You buggers worry me sometimes, actually all the time, but I only think about it some of the time, because I have a life. Kinda. For some reason, during the two weeks I was off trying to earn a living, trying being the key word here, random strangers took to trawling through my archive, and in particular through my sewer. ‘Hmm…’ I ask myself, ‘why now?’ Now I’m going to tell you a little secret, especially you newbie bloggers hoping to make a name for yourself using a bit of mild yet gratuitous titillation, posts about sex generally aren’t well read, and when they are, they’ll cause you more grief than you can handle. Don’t let the likes of Doc’s blog fool you, not too many people care to read about your sex life, or their own for that matter, and I would know, no? Which is how I can tell when you’ve been reading my sewer tales, because a sudden spike in those stats is quite unusual, but in a very good way. See, I like my sewer, I really like my sewer. Really. And I like to know, or hear, that other’s like it too. Really like it. Too. And to that end, I give you a tale.
A week ago, a lovely man asked me to tell him my fantasies. Now you know I like to have that particular conversation, and I often feel quite strongly about the need to talk through what it is you want to do, before you do it, but this man had me stumped. For real, I had nothing to say to him. See, most of the time I can cheat my way through it, pulling up one or two sexy memories from my (limited) past, talking about tasting this and feeling that. My filthy mind combined with my occasionally filthy mouth never fails to excite, and if it does, there’s always a warm hand strategically placed on thigh (always distracts the poor bastard long enough for me to get away with something suitably hot sounding, but ultimately nonsensical). As much as I am loathe to admit this, I have become a bit, umm, cocky, and lazy, when it comes to seduction, secure in my (allegedly) vast sexual knowledge, confident that I shall meet any man’s freakiness quotient, with ease. These days, again admitting in loath, I dial it in. This gentleman, however, he was having none of that. Ladies and gentlemen, this bugger took me to school, and then some, and all in my head. He listened to my little tales of lust, and then smiled an evil smile, and then sent me on what I can only describe as a scavenger hunt, in the sewer. By the time I got back to him, I was feeling suitably chastised. I thought I’d seen and read everything out there worth thinking about, but noooo…oh dear god no. Oh my! That evil smile he had, it was because, to the likes of him, I am but a mere initiate in the ways of kink, a novice in the art of pleasure. Hell, to him, I am a fucking virgin…
Stop laughing, virgin is always relative, even in the sewer. Now I’m laughing. This is what we’ll do, let’s all have a quick laugh, because this 35 year old woman claiming virginity is worth a few chuckles. Have you got your 7 laughs in (a la Katt Williams)? Good. Let’s continue.
As I was saying, I am faced with the prospect of a man who not only knows way more than I do, he appears to be interested in teaching me, free personalised coaching and everything. But there’s a catch, because there’s always a catch when it comes to shagging a new man. I am expected to do some self study beforehand, get myself up to speed, learn the different uses of candles, for example, because it will surprise you what you can do with such random items (well, it surprised me, but apparently I am an ignorant idiot). A couple of months back I talked about the first time you shag someone, waxing endlessly (such as I do) about the importance of anticipation and fantasising. “That anticipation is not perverted thinking, it’s a huge part of the seduction process, it’s your mind preparing you for what’s to come. Think of it as the lowering of your inhibition drawbridge, welcoming the invader to storm your castle and penetrate your inner sanctum…” As fate would have it, the man is of similar mind when it comes to anticipation. He gets off on the conversation. He is slowly but surely inserting himself into my head, using my own (infuriatingly OCD) curiosity against me. He gets the mind fuck. And you know what the scariest part is? I am not only open to it, I am itching to try something different (within reason, obviously. I am, after all, former PCEA, how far can I really go, no? Don’t answer that…).
Which brings me to the point of today’s trip into the sewer.
All blushing flowers and such like, kindly exit stage left, if you haven’t already, the next post should be more to your genteel taste (although, given how often I swear, perhaps not). The rest of you, kindly cloak yourselves in the complimentary overcoats by the door, next to the gumboots. Ladies and gentlemen, today we’re off to the treatment plant, the reservoir of all filth, the dirty, dirty dungeon of the sewer. We’re going…wait for it…up your ass. Oh, to see your face right now… Can you hear my evil laughter? Relax, I’m just fucking with you. Even I don’t have the balls to touch anal sex, but only because I think it’s a topic best left to our gay brethren, who better to wax lyrical than a man who knows the in’s and out’s, intimately? Ahem. Today we’re headed up, not down, to the other end of your sex. Your head, more to the point, the stuff inside your head. I’m talking about fantasies, lovely little hot, sordid, steamy, kinky, downright peculiar fantasies.
Aaaaahhhh… I’m having one right now, and its good.
Stop looking at me like that. Don’t even try to pretend you don’t have fantasies. In all my years of poking around the filthy recesses of people’s minds, I am yet to meet someone who doesn’t harbour some sort of fantasy, no matter how seemingly mild. And just to be clear, I’m talking about sexual fantasies, like the one you have about one day receiving the Nobel for physics, for your ground-breaking research into the fluid mechanics of ejaculate. Don’t worry, we all engage in similar research too, only the rest of us have the good sense to not conduct our research in the presence of others. I’m just saying, asking your woman, or man, to watch how far you can squirt, time and again, is not advisable, not if you plan on getting laid again in the near future, by the same party. Free advice, take it or leave it.
As always, I went off to google, home of all things informative, and apparently also spies giving all my information to Obama and co. Slight detour, that predictive search thing has taken on all new levels of menace. These buggers have my search history running back many years, which in turn means someone somewhere is currently perplexed at my fondness for erotica featuring vampires (don’t ask). The day I get arrested for doing strange things on the internet, know that it won’t be because I called my prezzo(s) an idiot. Detour over.
First up, the always reliable Wikipedia, they who delight in making even the simplest topic frustratingly hard to comprehend (although this time they’ve thrown in a couple of paintings of naked people, some doing all manner of freaky stuff, so they’re forgiven for being obtuse. I’m just saying…). They define fantasy as, “a mental image or pattern of thought that stirs a person’s sexuality and can create or enhance sexual arousal. A sexual fantasy resides entirely in a person’s mind and can be created by the person’s imagination, mental recollection or thought.” Sounds simple enough, at least until you scroll down a little further. “Fantasies are frequently used to escape real-life sexual restraints by imagining dangerous or illegal scenarios, such as rape, castration, or kidnapping. They allow people to imagine themselves in roles they do not normally have, such as power, innocence and guilt.” Rape and castration? What the… Why would someone fantasise about that shit? Turns out, they do.
On almost every list of top female fantasies I found, domination was pretty much at the top of the list, with numerous women (black and white, I checked to make sure, because I thought it might be a white girl thing, wanting to call him master and what not…) claiming to fantasise about being ravaged by a strong powerful man, the amount of force involved ranging from simply being grabbed and bent over a table, through to being chained to a wall and molested with foreign objects. Don’t take my word for it, read it for yourselves: Top Ten Female Fantasies, Lovepanky.com and AskMen. Reading through the lists, the one thing that seems to come through is that women, despite our alleged love for love and romance, are kinky little creatures, thinking about shagging two or more men, at the same time, and perhaps shagging a couple of women too for good measure, and making the odd sex tape. I would just like to point out at this time that my lifelong obsession with strip clubs is, in fact, quite normal. It would appear that I am not the only woman fascinated by other naked women. Useless information, but there you have it.
Not to be outdone, the men have their own lists too, and they will surprise you, because they are almost identical: Top Ten Male Fantasies, Lovepanky.com and Men Explained, and as always the lovely AskMen has handy tips for you buggers, just because, What She Thinks Of Your Fantasies. Apparently, we kinda lust for the same things. Men want threesomes with two women, and so do women. Men want to have sex in exotic locations, preferably public, and women want to be watched having sex, possibly in public locations. Men want to watch another man shag their woman, women want to shag another man with their man. Men want to be dominated, and dominate, women want exactly the same thing. Frankly, the only difference I can see in the two lists is men’s fantasy for women they shouldn’t have, from their friend’s mothers to their neighbour’s teenage daughters. Us women we don’t have those fantasies, because we prefer to lust after men we can never have, like Idris.
And just for the record, I didn’t find any list that had castration as a possible fantasy, which leads me to believe that the Wikipedia page was written by Nancy Friday and such like geniuses, they who claim that all we want is pain and humiliation, brought on by our incessant guilt. You don’t know who Nancy is? Keep it that way, her’s was a bunch of bullshit second only to Freud, because any woman who claims that women often orgasm during rape should be taken out back and shot in the ass(hole), repeatedly, bloody nkt! Incidentally, because rape is not a frivolous issue, and because it comes up disturbingly often whenever fantasies are discussed, here are links to various arguments regarding rape fantasies, for those of you who may have thought about it, and then wondered why you did: Rape, Fantasies and Female Arousal, Why Do Women Have rape fantasies? and Do Mant want to rape? Do women want to be raped? Stop frowning, I’m just telling you what’s out there, read it and make your own judgements.
Now for all my reading thus far, I still hadn’t answered that most basic question, why we fantasise about what we fantasise about. For that I went to my pet psych site, Psychology Today. Yes, I have a pet site for matters psych, don’t you? No? Ah well… In what cannot possibly be coincidence, these buggers managed to tie in my random ramblings over the past 6 months into one handy little article. Folks, remember the conversation we had about attachment theory? Guess where it all ends up? That’s right, in your bedroom. Ignore my evil laughter. An Inside Look at Sexual Fantasies posits that:
People’s attachment styles would relate to the nature of their sexual fantasies. People high in anxious attachment were more likely to have sexual fantasies reflecting emotional intimacy, being comforted and supported, and having affection expressed toward them. The participants high in avoidant attachment had sexual fantasies with themes of aggression and emotional distancing.
The short, and possibly oversimplified, explanation is this. In as much as your fantasies are flights of fancy in your head, they’re also useful pointers as to where your head is at, and perhaps where it wants to go. (Keep in mind that all this could very well be a load of scientific bollocks, like how they told us salt was bad for us, and now they say its actually harmless, useless buggers.) I know, this is a bit too intense for the sewer, but you know I like to take you down the odd rabbit hole every now and then. Read it, if only so you can figure out why every time you feel down, you dream about being spanked, or spanking. Let’s get back to happier things…
I started off with a tale about a man who has me wading through the recesses of my mind, and the internet, looking to see if I will finally make like Star Trek and boldly go where I have never gone before. From all I’ve read on other people’s fantasies, we all crave something new once in a while, and my urge to shake things up a bit is only natural. I’ve also realised that a lot of what we consider kinky is nowhere near actual kinkiness, we’ve just been restrained for too long is all, and its about time we do something to correct the situation. Do you think your fantasies are nasty little secrets? I hate to break it to you, but they’re not, because we all have the same ones too. In fact, odds are the person sitting across from you right now had the same fantasy about shagging his neighbour, on the front lawn, with his wife watching, just this morning. No really, ask him… I figure, why not let go of the fear, guilt and/or shame, if any, and just enjoy? No really, get into your sewer and embrace the filth, wallow in your (mental) sex. You don’t have to act on your fantasies, I’m of the school of thought that some fantasies are best left in your head, which is why I shall not be making plans to shag an entire football team (minus subs) any time soon. Embrace your sexy filth, then figure out where your line is, then if you feel so inclined, share your sexy filth with another sexy filth(y), or two…
My people, I’m disturbingly proud to discover that, almost halfway through my life, I still get excited about learning new stuff, in and out of bed. Hell, its fucking brilliant, is what it is. I like that I still get to meet people who turn my mind on, with random books by an Algerian philosopher and a Nigerian woman, or an Afghan with a knack for description so clear its almost garish, or a sexy poet who writes like he’s in my head, or an ageing rocker with a surprising sense of humour, or a hilarious stand up comic who makes me feel sane for asking all the questions I keep asking about serikali. And I like that I can still meet a man who teaches me a new way to come, and by come, I mean come.