“Of course I came, darling. Twice!”
“Yes, I am married. But by mutual agreement, my wife and I lead separate lives.”
“You’re the best, baby. The best ever!”
“Respect you in the morning? You bet, sweetheart!”
Sex and lies are all-too-frequent bed partners. Some people even claim that when it comes to sex—such a lawless, irrational urge--there is no such thing as a lie or a truth. I’ll agree that it is a complex matter. In a way, I’m still a bit of a romantic about sex (as much as I’ve tried to ape male sexual behavior in proper 1970s feminist fashion in my early career). Sex with my soul mate is the most revealing and honest thing I’ve ever done. But I’ve also told plenty of white lies over the years and I’ve certainly lied to myself.
There is one sexual lie that I find very hard to forgive, however. I discovered this profoundly disillusioning truth about five years ago when a call went out on ERWA for a book on women’s sexual fantasies. The call mentioned Nancy Friday’s My Secret Garden and said it’s time for a new infusion of that best-selling formula. Give readers a peek into the dirty minds of women and they will buy! But, the call said, since most of the fantasies in her books were written by professional writers (and by implication not the confessions of ordinary women), this book would be made up solely of high-quality fiction pieces.
What? Those super-dirty stories about perverted nuns and horses and lesbian dominatrixes in Nancy’s books (and I have all four) were like made up?! They weren’t real fantasies?
Can we believe in anything anymore?
I knew I had to submit something in honor of Nancy and those “fake” sexual fantasies that fueled my imagination in my teenage years (and beyond). And so I dashed off a Nancy-like twosome of dirty daydreams, giving the same “realistic” context and writing in the same confessional tone. My story was accepted for publication, although it turns out none of the other stories in Women’s Fantasies, edited by Sonia Florens, have that Nancy format meant to trick you into misplaced trust. They seem like stories, but of course, erotic stories are also fantasies as well, aren’t they?
Today, as my public woman-porn-stash musings near their end (one more wrap up post later this week), I wanted to share a part of that published piece, which I now see was profoundly inspired by mind-fucker extraordinaire, Dr. Robert Chartham. This Alfred Kinsey take-off is a wee bit long, meant more for a lazy summer afternoon than blogland, I think, but what the hell, it’s my blog and I can drone on if I wanna! Oh, and for those of you who like professional analysis with your fantasies, be sure to read the insightful commentary by the renowned sex therapist, Dr. Roberta Chasm.
From "Men in High Places" or "Jessica's Fantasies":
Jessica C. is 40 years old. She lives in Pittsburgh, PA with her husband and two sons. She works full-time as a mom and part-time as a reference librarian.
I come from a fairly conservative Catholic background. My parents didn’t say a word about sex to me, except when my mother gave me a scientific facts-of-life talk when I was nine. I didn’t really discover sexuality--what a marvelous thing it could be--until I met my very open-minded and very loving husband. We’ve been married for eighteen years and have two beautiful children.
My husband travels a lot for his business and the other day I read that most videos rented in hotels were porno and the average length of play was thirteen minutes. I told my husband and he laughed and said, “That sounds about right.” But for me it’s very different. I wonder if it’s a gender thing or if I’m unusual, but I love to lose myself in long, elaborate fantasies, keeping my body just aroused enough so that it feels like I’m floating above the bed with images and words swirling around me like caresses. When I have a morning to myself, I can spend hours this way before I finally let myself climax.
My fantasies tend toward exhibitionism, although in real life I am very modest and proper and never wear anything you’d call revealing. I think people would be shocked to know what goes on in my head! Here are two of my recent favorites.
In my first fantasy, I’ve volunteered to be interviewed for a new study on female sexuality. The interview takes place at the office of a researcher at the local university and it’s funded by a prestigious organization—in fact I learn of it from the ladies I work with at the library, who assure me it feels good to do something for the advancement of science. At the researcher’s office, everything is very proper and professional at first. The female assistant gives me consent forms to sign and promises my identity will be protected.
Then the doctor comes in for the interview. He is older, mid-fifties, and very sure of himself, the type of man who looks down his nose at ordinary folk without an M.D. and at least two Ph.D.s to their names. But, as is proper protocol with a subject, he is very cordial and smooth as he asks me questions about my sexual history, how old I was when I started masturbating, how I lost my virginity, how often I climax with my husband.
At first I’m shy, but as I warm up, I begin to tell him things I’ve never told anyone before. Sometimes, when I have a few hours free for this fantasy, I focus on all the details of the question-and-answer period, the way the doctor’s eyes begin to glow in spite of his serious expression, the way he shifts in his chair as if he might be arranging something in his pants. Other times I move quickly to the special section of the interview. After I’ve answered all the questions, the doctor tells me I’ve been so cooperative, he’d like to invite me to participate in an extra “laboratory” phase of the study.
He leads me into a dimly lit room. In the center of the room is a comfortable reclining lounge chair upholstered in a feminine, floral print. The doctor tells me to lie down and relax. He then disappears into the shadowy corner of the room. He snaps on a warm, golden light that illuminates only my body on the chair. Then he explains in measured tones that I will be providing very valuable data for his study if I agreed to allow him to film me masturbating.
I blush bright red and am about to jump up and stalk out, but his voice stops me, like a huge, warm hand pressing me back down in the chair.
He explains that I can take this at my own pace and end the session any time I begin to feel uncomfortable. “You’re in charge, Mrs. C,” he says. “Just imagine you are in your own home with some private time and you’ve decided to pleasure yourself. We will make it impossible to identify your face on the video. This is all for a good cause and will promote a greater scientific understanding of female sexuality.”
Finally I consent, but for a while, I lie very still in the chair trying to psyche myself up to do this for a good cause, just as my colleagues at the library must have done before me. At last my fingers creep up to unbutton my blouse.
“Wow, look what she’s doing!”
I squint into the shadows and see that there are actually three figures over in the corner: one crouching behind the video camera that’s set up on a tripod, the doctor with his clipboard and another taller young man in jeans. The last one is the source of this enthusiastic exclamation.
I realize the doctor lied to me. This is a show, not science. But the truth is this is my fantasy, to be watched while I’m masturbating, not only for the advancement of science but for the personal education of three curious men.
I pull my blouse over my shoulders. My bra opens from the front (as if I’d known this would be convenient when I dressed for the interview) and when I unfasten it, I hear another sigh from the darkness. My breasts fall free into the cool air.
Then comes a harsh whisper, “Jeremy, Jr., I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room if you can’t restrain yourself from making unprofessional comments.”
I begin to tease my breasts. My nipples are highly sensitive—my husband calls them my “on buttons.”
“Look at the expression on her face,” the excited voice declares, heedless of the scolding. “She’s turned on already.”
He’s right. My mouth has already fallen open in that “oh” of arousal and my chest is all flushed with a pink rash. I pinch my nipples and roll them between my fingers. My pussy is swelling and throbbing with tiny electric shocks of pleasure. I arch up in the chair. I want those men—young and old--to see it.
From the corner I hear heavy breathing, footsteps pacing, another deep voice making rhythmic grunts of frustrated desire.
I pull my skirt up to my waist and work my pantyhose down around my knees, my thoroughly wet panties nested inside. I put a finger to my clit. I spit on my other palm and start rubbing it all over my chest.
A low moan comes from the corner. “Dad, she’d touching herself down there.”
The father shushes his son and clears his throat. “Ah, yes, Mrs. C. Now is the time for the first question on our survey. Are you having any particular thoughts or fantasies at this moment?”
“I’m thinking about rubbing hot spunk all over myself,” I gasp. “I love it when a man comes on my breasts. But my husband doesn’t do it often. He likes to come inside me.” My finger is flying over my swollen clit now and I’m whimpering with need. “I’m wishing a horny guy has just shot his load all over me….”
With a cry, a handsome young fellow in his early twenties leaps out from the shadows. He definitely resembles the doctor, but the long wavy hair and earring give him a sweeter look. In an instant he’s standing over me, jeans at his knees, swollen dick in hand.
“I’ll help you, Mrs. C,” he says. Such a Boy Scout. He stands by the chair, aiming his tool at my chest. With the other hand he reaches toward me.
“Don’t touch her,” the doctor yells. “That’s against medical ethics.” But there’s a hint of jealousy, too, because I’m smiling at the young man and praising his hard, beautiful cock and telling him I can’t wait for him to spray all over me.
I think it’s going to happen soon by the look of him.
“I’m gonna come,” he pants. “Open your mouth, Mrs. C. See how much you can catch on your tongue.”
Junior’s dirty game appeals to me, and I’m strumming myself furiously as his semen arcs over me. One shot hits the target, another my cheek, the rest dribbles onto my chest. I spread the slick, soapy mess over my breasts, moaning with delight.
“More,” I whisper. I could come but I don’t want to. I want to float forever in this marvelous world above the clouds.
“Hey, Mike, she says she wants more. Do you want to try? I’ll man the camera for you. This lady’s super hot.”
A husky affirmative comes from behind the camera and another young man steps out, pulling a thick cylinder of meat from his pants.
This time I can’t help myself. I lean up and take that swollen, red knob in my mouth and start sucking it. Mike lets out a groan of appreciation.
“You can’t do that,” the doctor fusses. “This is a study of female masturbation, not a porno film.”
I have both of my hands clamped on Mike’s muscular ass and he’s all the way down my throat. I know he’s going to shoot his load soon, he’s getting so hard in my mouth. It’s as if he’s pumping his excitement into me and even though I’m not playing with myself at that moment, my pussy juice is gushing onto the chair.
With a shudder, and a series of rapid thrusts, Mike ejaculates in my mouth. I hold it there and swirl it around with my tongue before I swallow it down. I’m so turned on, it tastes nasty and sweet all at the same time.
Mike zips himself up, embarrassed now, and quickly retreats to the corner.
I still hear one man’s labored breathing coming from the shadows.
“Doctor,” I call, “I believe it’s your turn. I still need a little help to get me over the top.”
He lets out a long sigh. It’s those last shreds of cool professionalism evaporating into the steamy air. Reluctantly he walks over, pausing every few steps, like he’s being drawn to me, a fish on a line. He stops at the bottom of the chair. I can see his huge erection through his pants and a little stain of wetness at the outline of the tip. He tosses his clipboard on the floor and fumbles with the chair. The footrest snaps down, and he yanks off my pantyhose and kneels between my legs, cock poised to enter me. Clearly he expects I’ll have intercourse with him. After all he’s the doctor, the real man, the grand prize.
I smile. “Oh, no, Doctor, I have different plans for you. I want you to eat my pussy while you pull on your peter like the naughty boy you are. Isn’t that right, Doctor? All this talk of scientific research when really you just want to see ladies play with themselves so that you can watch the video later in your office and get off. The truth is, Doctor, you are nothing more than a dirty little masturbator.”
He can’t really answer because he’s already buried his face in my muff, his nose poking out over my fur. He is doing a good job, though, very professional. His tongue makes little figure eights on my clit, so that I’m squirming and squealing like some kind of crazed animal. And of course his hand is down between his legs jerking off his own tool, and that’s when I come, thinking about him on his knees doing exactly as I’ve commanded. Or sometimes I wait a little for my satisfaction, until after he’s come. I like to watch him wiping himself with his handkerchief and mopping the puddle of his own spunk from the floor....
Dr. Roberta Chasm Comments:
I’m Dr. Roberta Chasm, and I specialize in making sweeping generalizations about people’s inner lives without really knowing what I’m talking about. Today I’m going to analyze the sexual fantasy of a certain “Jessica,” a “part-time reference librarian” from “Pittsburgh, PA.”
To begin with, I think Jessica should think about getting a full-time job at the library. She clearly has way too much time on her hands, if you get my drift. I also suspect this woman has had some bad experiences with the medical profession and/or professors. The degradation of the sex researcher at the climax of her story reveals a deep-seated resentment of authority—although in the interest of full disclosure, I myself wouldn’t mind seeing a few of my more arrogant colleagues on their knees mopping their jiz off the floor with their hankies.
Now, the unremitting exhibitionism Jessica relates in the fantasy also raises a red flag for me. Her desperation to reveal her sexual experiences to the doctor, first in the interview and then on film, borders on the pathological. There is some concern that if these urges increase, the subject may find herself caught up in the dangerous amateur porn market. If she begins selling videos of herself acting out this fantasy, it could potentially damage her marriage as well as encroach on my market for therapist-approved DVDs of real women and couples which can be purchased at: http://www.yesyouareasickpervert.com.
However, in spite of these glaring revelations of her own complexes, Jessica’s fantasy has some redeeming elements. It is encouraging that in spite of her mousy behavior at the beginning of this scene (which no doubt reflects a general spinelessness in her real life), she gradually claims her own power, reversing the patient-doctor dynamic through the self-actualizing seduction of the two younger men. In this way, Jessica’s tale transcends boundaries of gender, age, and class to result in an uplifting female empowerment experience.
Because of this, I recommend that Jessica continue to enjoy this fantasy, although she should consider limiting the amount of time she actually spends engaged in self-abuse. And if she is looking for some healthier ideas as a replacement, I suggest she consult my new book Sexual Fantasies Can Make You Rich. I’m happy to say it’s selling quite well!
Dr. Roberta Chasm is available for private and couples therapy. Videotaped sessions are also available. Learn more at: http://www.yesyouareasickpervert.com.