the same swift motion, I am pushed down across one of the little tables and roundly fucked. I’m absolutely loving it, but they don’t know that. The fact that I’m being paid to fuck these men is integral to the whole thing.

I understand the importance to the fantasy of being paid to fuck in public. It not only elevates the act to pure art, but at the same time, it gives roots to Grace’s exhibitionism, making it as practical and worthwhile as tending bar or waiting on tables. After all, isn’t she feeding the customers’ eyes?

When feminism came along, women’s pursuit of beauty was rejected. When women entered the workplace, the full asexual Dress for Success suit said, “Don’t take me as a sex object. I’m here to compete.” I don’t recall any debate on the decision, but intuitively, we realized that we’d never forge an army if we were

divided by envy of other women’s beauty or stopping to powder our nose on the way to the march. We simply put on our jeans and went to war.

That era didn’t last long. Once we’d won a piece of the economic pie, we “naturally” (if that word means anything) wanted to buy something lovely and go out and be seen. We kept our jeans, but we also wanted that deep-down pleasure in being taken. With men and women in a confined space, eros will find a way. Janet, a forty-two-year-old woman, unmarried but living with a man, writes: “My lover and I shared our fantasies with each other last night in a hotel room. As he was lapping up my cunt juices, I was fantasizing about a man I used to work with. I used to love the way he’d sneak glances at me. Though we never acknowledged it, I loved the power I had over him. I dressed to get more.”

We can do what we want with people, put them into various configurations, workplace, home—but the need to see and be seen—both of which feed eros—demand gratification.

Risa

Risa is an attractive, fifty-year-old college professor.

I had a foreign student in one of my classes; he wore a short dress- like garment. He always sat in the front row, right where he made eye contact with me, no matter where I was lecturing. He began to move his legs open and closed very suggestively throughout the hour. I had no idea if he had underwear on or not. I finally asked him to take a seat in the back. He did but was clever enough to take a back seat which was, again, directly in my line of vision. I couldn’t teach. I got through the semester, but my fantasies of him continue. It wasn’t just that he was

possibly exposing himself. It’s that I was the focus of this sexual young man’s exhibitionistic pleasure. I have to admit, the thought of it always heightens my orgasms.

On an intellectual level, I understand that it has very little to do with me. I was the one lecturing, the supposed focus, and he wanted/needed the eye on him. To some degree, we all want that. I remember when I was five, wearing a polka-dot bathing suit and a hula skirt for Halloween, and my teacher asking us to change into our clothes when we came in from the march outside into the classroom. I refused to take off my bathing suit and was conscious that I wanted the boys to see me.

We know that the intent of the display artist is to capture someone’s eye and keep it, literally control it. Often, the voy- eur is accused of staring, making the beautiful woman with the pushup bra in the transparent dress uncomfortable.The dilemma is that we want to get attention, to dominate the eye of another, but we also want to be the one in charge.

Stella

Stella, a twenty-year-old student at a prestigious university, is active in her soror- ity and other campus organizations.

Both my parents have remarried and returned to the church, and although they were pretty liberal while I was growing up, I find that now they would rather have me be “a good little girl.” Perhaps this is one of the reasons sex is just a little more thrilling now, as I have always done what I was supposed to do.

I am currently seeing a twenty-six-year-old man with the body of a Greek god. It is hard for me to fantasize about a better body, so in my head and in real life, they are one and the same. My fantasy goes something like this: My lover and I plan to meet in a bar or perhaps he just knows that I will be there and wants to make sure that he is the man I’ll be with for the evening. The bar is something out of an old movie, almost like a whorehouse bar with red satin walls and a big dark oak bar with a handsome bartender who serves me free drinks. I am at the middle bar stool alone, and the whole room is filled with a haze of smoke and men’s laughter. Some men are playing cards, and others are just talking, but they all keep sneaking looks at me.

I am wearing a black formal evening dress with black lace stockings. I have no panties on, so I can feel the slipperiness of the satin beneath my ass when I cross and recross my legs. The smoky bar is warm, and I am thankful that my dress is short and strapless, since I can see the perspiration beginning to form across my chest.

When I look up from my drink, I see my lover come in the door. I smile, but he gives me a cool look. He walks up to the bar slowly, and as he gets closer, I can smell his clean, fresh-shaven scent. He sits down next to me and orders a strong drink, the whole time ignoring me as I am getting wetter and wetter just being near him. I turn my bar stool toward him, and my knees brush his pants. He can see all the way to my pink lips, and he can smell the heat of my cunt. Without looking at my face, he slides his hands slowly up my dress past the top of my stockings and begins to finger me. He turns slightly toward me and smirks, knowing how badly I want him.

The bartender comes down to offer me another drink. As I have trouble ordering another drink, he smiles, knowing what is happening. Meanwhile, I can see the bulge in my lover’s pants, so I reach to unzip and free his throbbing desire. He clasps onto my wrist quickly, pulls

his other hand out from my dripping cunt, and takes me to a dark hallway that leads to a pool room. The whole room of men can see us as he presses me up against the wall, both of my hands above my head held in one of his big strong hands, as he lifts up my dress, and pulls me, moaning, onto his hard shaft. He reaches under my ass to lift me from the floor, kissing me, and moves me to him until we cum together. Then, he pulls down my dress, kisses me gently, and we walk out of the dark saloon together, his juices flowing down the inside of my thigh.

Dixie

I’m a twenty-five-year-old black girl, middle class and single. I spent a wonderful summer with Joel, a boy about a year older than I. He’s going to be married now, but I still sometimes fantasize about people, usually men, watching us have sex in unusual places.

At the Metropolitan Opera House, in the parking lot, are two bathrooms for men and women. I’ve often gone there and seen no one on duty. He doesn’t know where we’re going and looks surprised when I pull him into the men’s bathroom. (I envision it has stalls like the women’s room.)

There are several men in stalls, but no one sees us as we slip into one. Once inside a stall, we start hugging each other frantically. I tug at his shirt, popping off a few of the buttons in my hurry. He’s wearing a T-shirt underneath and doesn’t protest when I start tearing at it. It comes apart with a satisfying ripping sound. I can sense this gets the attention of the men in the stalls. I feel like an animal; I’m different from how he’s always seen me. He’s inspired by my hunger, carried

away by lust. Abandoning restraint, he pulls down the top of my dress; I’m wearing one of those black lace skimpy bras underneath. He flicks his tongue all along the edge of the bra, even sucking my nipples through the lace.

The men in the stalls begin looking over the top to see what’s going on as Joel pulls my bra down with his teeth, leaving it in tangles, almost pinning my arms. We don’t have much time, as more and more men come in. They are now looking from over and under the stall. Joel’s erection presses into me with one sudden thrust, causing me to cry out. I’m not quite wet enough for him yet, so he has to shove harder than usual to move into me. But I don’t mind—it’s what I want. Standing up, there’s barely room to move. I see men all around lustfully staring as Joel fucks me. The constrained space means we’re banging against the walls, arching our bodies together, slippery with sweat. My legs are wrapped tight around his waist; he couldn’t throw me off even if he wanted to. I want to have his cock deep inside me. He silences me with a kiss, but his thrusts become even fiercer, if possible, as the men are now cheering him on saying, “Fuck her! Screw that hot bitch!”

I reach down and rub his cock when it partly comes out of my cunt. I bring up my fingers, dripping with my own juice, and smear my nipples with it. I’m gasping, nearly sobbing with pleasure. Through the men’s voices cheering him on, I hear him groaning out my name: now he’s just groaning. I twist against him and feel orgasms shuddering through me. Finally, he cums, his stiffened body grinding me into the stall door as the huge crowd of men cheers. We wipe each other’s bodies with the toilet paper and slip quietly out of the bathroom before the guards get there to find out what all the commotion is about.

m a l e F a N T a s i e s o F V o y e u r i s m

“Peekaboo,” or, “Pass the Remote”

I remember the thrill when I was a young child of “spying” on people. There was a game of following strangers on the street, ducking in and out of doorways, keeping them in our gaze as if it were an exercise of power. We learn not to be caught staring at someone, to not want to be seen. “It’s impolite,” Mother says. But it’s hard not to look. We are wired to gaze at beauty. We are hungry for it: “Let me take you in. Let me feast my eyes!” Even if we’re envious, we can’t resist a peek.