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Full text of "My Secret Garden"

Nancy Friday 

Hy Secret 

Women's Sexual Fantasies 


who believed in this book 
when it was just fantasy 



FOREWORD by "J," 1 






Madge, Dot 

Louella, Irene, Annette, Maria 

Patricia, Suzanne, 

Bertha, Bellinda 

Sally, Vicki, Francesca, Sondra 

Karen, Abbie, Hilda, Heather, Kitty 

Carol, Faye 

Clarissa, Annabel, Iris, Nora 65 


Corinne, Molly, Alicia, Lily, Eliza, Esther, Shirley, Lillian, 


Patsy, Norma, Adair, Mary Beth, Elizabeth, Mary Jane, 

Amelia, Alix 



Marion, Jeanne, Lisa, Zizi, Kate 




Linda, Pamela, Marie 

Caroline, Elspeth, Mary Jo, Melanie, Celeste 

Julietta, Gail, Dinah, Sadie 

Barbara, Edith, Rose Ann, Amanda 

Nathalie, Poppy, Heather, Ingrid 

Johanna, Anna 

Emma, Donna 

Monica, Betty, Phyllis 

Vivian, Marina 

Bella, Dominique, Lola 

Jo, Rosie, Dawn, Wanda 

Margie, Raquel, Lydia 

Evelyn, Victoria 


Christine, Dolly, Bee, Venice, Lilly, Rita, Mary Beth, 


Viv, Lee, Willa, Dana, Cara, Celia, Theresa, Tania, 
Michelle, Sandra, Patty 




Theda, Lindsay, Fiona, Felicia, Sonia, Phyllis, Marlene, 

Kay, Trudy, Mona, Stella 

June, Nina, Meg, Holly, Evie 

Fay, Sukie, Constance, Deana, Anna, Vera, Una, Lois, 

Liz, Winona, Rudy, Gale, Imogene, Francine, April, 

Myrna, Laurie, Jeanie 

Mary Jane, Miranda, Margaret, Alexandra, Stephanie 

Susie, Adrienne, Doris, Lulu, Daisy, Kit, Flossie, Josie, 

Brett, Sarah, Maud, Gelda 




Christiana, Hope, Lil, Alison, Clare, Penelope 267 


Tina's husband 269 





Gloria, Hannah, Sophie, Bobbie, Paula 



Sylvia, Babs, Elizabeth, Winnie, Loretta, Sheila, 

Claudine, Jocelyn 

Lynn, Jacqueline, Doris, Bonnie, Jessie, Esther, Posie, 

Marx, Joan, Adele's husband 


Quickies 327 



by Martin Shepard, M.D., psychiatrist, 340 

FOREWORD by "J ," 

author of the Sensuous Woman 

I've never met Nancy Friday, but I feel that I know her, for I 
still have pictures of her wedding tucked away in a drawer. She 
had what I consider a perfect wedding - romantic, glamorous, 
inexpensive and private - and the reason I know about it is that 
Cosmopolitan Magazine covered the event in its April 1966 

The article was titled "Marry the Man Today... in Rome," and 
when the manuscript of My Secret Garden was sent to me for 
comment, I dug out Cosmopolitan and took another look at the 
author. My memory was accurate. Nancy Friday looks like a 
former Miss America - pretty, wholesome, well-scrubbed, 
glowing. This girl has written a book on women's sexual 

There couldn't be a more perfect author, for it's time that we 
removed the veils of misunderstanding from this subject and 
made it respectable. Too many people assume that anyone who 
has sexual fantasies is mentally sick or oversexed - or both! Ms. 
Friday's healthy attitude and common-sense comments will do 
much to alleviate guilts, fears and ignorance, and the fact that she 
is somewhat of a girl-next-door type will be comforting to readers 
who feel that sexual fantasies aren't well-bred. 

Admittedly, the reader will at times have to fight off shock, 
prurient interest and distaste while reading My Secret Garden. 
This is no coffee-table book. Nor should it be left around where 
children might pick it up. My Secret Garden could bring plain 
brown paper wrappers back into vogue, for not only is it a 
serious, informative study of a facet of human sexuality that has 
been largely ignored, it is also painfully personal, 


uncompromisingly candid and unabashedly erotic. There has 
never been anything quite like it. You are going to have to force 
yourself at times to remember that this is a clinical work. 

I began to be interested in sexual fantasies several years ago 
when I realized how much you could learn about the person you 
love by examining his or her fantasies. For it is pretty certain that 
sexual fantasies do reflect one's secret vision of ideal sexual 
activity. That doesn't mean I think you should take your lover's 
dreams literally (most fantasies feature highly exaggerated 
behaviour), but you should become aware that buried in his or 
her favourite sexual fantasy is a core of desire to experience a 
special psychological attitude or activity and the accompanying 
physical sensations. You won't really know your lover until you 
have unearthed those hidden desires. Nor will you have achieved 
complete trust and intimacy until you have been able to share 
your fantasies with each other and have them accepted. Perhaps 
this book will break the barrier of silence. 

Very little space was devoted to sexual fantasies in The 
Sensuous Woman. Most of the women I interviewed were 
uninhibited in their discussions of the subject and I incorporated 
some of their comments into several chapters. I even considered 
doing a separate section detailing the fantasies that were repeated 
to me most often, but I dropped the idea when the companion 
chapter on men's fantasies proved so difficult. That was one of 
the shortest chapters in my book, for, much to my astonishment, 
asking a man about his sexual fantasies triggered a response 
similar to that of hitting an exposed nerve. In both individual and 
group interviews the men reacted as if I had suggested rape, and 
clammed up immediately. Even swingers and habitual orgiasts 
seemed to be struck by a bolt of instant amnesia. After The 
Sensuous Woman was published, I got a number of letters from 
women saying they thought the chapter on men's fantasies was 
interesting, but not one comment was ever received from men. 
My heart goes out to the poor soul who attempts to compile the 

first book on men's fantasies. It would be easier, to train turtles 
to outrun greyhounds. 

In all fairness, I should mention that my own sex has its area 
of sensitivity. I had an extremely difficult time getting many 
women to discuss masturbation. They would volunteer every 
detail of their lovemaking, acknowledge extramarital affairs, etc., 
without embarrassment, but be unable to even say the word 
masturbation, much less admit to engaging in this very normal 
activity. Only when they were describing a sexual fantasy were 
these women able to relax enough to speak of masturbation. 

I mention all this to explain my opinion that men and women 
will react very differently to My Secret Garden. I suspect that 
women generally will be fascinated by the revelations in this 
book, but not surprised. Nor will these readers have trouble in 
acknowledging that they too fantasize. Those women, however, 
who consider sexual intercourse unpleasant and/or unsatisfying 
will be revolted by the explicit and enthusiastically carnal sexual 
daydreams of the women in this book and will reject and deny 
their own fantasies both to the world and to themselves. 

And how will the male react? The first man I gave My Secret 
Garden to was so turned on by the book that he went on a 
lovemaking marathon. But, unfortunately for the women in 
America, I suspect that this reaction was not average. The next 
few male readers were much like the men Nancy Friday tells us 
about. Since many of the women in this book regard their sexual 
fantasies as more intimate than the sex act itself, the men felt that 
their masculinity was threatened (how could any dream be more 
satisfying than, me?). These readers were especially furious at 
the fantasies where women imagined that their husbands were 
movie or sports stars during their lovemaking. (A common male 
fantasy, by the way, is to imagine while he is making love to his 
wife or girlfriend that she is Raquel Welch, Ava Gardner or 
whoever else excites him. The double standard seems to extend 
even to dreams.) 

Some men, already unnerved by the onslaught of women's lib, 
will be angered that they are treated as sex objects in most 
women's fantasies and be shocked and frightened by some of the 
contributors' lusty, dominating, twisted dreams. The possibility 
that Susan, his demure little wife, could imagine even one of the 
outrageous acts in My Secret Garden will be more than this type 
of man can handle emotionally, and my advice to Susan is that 
she let him know that she approves of the book but keep her 
fantasies to herself until he matures a little more. Women are 
going to have to do most of the work of helping men 
acknowledge that it isn't freaky to fantasize. 

I know I haven't told you any of my fantasies. I'm not about 
to. So much of my sex life was revealed in The Sensuous 
Woman, all I have left are my fantasies! Variations of them are 
in My Secret Garden though (the first thing I did when I got the 
manuscript was look through it to see if I was represented), and I 
bet your secret garden is here, too. Nancy Friday has collected 
enough fantasies so that there is something for everyone. 

Whether you like it or not, My Secret Garden is a milestone in 
sex education, for it explores one of the last uncharted areas of 
female sexuality and forces us to acknowledge the probability 
that fantasies are as necessary to our sexual well-being as dreams 
are to healthy sleep. More scientifically oriented books will 
follow as sex researchers start to give fantasies the attention they 
deserve, but I doubt if the experts' book will be as human and 
readable as My Secret Garden. 

December 10, 1972 "J," author of The Sensuous Woman 



In my mind, as in our fucking, I am at the crucial 
point:... We are at this Baltimore Colt-Minnesota Viking football 
game, and it is very cold. Four or five of us are huddled under a 
big glen plaid blanket. Suddenly we jump up to watch Johnny 
Unitas running toward the goal. As he races down the field, we 
all turn as a body, wrapped in our blanket, screaming with 
excitement. Somehow, one of the men - I don't know who, and 
in my excitement I can't look - has gotten himself more closely 
behind me. I keep cheering, my voice an echo of his, hot on my 
neck. I can feel his erection through his pants as he signals me 
with a touch to turn my hips more directly toward him. Unitas is 
blocked, but all the action, thank God, is still going toward that 
goal and all of us keep turned to watch. Everyone is going mad. 
He's got his cock out now and somehow it's between my legs: 
he's torn a hole in my tights under my short skirt and I yell louder 
as the touchdown gets nearer now. We are all jumping up and 
down and I have to lift my leg higher, to the next step on the 
bleachers, to steady myself; now the man behind me can slip it in 
more easily. We are all leaping about, thumping one another on 
the back, and he puts his arm around my shoulders to keep us in 
rhythm. He's inside me now, shot straight up through me like a 
ramrod; my God, it's like he's in my throat! "All the way, 
Johnny! Go, go, run, run!" we scream together, louder than 
anyone, making them all cheer louder, the two of us leading the 
excitement like cheer leaders, while inside me I can feel whoever 
he is growing harder and harder, pushing deeper and higher into 

me with each jump until the cheering for Unitas becomes the 
rhythm of our fucking and all around us everyone is on our side, 
cheering us and the touchdown. ..it's hard to separate the two 
now. It's Unitas' last down, everything depends on him; we're 
racing madly, almost at our own touchdown. My excitement gets 
wilder, almost out of control as I scream for Unitas to make it as 
we do, so that we all go over the line together. And as the man 
behind me roars, clutching me in a spasm of pleasure, Unitas 
goes over and I . . . 

"Tell me what you are thinking about," the man I was actually 
fucking said, his words as charged as the action in my mind. As 
I'd never stopped to think before doing anything to him in bed 
(we were that sure of our spontaneity and response), I didn't stop 
to edit my thoughts. I told him what I'd been thinking. 

He got out of bed, put on his pants and went home. 

Lying there among the crumpled sheets, so abruptly rejected 
and confused as to just why, I watched him dress. It was only 
imaginary, I had tried to explain; I didn't really want that other 
man at the football game. He was faceless! A nobody! I'd never 
even have had those thoughts, much less spoken them out loud, if 
I hadn't been so excited, if he, my real lover, hadn't aroused me 
to the point where I'd abandoned my whole body, all of me, even 
my mind. Didn't he see? He and his wonderful, passionate 
fucking had brought on these things and they, in turn, were 
making me more passionate. Why, I tried to smile, he should be 
proud, happy for both of us. . . . 

One of the things I had always admired in my lover was the 
fact that he was one of the few men who understood that there 
could be humour and playfulness in bed. But he did not think my 
football fantasy was either humorous or playful. As I said, he 
just left. 

His anger and the shame he made me feel (which writing this 
book has helped me to realize I still resent) was the beginning of 
the end for us. Until that moment his cry had always been 
"More!" He had convinced me that there was no sexual limit to 
which I could go that wouldn't excite him more; his 
encouragement was like the occasional flick a child gives a 
spinning top, making it run faster and faster, speeding me ever 
forward toward things I had always wanted to do, but had been 
too shy even to think about with anyone else. Shyness was not 
my style, but sexually I was still my mother's daughter. He had 
freed me, I felt, from this inappropriate maidenly constraint with 
which I could not intellectually identify, but from which I could 
not bodily escape. Proud of me for my efforts, he made me proud 
of myself, too. I loved us both. 

Looking back over my shoulder now at my anything-goes 
lover, I can see that I was only too happily enacting his indirectly 
stated Pygmalion-D. H. Lawrence fantasies. But mine? He 
didn't want to hear about them. I was not to coauthor this 
fascinating script on How To Be Nancy, even if it was my life. I 
was not to act, but to be acted upon. 

Where are you now, old lover of mine? If you were put off by 
my fantasy of "the other man," what would you have thought of 
the one about my Great Uncle Henry's Dalmatian dog? Or the 
one member of my family that you liked, Great Uncle Henry 
himself, as he looked in the portrait over my mother's piano, back 
when men wore moustaches that tickled, and women long skirts. 
Could you see what Great Uncle Henry was doing to me under 
the table? Only it wasn't me; I was disguised as a boy. 

Or was I? It didn't matter. It doesn't, with fantasies. They 
exist only for their elasticity, their ability to instantly incorporate 
any new character, image or idea - or, as in dreams, to which 
they bear so close a relationship - to contain conflicting ideas 
simultaneously. They expand, heighten, distort or exaggerate 
reality, taking one further, faster in the direction in which the 

unashamed unconscious already knows it wants to go. They 
present the astonished self with the incredible, the opportunity to 
entertain the impossible. 

There were other lovers, and other fantasies. But I never 
introduced the two again. Until I met my husband. The thing 
about a good man is that he brings out the best in you, desires all 
of you, and in seeking out your essence, not only accepts all he 
finds, but settles for nothing less. Bill brought my fantasies back 
into the open again from those depths where I had prudently 
decided they must live - vigorous and vivid as ever, yes, but 
never to be spoken aloud again. I'll never forget his reaction 
when timidly, vulnerable, and partially ashamed, I decided to risk 
telling him what I had been thinking. 

"What an imagination!" he said. "I could never have dreamed 
that up. Were you really thinking that?" 

His look of amused admiration came as a reprieve; I realized 
how much he loved me, and in loving me, loved anything that 
gave me more abundant life. My fantasies to him were a sudden 
unveiling of a new garden of pleasure, as yet unknown to him, 
into which I would invite him. 

Marriage released me from many things, and led me into 
others. If my fantasies seemed so revealing and imaginative to 
Bill, why not include them in the novel I was writing? It was 
about a woman, of course, and there must be other readers 
besides my husband, men and other women too, who would be 
intrigued by a new approach to what goes on in a woman's mind. 
I did indeed devote one entire chapter in the book to a long idyllic 
reverie of the heroine's sexual fantasies. I thought it was the best 
thing in the book, the stuff of which the novels I had most 
admired were made. But my editor, a man, was put off. He had 
never read anything like it, he said (the very point of writing a 
novel, I thought). Her fantasies made the heroine sound like 
some kind of sexual freak, he said. "If she's so crazy about this 
guy she's with," he said, "if he's such a great fuck, then why's 

she thinking about all these other crazy things... why isn't she 
thinking about him?" 

I could have asked him a question of my own: Why do men 
have sexual fantasies, too? Why do men seek prostitutes to 
perform certain acts when they have perfectly layable ladies at 
home? Why do husbands buy their wives black lace G-strings 
and nipple-exposing bras, except in pursuit of fantasies of their 
own? In Italy, men scream "Madonna mia" when they come, and 
it is not uncommon, we learn in Eros Denied, for an imaginative 
Englishman to pay a lady for the privilege of eating the 
strawberry cream puff (like Nanny used to make) she has kindly 
stuffed up her cunt. Why is it perfectly respectable (and 
continually commercial) for cartoons to dwell on the sidewalk 
figure of Joe Average eyeing the passing luscious blonde, while 
in the balloon drawn over his head he puts her through the most 
exotic paces? My God! Far from being thought reprehensible, 
this last male fantasy is thought amusing, family fun, something 
a father can share with his son. 

Men exchange sexual fantasies in the barroom, where they are 
called dirty jokes; the occasional man who doesn't find them 
amusing is thought to be odd man out. Blue movies convulse 
bachelor dinners and salesmen's conventions. And when Henry 
Miller, D. H. Lawrence and Norman Mailer - to say nothing of 
Genet - put their fantasies on paper, they are recognized for what 
they can be: art. The sexual fantasies of men like these are called 
novels. Why then, I could have asked my editor, can't the sexual 
fantasies of women be called the same? 

But I said nothing. My editor's insinuation, like my former 
lover's rejection, hit me where I was most sensitive: in that area 
where women, knowing least about each other's true sexual 
selves, are most vulnerable. What is it to be a woman? Was I 
being unfeminine? It is one thing not to have doubted the answer 
sufficiently to ever have asked the question of yourself at all. But 
it is another to know that question has suddenly been placed in 

someone else's mind, to be judged there in some indefinable, 
unknown, unimaginable competition or comparison. What 
indeed was it to be a woman? Unwilling to argue about it with 
this man's-man editor, who supposedly had his finger on the 
sexual pulse of the world (hadn't he, for instance, published 
James Jones and Mailer, and probably shared with them 
unpublishable sexual insights), I picked up myself, my novel, and 
my fantasies and went home where we were appreciated. But I 
shelved the book. The world wasn't ready yet for female sexual 

I was right. It wasn't a commercial idea then, even though 
I'm talking about four years ago and not four hundred. People 
said they wanted to hear from women. What were they thinking. 
But men didn't really want to know about some new, possibly 
threatening, potential in women. It would immediately pose a 
sexual realignment, some rethinking of the male (superior) 
position. And we women weren't yet ready either to share this 
potential, our common but unspoken knowledge, with one 

What women needed and were waiting for was some kind of 
yardstick against which to measure ourselves, a sexual rule of 
thumb equivalent to that with which men have always provided 
one another. But women were the silent sex. In our desire to 
please our men, we had placed the sexual constraints and secrecy 
upon one another which men had thought necessary for their own 
happiness and freedom. We had imprisoned each other, betrayed 
our own sex and ourselves. Men had always banded together to 
give each other fraternal support and encouragement, opening up 
for themselves the greatest possible avenues for sexual adventure, 
variety and possibility. Not women. 

For men, talking about sex, writing and speculating about it, 
exchanging confidences and asking each other for advice and 
encouragement about it, had always been socially accepted, and, 
in fact, a certain amount of boasting about it in the locker room is 


usually thought to be very much the mark of a man's man, a fine 
devil of a fellow. But the same culture that gave men this 
freedom sternly barred it to women, leaving us sexually 
mistrustful of each other, forcing us into patterns of deception, 
shame, and above all, silence. 

I, myself, would probably never have decided to write this 
book on women's erotic fantasies if other women's voices hadn't 
broken that silence, giving me not just that sexual yardstick I was 
talking about, but also the knowledge that other women might 
want to hear my ideas as eagerly as I wanted to hear theirs. 
Suddenly, people were no longer simply saying they wanted to 
hear from women, now women were actually talking, not waiting 
to be asked, but sharing their experiences, their desires, 
thousands of women supporting each other by adding their 
voices, their names, their presence to the liberating forces that 
promised women a new shake, something "more." 

Oddly enough, I think the naked power cry of Women's Lib 
itself was not helpful to a lot of women, certainly not to me in the 
work that became this book. It put too many women off. The 
sheer stridency of it, instead of drawing us closer together, drove 
us into opposing camps; those who were defying men, denying 
them, drew themselves up in militant ranks against those who 
were suddenly more afraid than ever that in sounding aggressive 
they would be risking rejection by their men. If sex is reduced to 
a test of power, what woman wants to be, left all alone, all 
powerful, playing with herself? 

But if not Women's Lib, then liberation itself was in the air. 
With the increasing liberation of women's bodies, our minds 
were being set free, too. The idea that women had sexual 
fantasies, the enigma of just what they might be, the prospect that 
the age-old question of men to women, "What are you thinking 
about?" might at last be answered, now suddenly fascinated 
editors. No longer was it a matter of the sales-minded editor 
deciding what a commercial gimmick it would be to publish a 


series of sexy novels by sexy ladies, novels that would give an 
odd new sales tickle to the age-old fucking scenes that had 
always been written by men. Now it was suddenly out of the 
editors' hands: Women were writing about sex, but it was from 
their point of view (women seen only as male sex fantasies, no 
more), and it was a whole new bedroom. The realization was 
suddenly obvious, that with the liberation of women, men would 
be liberated too from all the stereotypes that made them think of 
women as burdens, prudes, and necessary evils, even at best 
something less than a man. Imagine! Talking to a woman might 
be more fun than a night out with the boys! 

With all this in the air, it's no surprise that at first my idea 
fascinated everyone. "I'm thinking of doing a book about female 
sexual fantasies," I'd say for openers to a group of highly 
intelligent and articulate friends. That's all it took. All 
conversation would stop. Men and women both would turn to 
me with half-smiles of excitement. They were willing to 
countenance the thought, but only in generalities. I discovered. 

"Oh, you mean the old rape dream?" 

"You don't mean something like King Kong, do you?" 

But when I would speak about fantasies with the kind of 
detail which in any narrative carries the feel of life and makes the 
verbal experience emotionally real, the ease around the restaurant 
table would abruptly stop. Men would become truculent and 
nervous (ah! my old lover - how universal you are) and their 
women, far from contributing fantasies of their own - an idea 
that might have intrigued them in the beginning - would close up 
like clams. If anyone spoke, it was the men: 

"Why don't you collect men's fantasies?" 

"Women don't reed fantasies, they have us." 

"Women don't have sexual fantasies." 

"I can understand some old, dried-up prune that no man would 
want having fantasies. Some frustrated neurotic. But the 
ordinary, sexually satisifed woman doesn't need them." 


"Who needs fantasies? What's the matter with good old- 
fashioned sex?" 

Nothing's the matter with good old-fashioned sex. Nothing's 
the matter with asparagus, either. But why not have the 
hollandaise, too? I used to try to explain that it wasn't a question 
of need, that a woman is no less a woman if she doesn't 
fantasize. (Or that if she does, it is not necessarily a question of 
something lacking in the man.) But if a woman does fantasize, or 
wants to, then she should accept it without shame or thinking 
herself freaky - and so should the man. Fantasy should be 
thought of as an extension of one's sexuality. I think it was this 
idea, the notion of some unknown sexual potential in their 
women, the threat of the unseen, all-powerful rival, that bothered 
men most. 

"Fantasies during sex? My wife? Why, Harriet doesn't 
fantasize . And then he would turn to Harriet with a mixture of 
threat and dawning doubt, "Do you, Harriet?" Again and again I 
was surprised to find so many intelligent and otherwise open- 
minded men put off by the idea of their women having sexual 
thoughts, no matter how fleeting, that weren't about them. 

And of course their anxiety communicated itself to their 
Harriets. I soon learned not to research these ideas in mixed 
company. Naively at first, I had believed that the presence of a 
husband or an accustomed lover would be reassuring and 
comforting. Looking back now, I can see that it had been 
especially naive of me to think he might be interested, too, in 
perhaps finding out something new in his partner's sexual life, 
and that if she were attacked by shyness or diffidence, he would 
encourage her to go on. Of course, that is not how it works. 

But even talking to women alone, away from the visible 
anxiety the subject aroused in their men, it was difficult getting 
through to them, getting through the fear, not of admitting their 
fantasies to me, but of admitting them to themselves. It is this 
not-so-conscious fear of rejection that leads women to strive to 


change the essence of their minds by driving their fantasies down 
deep into their forgotten layers of mind. 

I wasn't attempting to play doctor in the house to my women 
contributors; analysing their fantasies was never my intention. I 
simply wanted to substantiate my feeling that women do 
fantasize and should be accepted as having the same unrealized 
desires and needs as men, many of which can only find release in 
fantasy. My belief was, and is, that given a sufficient body of 
such information, the woman who fantasizes will have a 
background against which to place herself. She will no longer 
have that vertiginous fright that she alone has these random, 
often unbidden thoughts and ideas. 

Eventually, then, I developed a technique to enable an but the 
shyest women to verbalize their fantasies. For instance, if, as in 
many cases, the first reaction was, "Who, me? Never!" I'd show 
them one or two fantasies I'd already collected from more candid 
women. This would allay anxiety: "I thought my ideas were wild, 
but I'm not half as far out as that girl." Or it would arouse a spirit 
of competition which is never entirely dormant among our sex: 
"If she thinks that fantasy she gave me to read is so sexy, wait till 
she reads mine." 

In this way, without really working at it too hard, I had put 
together quite a sizeable, though amateur, collection. After all, 
everything to date was from women I knew, or from friends of 
friends who would sometimes phone or write to say they had 
heard of what I was doing and would like to help by being 
interviewed themselves. Somewhere along the way, though, I 
realized that if my collection of fantasies was going to be more 
than just a cross section of my own narrow circle of friends, I 
would have to reach out further. And so I placed an ad in 
newspapers and magazines which reached several varied 
audiences. The ad merely said: 


wanted by serious female researcher. 
Anonymity guaranteed. Box XYZ. 

As much as I'd been encouraged by my husband and also by 
the spirit of the times in which we live, I think it was the letters 
that came that marked the turning point in my own attitude 
toward this work. I am no marcher, nor Red-Crosser, but some 
of the cries for help and sighs of relief in those letters moved me. 
Again and again they would start, "Thank God, I can tell these 
thoughts to someone; up till now I've never confided mine to a 
living soul. I have always been ashamed of them, feeling that 
other people would think them unnatural and consider me a 
nymphomaniac or a pervert. 

I think it fair to say that I began this book out of curiosity - 
about myself and the odd explosive excitement/anxiety syndrome 
the subject set up in others; the male smugness of my rejecting 
lover and that know-it-all editor kept me going; but it became a 
serious and meaningful effort when I realized what it could mean, 
not only to all the sometimes lonely, sometimes joyful, usually 
anonymous women who were writing to me, but to the thousands 
and thousands who, though they were too embarrassed, isolated, 
or ashamed to write, might perhaps have the solitary courage to 

Today we have a flowering of women who write explicitly and 
honestly about sex and about what goes on in a woman's mind 
and body during the act. Marvellous writers like Edna O'Brien 
and Doris Lessing. But even with women as outspoken as these, 
they feel the need for a last seventh veil to hide acknowledgement 
of their sexuality; what they write calls itself fiction. It is a veil I 
feel it would he interesting and even useful to remove as a step in 
the liberation of us all, women and men alike. For no man can be 
really free in bed with a women who is not. 


Putting this book together has been an education. Learning 
what other women are like, both in their fantasies and in their 
lives - it is sometimes difficult to separate the two - has made 
me gasp in disbelief; laugh out loud occasionally; blush; sigh a 
lot; feel a sense of outrage, envy, and a great deal of sympathy. I 
find my own fantasies are funnier than some, less poetic than 
others, more startling than a good number - but they are my own. 
Naturally, my best fantasies, my favourites of the moment - 
numbers 1, 2, and 3 on my private hit parade are not included 
here. One thing I've learned about fantasies: they're fun to share, 
but once shared, half their magic, their ineluctable power, is 
gone. They are sea pebbles upon which the waters have dried. Is 
that a mystery? So are we all. 





Most people think women's sexual fantasies fill a need, a 
vacancy; that they are taking the place of The Real Thing, and as 
such arise not in moments of sexual plenty, but when something 
is missing. Since frustration, therefore, is the beginning of 
popular understanding of why women fantasize, let's begin with 
two fantasies from frustrated women. 


What a relief it is to admit to fantasies and to tell them to 
someone as understanding as you obviously are. I have a regular 
fantasy brought on by lack of interest by my husband. He fucks 
me every five or six weeks, and it is always the same: We are in 
bed with the lights out and he starts to play with his prick. This 
goes on often for half an hour or even longer. (He used to get me 
to do it, but he doesn't bother now.) I feel him start to really rub 
hard and breathe heavily, then he pulls up my nightie (still under 
the sheet), says, "Open your legs," and after about two seconds he 
comes inside me, rolls off, and goes to sleep. 

All this time, and especially afterward when I know he's 
asleep - I play with myself then - I really enjoy my fantasy. 

I find myself at the door of a big house; the door opens and a 
very big black man with a buxom black woman behind him are 


inside. He grabs me and pulls me inside, with the woman 
pushing, helping him. They drag me into a room in which a large 
Alsatian - very obviously male in the full sense! - is tied up with 
a boy of about fourteen. The boy is naked. I am ordered to strip 
naked. "Let's see what you've got," the black man leers at me. I 
protest and he produces a whip while his wife forcibly undresses 
me and ties my hands behind my back. She takes his trousers off 
and exposes his prick, which is abnormally big and stiff as she 
rolls his foreskin back and forth. I am forced to kneel in front of 
him, and when he tells me to, I am forced to use the words "cock" 
and "prick" to describe it. I am made to beg to be fucked and he 
makes me say the word "fucked" several times to emphasize it. 

Then the dog is unleashed, and I am forced on my back while 
the dog is coaxed so that my head is by his cock and he licks my 
cant. I have to feel its cock and rub it gently. Finally I am made to 
turn around and suck the dog's cock as the black man watches 
me to make sure I really yuck it. Then I'm made to lie on my 
back on a long stool and the woman gets the dog between my 
legs, held wide open, and guides his prick and I feel it go right 
inside me. I am watched by the boy and the wife is naked now. I 
have to beg for a fucking as the man rubs his prick against my 
mouth until it becomes big and wet. I am made to lick it and 
suddenly he holds my head and forces his massive prick in my 
mouth and holds my nose so that I am forced to suck and 
swallow his come. It seems to squirt endlessly dawn my throat. 
As a final act, I am forced to suck his wife's tits and finally to 
lick her cunt until she is completely satisfied, while the boy jerks 
himself off over my cunt and belly. The fantasy fades and I am 
wet as my finger urgently strokes my cunt to orgasm. 

Do you suppose this is all due to lesbian tendencies and my 
secret desire to be watched by a young boy? [Letter] 

As is so often the case when human beings are faced with a mass 
of unexplained or bewildering experience they have been taught not 
to discuss, riot only does Madge not have the answers, she doesn't 


even know the right questions. The inadequacy of her final 
paragraph, wondering about the meaning of her fantasy, is almost 


Although we have been sleeping together, regularly for two 
years, and I have had three short affairs during that time, my 
husband and I have been married only eight weeks. I thought I 
was well prepared for all the post marital disillusionments that 
young brides are prone to, but one took me by surprise. Prior to 
our wedding, our sex life had been varied, quite spontaneous and 
imaginative. Although I had masturbated since puberty, it was 
only a year ago that I discovered my clitoris and experienced my 
first orgasm. Since that time, my mate had been only too anxious 
and willing to make use of that knowledge, and in his 
consideration, never failed to masturbate me to orgasm either 
immediately before or during intercourse. 

Since we have been married, however, our mutual sex life has 
come to a standstill in relation to the life we had beforehand. 
Granted, we are now on stricter schedules and he is often too 
tired, but even on Sunday afternoons (what used to be our 
spend-one-day-in-bed-fucking day) the most I can expect is an 
uneventful nap. Now this hasn't been going on long enough for 
me to become angry or even frustrated, so I will deal with this 
myself. All this rambling has been my disorganized way of 
building up to the subject of fantasies. 

When my husband does decide to get down to business, it 
generally becomes a slam-bam-thank-you-ma'am affair. Here's 
where my imagination comes in. I found that no matter how long 
I concentrated on achieving an orgasm, he was simply not giving 
me the time. So gradually I discovered that it was quicker to snap 
together a mental vision, a situation that would give me a quick 


dose of eroticism that would carry me through. Second, I 
discovered after trying several fantasies, that the process was 
much quicker and more effective if I relied on one fantasy each 
time. And the more use the fantasy gets, either during intercourse 
or masturbation, the more vivid and realistic it becomes. 

This particular fantasy is brief, and I generally repeat it several 
times in my mind, omitting the finale until I feel the wave of my 
orgasm. It consists of a room of men, well-dressed, wealthy, and 
at least middle-aged. One man acts as my husband or guardian - 
the is anonymous and I never really assigned him any specific 
relationship to me. He is in command of my actions and seems to 
be the leader of the men. I appear in this room of men dressed in 
a lovely summery dress, light and full-skirted. The man tells the 
men that I am easily embarrassed but am basically an 
exhibitionist. He tells me to undo the bodice of the dress, leaving 
my bare breasts exposed. He then has me lie face down across the 
coffee table with my breasts hanging freely at one end and my 
rear at the other. He tells the men that I am aroused by anything 
icy and wet and suggests that they cup their half -full champagne 
glasses around my breasts. (When my husband and I were having 
better days and nights, we often applied ice to one another.) The 
fantasy goes on as he slips his hand under my dress and 
underwear and massages my rear. He does not pay any attention 
at all to my clitoris or vagina, only my rear. He speaks to the 
other men and tells then what a marvelous white broad ass I 
have, and would they like to see it? He feels my rear some more 
and then slowly lifts my dress to expose my butt, still in panties. 
He rubs it some more, praises it to the men. By this point, my 
orgasm is beginning to build and when I am ready, I imagine him 
very slowly peeling my panties down my thighs. If I have not 
experienced my climax by now, I either repeat the fantasy from 
the point of the champagne glasses, or else I add to the ending a 
light spanking. During the spanking, he explains to the men that 
he enjoys seeing my white cheeks turn pink. 


This fantasy originated while I masturbated in the bathtub. 
Now it gets used almost daily, if not in bed with my husband, in 
the tub with a well-aimed stream of water. I'm curious to know 
how long this one fantasy will suffice before it becomes boring. 
I'm beginning to think that just the concept of this fantasy is 
what turns me on-sort of a reflex action. But as long as it works, 
it's keeping our marriage - including our sex life - joyful. 


Before we go on to more provocative reasons for fantasy, 
positive reasons with which I personally identify but about which 
I still feel - even after putting together this book - an odd mix of 
excitement and anxiety, let me give you four more variations on 
this theme of frustration; it is one of the great and universal 
themes of sexual loneliness, one whose reality we can all 
understand. The first interview below is with forty-five-year-old 
Louella, a totally sexually deprived woman; the second with 
Irene, twenty-five, who might as well be. Next comes a letter 
from Anisette, who was young enough - nineteen - and frantic 
enough to have probably done something about her frustration by 
now. I think the violence and alienation of some of the themes 
these women explore is a measure of how much the human being 
will rage against sexual famine. The well-fed diner will idly 
choose between this dessert and that; the starving person will 
dream of "eating a horse." 



Perhaps the basis for my fantasy about my stepson is the 
humiliation I feel because my husband only married me to be a 
housekeeper and in order to look after his son. My husband is 
sexually impotent, but the boy is blatantly sexual. Sometimes I 
feel I cannot tear my eyes away from the bulge in the boy's 
trousers. I know what's there, it seems to run the full length of 
his belly. 

In my fantasy I call for him to get up out of bed, I know he 
isn't sleeping. I listen outside the bedroom door and know be is 
lying there playing with himself. I am about to call him again but 
another boy, a school friend, comes to call and I let them go off 
by themselves because I know what they are up to. 

They go into the woodshed, and after a little time I creep down 
and peek through the planks. They are standing facing each other, 
their cocks out, stroking each other. I feel so bloody cross, but yet 
I still feel myself getting wet. I go back to the house and shriek 
for him to come in. I still feel like hitting him over the head. He 
comes in half ashamed and sneering; I myself sit down with my 
legs trembling. I see he has a big bulge there, he seems to be 
sticking it out more, then, I don't know, I open his buttons and 
pull his shirt up. I didn't think it was so big. I stroke him, it is 
hot and throbbing and he comes as quick as that, covering my 
hand. Later I take him to my bedroom, he sits on the edge of the 
bed, I play with him, pulling his skin right back. I am shaking 
with sex, I pull my dress off and he sucks my tits, then I back up 
to him and guide it in, with my thighs closed. But he comes too 
soon, and I send him away. I watch him go down the lane and get 
out my dildo, it is thicker and goes all in. [Letter and interview] 



My husband is studying for his master's degree, but I have 
only about one year's worth of college credits which I have 
earned by attending college part time. I am twenty-five and my 
husband is one year younger. We do not have any children and I 
believe I would prefer not to have any. 

My husband talks a lot about sex, but he is not very active 
sexually. As you can probably guess, I am sexually unsatisfied, 
and have never had an orgasm. Only lately have I thought of 
someone other than my husband during sex. I imagine what it 
would be like to have sex with a man who could continue long 
enough for me to be satisfied. I know several men who I think 
could do this. Unfortunately, sex with my husband lasts for such 
a short time I don't get much of a chance to even fantasize for 
very long. 

He often asks me about my thoughts during sex, but I 
wouldn't dare tell him about the other men. I'm sure it would just 
make things worse if he knew I was pretending that he was 
another man. Anyway, when I do make up innocent little sexual 
thoughts to tell him, he just gets more excited and comes even 
more quickly. 

I often search for "fantasy partners" when I'm in public. If I 
see a man who interests me, I imagine that my large breasts are 
bare. Seeing them, he is unable to resist me and he takes me then 
and there, and finally and fully satisfies me. I even look at 
attractive couples, wondering whether or not the man can satisfy 
the woman, and what it must be like for her to have an orgasm. 
That usually just leaves me feeling jealous though. 

I have also tried thinking of other women, not frequently but 
sometimes. I imagine having sex with a girl like myself. We 
know each other's desires better than any man could, and we are 
far better able to satisfy them. The fantasies include cunnilingus 


because I have heard that is a good way to help a woman have an 
orgasm. My husband will not do it to me though. 

I've tried masturbation, but even with fantasy I've not been 
able to reach a climax. During masturbation, I've tried imagining 
that it is a young, good-looking man doing it to me. I close my 
eyes and imagine his head pressed against my breasts and that 
my fingers are his lips. Or I imagine that an entire fraternity 
house has kidnapped me for an orgy. I am the only girl there. I 
imagine them one by one taking their turn with me, in the dining 
room, in various beds, on the floor, everywhere and with 
everyone watching. They come at me one right after the other and 
this way I imagine I can finally have an orgasm. ..but I never 
really do reach one. 

My latest and most unusual fantasy is that I am both a woman 
and a man and that I am having sexual relations with myself. I 
imagine that I am able to give myself all the sexual satisfaction I 
have ever desired. It is a complicated fantasy to work out, but I 
think eventually it will work. [Letter] 


I have never confided my sexual fantasies to a living soul, but 
I feel I must tell someone about them, and so I welcome the 
opportunity to unburden myself. I have always been ashamed of 
them, because I feel that other people would think them 
unnatural, and consider me a nymphomaniac, or something 

I am nineteen years old, and have been married for a year now; 
my husband is twenty-three. We have a satisfying sex life when 
he is at home, and indulge in every kind of sexual activity, 
including long sessions of oral lovemaking. The trouble starts 
when my husband is away from home, which is sometimes as 


much as two weeks at a time, as he travels abroad on business 
quite a lot and cannot always take me with him. 

By the end of the second week, or sometimes sooner, I am 
getting desperate for intercourse, and I have to resort to 
masturbation, as for various reasons I do not wish to get involved 
with other men. At first, I used to fantasize that my husband was 
with me, and he was fondling my breasts and my vulva, licking 
and sucking my clitoris, and - as I thrust a banana or the smaller 
end of a cucumber into my vagina - I closed my eyes and 
pretended it was my husband's penis that was penetrating me. 

This was sufficient to give me a satisfying orgasm at first, but 
after a while I found it more difficult to reach one. So, I started to 
imagine that two men were making love to me - my husband and 
a man I strongly fancy at the tennis club. I imagined that one was 
kissing my breasts and sucking my nipples while the other was 
loving me with his mouth between my legs. Then, as I pushed the 
banana into my vagina, I imagined that the other man was 
fucking me while my husband put his penis in my mouth. 

Now it has gone a step further, and to get my orgasm, I lie 
down on my back across our double bed, with my legs apart and 
a two-inch-thick cucumber thrust into my vagina, and close my 
eyes while I imagine that four men are making love to me all at 
once. As I thrust the cucumber in and out with a screwing 
motion, I imagine that one man kneels between my legs, kissing 
my slit, which is hairless, by the way; another kneels beside the 
bed above my head kissing my mouth; and two others kneel on 
the bed each side of me, sitting on their heels, and leaning 
forward to suck my nipples, while I stretch out my hand and take 
hold of their penises to masturbate them. 

From there the fantasy progresses. I tip my head back over the 
side of the bed, and the man there inserts his penis in my mouth. 
The man between my legs gets onto the bed and inserts his penis 
in my vagina, and with my mouth, my hands, and my vagina, I 
make all four of them come at once. After a while, when I start to 


want another orgasm, I imagine that I am taking them on one at a 
time for a session of soixante-neuf. One by one, I suck them to 
erection, and proceed to drain them dry; swallowing each offering 
of semen from four men, leaving them limp and impotent (for the 
time being), thrills me immensely, and I enjoy a whole series of 
wonderful orgasms in this way. 

I know that if ever I had the chance to make my fantasy come 
true with four virile men, without the possibility of my husband 
getting to know about it, I would grab the chance. I feel that once 
I had experienced the sensation, which I am sure would be out of 
this world, I would no longer be tormented with the need to 
fantasize about it. 

I shall be interested to hear of other women's fantasies, and to 
know if I am alone in having such wicked thoughts. And if you 
know of four strong, sexy men who want to take part in an orgy 
with an attractive, passionate woman (37" 24" 37"), send them 
along to me! [Letter] 


I have been married three years. I think my husband would 
mostly react with surprise if he found out that I think about other 
men sometimes when we are having intercourse. I have led him 
to believe that I do not often think about sexual things. If 
anything, he might have his feelings hurt by such a revelation 
because he often expresses doubts about his sexual attractiveness 
to women. 

I sometimes try to imagine my husband being so sexually 
excited about me that he would tear my clothes off and "rape" me. 
His actions when we have intercourse are so much the opposite of 
that, though, that it is almost impossible for me to imagine. 
Often, lately, I have resisted having sexual intercourse with my 
husband when he wants it (which is only about once a month 


anyway) so that he will have to force me to have it with him, in 
the hope that he might sort of rape me. So far, though, he has not 
done so. [Letter] 


If you like, you can read almost any female sexual fantasy 
as a cry of frustration. We are all prepared to think of women, 
any woman, as potentially frustrated simply because it is our 
historic sexual role. Traditionally, we are the frustrated sexless 
experienced, less mobile, and less accepted sexually. We have 
spent less time at it, and been less informed by art, literature, and 
commerce (to say nothing of our parents and husbands) as to just 
what our sexual role is - except usually that of desireless virgin 
or prisoner. Even the most daring sexual adventuress I've talked 
to admits that her role in her fantasies may still lag behind her 
real sexual activity: somewhere, even in her wildest, most sexual 
fantasy, she still plays the inhibited role her mother taught her. In 
her life she may feel perfectly free to initiate sex, to play the 
active seducer's role, to take on a man for a guiltless, one-night 
stand just for the fun of it, but her fantasy will often still be of the 
"it is not my fault, he made me do it" type: She was doped, or 
raped, or subjected to cruel and overwhelming domination. Ideas 
like these, so deeply rooted in the mind no matter what the 
relatively free body does, will take another generation to outgrow. 
But it would be too simple to say that anyone whose sexual 
imagery conflicts with her sexual reality isn't getting what she 
wants, that all sexual fantasy is dominated by real frustration. 
Some of the happiest, most sexually satisfied women I've talked 
to fantasize, and are all the more sexually satisfying partners 
because of it. What I am saying is simple: that we women are 
traditionally prone to and expert at fantasy; that even when we 


are being fully fucked our minds can imagine the sexual 
exploration and variables that our bodies are accustomed to do 
without; that sex itself - and not only lack of it - can inspire 
fantasy; and that for some women there is almost a chain reaction 
between sexual fact and fantasy, that the one feeds and stimulates 
the other. 


Patricia is a tal 1, blond American beauty who lives in Rome. 
For the past year she has been separated from her husband and 
living with Antonio, an Italian. Patricia and her wealthy English 
husband have an agreement that when they're tired of their 
individual adventuring they will leave Rome, that nothing either 
of them has done there will have counted, and that they will 
return to New York or London together. Because, as Patricia 
says, "We really love one another. We simply want to explore 
now, without guilt." 

When he is going down on me I close my eyes and imagine 
myself at some incredibly proper place, some very elegant 
restaurant, for instance. On the surface, it's like a hundred 
different "smart" dull evenings we've spent at as many smart, 
dull restaurants: the men are in dinner jackets, the women 
divinely coiffed, the headwaiter aching with savoir faire. (I think 
this fantasy is my own rerun of the old Paulette Goddard story.) 
We are all sitting around this table with its glittering crystal and 
silver on a very deeply hemmed, heavy linen tablecloth - the 
tablecloth is important because it hides the man underneath who 
is between my legs. I chat away amiably with the people on 
either side. How has this man got under the table? Interesting you 
should ask. Because in my fantasy I've taken care of that detail. 
Either he has quietly slipped under the table on the pretense of 
picking up a dropped napkin, or he's excused himself - 


supposedly gone to the gents - but in fact raced to the cellar 
below only to emerge through a trapdoor at my feet, there gently 
to part my willing legs. It's funny how little time during a fantasy 
it takes to sort out the mechanical details... but time, during a 
fantasy, is not like normal time. Sometimes this man is black, 
more often he is unknown. Perhaps he is a new face in our dull 
little group, a face I have responded to all evening, as I respond 
to his touch on my thighs. I want him, this fantasy man, as much 
as I want the man who is actually between my legs. 

There is always the most amazing amount of detail, in the 
fantasy at this point: me, casually arranging the tablecloth over 
my lap so that no one can see he has, raised my skirt, or see his 
head tight up against me, or his tongue. . .yes, there is a lot of the 
lips, actually seeing them, and the tongue. Or there is the intricate 
arranging of feet, like a ballet, under the table, with me praying 
that no one will bump into him with their feet! Funny thing is, all 
this detail makes it even more exciting. But mostly there is the 
fear - sweet agony - that someone may ask me to dance! Or, 
worst of all, that the man under the table will stop. . .that someone 
will call for the bill and say, "Okay, everybody up, let's go." 
What I am really afraid of, I suppose, is that the real man, the 
man who is making love to me, will stop, will tire. I do take a 
long time to reach a climax. . .mostly because I enjoy getting there 
so much. And there have been men in the past, lovers, who get 
impatient, who will suddenly stop before I have reached an 
orgasm, when I already know that I am going to. . .and you know 
what a letdown that is. 

All of this suspense in my fantasy, of course, heightens the 
real excitement, and what ultimately makes the pleasure 
excruciating is the thrilling fear of what in the hell I am going to 
do in the fantasy restaurant when the man between my legs 
makes me come. So I put one hand on his head - don't stop! - 
and with the other hand I accept a cigarette or toy with my salad, 
always this perfect social smile on my face, but always the 


clutch: What am I going to do when I come? (I'm pretty noisy.) 
The closer I get to actually coming, the realer the suspense in the 
fantasy becomes, until, thank God, there is a sudden power 
failure in the restaurant. All the lights ' go out. Then pow! In the 
darkness and shouting of the fantasy restaurant, I have my very 
real, very loud orgasm. [Taped interview] 

I realize how much anxiety is aroused by the mention of 
fantasy during sex. ..but was there anything threatening in that 
fantasy? It's an exciting little scenario, and it's also fun; as a 
follow-up, Patricia states that it made her real lover feel and enjoy 
her own excitement. ..without ever having to know what caused 
it. (And as he was Italian it would be better that he never did 
know.) Most people - men and women - understandably don't 
like to hear that their lover's minds are on anything but them 
during sex. Anxiety in bed is one of the most contagious 
emotions going; the smart woman will know just how much her 
lover wants to hear. The only way Patricia's lover will ever know 
about her fantasy is through the added emotion that fantasy 
communicates to him through her body. Because you don't 
always feel that it would be an unalloyed joy for your partner to 
hear about your fantasies doesn't mean you yourself should not 
have them. How much she tells and how much she keeps to 
herself is a true measure of a woman's subtlety. 

Patricia and the other women who contributed to this book are 
admittedly in a minority; the average woman is not consciously 
aware of her fantasies, and if she is, would not dream of telling 
anyone. Most women never get beyond this; their fantasies are 
not merely unspoken but unacknowledged even to themselves, 
never deliberately put at the service of their sexual lives. In the 
end, both these women, and their men, lose what fantasy might 
have added. 

I know there will be some men who will say that Patricia's 
fantasy is no example of how sex can be enriched by sexual 


fantasy, for the simple reason that when a man goes down on a 
woman, it is not real or complete sex at all; that of course a 
woman has to fantasize in that position: She isn't getting the full 
benefit of him. If she were - if he were giving her a good old- 
fashioned man-into-woman fuck she'd have no need to fantasize 
at all. 

For myself, when Patricia says her fantasies make her (and her 
lover) enjoy sex more, I feel I have nothing to add. However, if 
that is not enough, here is Suzanne's letter which argues the case 
for fantasy in all positions. 


When I was sixteen, I read a sex instruction book in which 
there was a case history that had a great effect on me. This girl 
described how she was alone in the cloakroom at a dance, 
bending forward, when a man came in behind her, lifted her 
dress, put his penis into her (obviously before the days of tights) 
and had intercourse with her without her looking around or even 
knowing who the man was. 

This excited me. I had not had intercourse at this stage, but I 
would think about what I had read while masturbating and, of 
course, after a while I started to put myself in the girl's place, 
imagining that it was happening to me. 

This basic fantasy went on for a long time. I started having 
intercourse when I was seventeen, but I am sure you will agree 
that to carry through a fantasy while having intercourse it is 
necessary that neither partner should talk too much or the theme 
is lost. As this was not the way it usually went in those early 
days, I did not fantasize very much during intercourse, but I 
always did when masturbating. 

I met my husband when I was nineteen and married him at 
twenty. Once we had settled into a pattern of prolonged 


intercourse, I found I could have fantasies, which of course 
increased my pleasure, also my husband's. I was able to tell my 
husband of these fantasies, and he was very understanding and 

The fantasies expanded from the original, but there were 
always similarities. The idea of the anonymous approach from 
behind continues to excite me, but the fantasies took on more 
scope, although the man would always do whatever he wanted 
without any form of lead up or courting. I am rarely nude, usually 
wearing a dress; but never panties or tights so that I show myself 
very easily and am always available. The scene is usually at least 
partly public, at a party, in a park, at the office so that other 
people see what happens. They never get in the way or object in 
any way. 

A typical example: We are at a party, all nice attractive people 
standing around talking. I am talking to two men. I am wearing a 
dress just long enough to cover my crotch, with nothing else. 
They each put an arm around me and play with my breasts. One 
puts his hand between my legs. The other people carry on as 
before while I am led over to a settee where I am laid down, my 
dress pushed up, my legs spread and I am entered by one, then 
the other, and then by all the other men in the room, last of all my 
husband. At this point where the fantasy is returning to fact, my 
husband and I will work up to a wonderful climax. 

I would like to say that we do not use the expression "making 
love" as we feel that love is the feeling we have for each other all 
the time, and the enjoyment of sex is something else, so that 
while we love each other while we are having sex, which 
includes me thinking of other men, of being fucked by other men, 
we prefer to use other words. I feel sure you agree. I have never 
felt there was anything unusual in fantasies. I cannot imagine 
masturbating without them, and my husband's attitude during 
intercourse was a big help. 


No doubt you have given some thought to the connection 
between fantasy and fact, where one might try to make the 
fantasy come true. In many cases where perhaps unobtainable 
people are involved, this would not be possible. In my case, 
whereas the people are just ordinary, the circumstances are larger 
than life, so it would still be very difficult to do what I fantasize, 
impossible really to fuck with maybe ten men in full view of 
passersby. Even going around without panties can be risky, 
although I realize that a great many men, including my husband, 
are turned on by the idea of women doing this, so that when I do 
have intercourse with another man it is usually under fairly 
conventional circumstances, which I later enlarge on in fantasy. I 
have at times been able to have sex in some degree like my 
fantasies, but invariably it has been contrived to some extent, so 
that it is not quite the real thing. 

We have tried group sex for this purpose, and in this way I 
have had sex with up to five men in one evening. I do not want to 
make too much of the panties thing, but going back to the 
original incident I read about, which was not only before tights 
but before minis too, it simply said that her dress was lifted, 
without any reference to whether she wore anything below, as if 
they were the wide-legged type that would not get in the way. But 
whatever, there was no obstacle, and this is very important in my 
fantasies. I have read of girls saying they go out every day 
without panties, but frankly I haven't the nerve for this, although 
my husband supports the idea, so I tend to pick occasions when I 
feel there will be no danger, as when I am in the company of 
people I know will approve. Simply, I love sex, but I don't want 
to be raped. 

I would just repeat that I get much pleasure from my fantasies, 
and wish you well. [Letter] 



In my desire to lessen the anxiety about fantasy during sex, I 
don't mean to imply that if you don't have sexual fantasies there 
is something wrong with you, or even that you yourself may not 
prefer it that way. What I am trying to do is establish a more 
acceptable climate for fantasy, so that women who do fantasize 
will not feel so alone, so estranged, and will realize that there is 
nothing wrong with it - that in fact, for them as well as for 
women still unaware of their fantasies, a more conscious use of 
them can add an exciting new dimension to sex. 

But we all respond differently to different stimuli, and some 
people, I realize, do not fantasize, just as there may be some rare 
people who do not dream. I happen to believe, however, that 
most do - and that while reading this book, many will, in fact, 
discover theirs beneath the thin skin of childhood training or 
prudery - call it what you will. 

I've already said why I think women's fantasies are often far 
richer and more adventurous than men's. They are a true 
women's underground. But just as some people do and some do 
not fantasize, some fantasies are meant to be shared and others 
not. By opening up the underground, I am not suggesting we 
have to tell or act out all our fantasies to be sexually happier; just 
accept them without anxiety for what they are. 

For example, no one objects to the idea that certain props like 
a martini, music, low lights - elements outside the man - can get 
a woman "in the mood"; then why should he feel threatened by 
what is going on in her mind? Some people get warmed up 
looking at erotic pictures or reading a bit of porn; does it matter 
that the people in the pictures are other people or that the words 
that excite her were written by another man? Then why should it 
matter what, or of whom a woman is thinking? A woman doesn't 
need an erection to have sex; she can be entered at any time, and 
a man can have an orgasm while his wife's thinking about the 


grocery list. Is that preferable? Wouldn't they both enjoy it more 
if, say, at the outset, during the preliminaries, she deliberately 
changed mental reels, put on something a little more highly 
charged than what to give the kids for supper tomorrow? And 
would it really matter whether her imagery were a rerun of one of 
their own earlier more erotic sessions together (such as in 
Bertha's fantasy which follows), or if she got her sexual charge 
by imagining that she was being fucked by some tennis stars she 
doesn't even know (as does Bellinda)? What matters is the 
quality of the real sex, and if a private screening of her own 
favorite erotica gets her in the mood quicker than a martini, and 
ultimately gives him a better fuck, then why not? It's not telling 
him your fantasy that's important, it's telling yourself it's okay to 
have it. For some women, fantasy is the strongest sexual foreplay 
of all; what they should both remember is that it's the real man 
she really wants - or presumably she wouldn't be there. 


While having intercourse with my husband, I will sometimes 
go over our past lovemaking sessions in my head, ones that were 
particularly exciting, where we both did and said things we don't 
normally do. I'd like it to be that way all the time, of course - 
with the bed practically torn apart and us ending up on the floor, 
wet and sticky and happy - but of course it doesn't always 
happen that way. So I re-create it, rolling him over in my mind 
when, say, all he's really doing is lying there on top of me and 
thrusting away. 

We've had some incredible times in bed and out, especially in 
the shower playing catch-me-if-you-can with our bodies covered 
in Sardo oil. Those are the times I remember. I do it especially if 
I'm not particularly excited and it helps me to reach the aroused 
state I want. Then when I get there he does, too. My husband 


knows of this and fully approves; I sometimes think he even 
relies on it, say, when he's tired. It's as though he were saying, 
"Come on, baby, remember how it was, get us up there." 

We've been married two and a half years and enjoy a good sex 
life. But I've invariably found that re-creating these scenes with 
my husband (in my mind) leads to a more erotic session, which 
in turn gives me new material for the next time. For me, my 
fantasies are money in the bank, if you know what I mean. 
[Taped interview] 


While I was putting this book together, I met and talked 
with Dr. Robert Chartham, psychologist and author of The 
Sensuous Couple. He showed me a letter he'd received from a 
woman we'll call Bellinda, in which she complained that her sex 
life was dreary, that her mind wandered to the day's trivia during 
sex, and that she felt guilty that the only sexually exciting 
thoughts she seemed to have were of tennis star John Harrison's 

"Last year," she wrote, "I went to the Albert Hall to watch 
John Harrison in person play indoor tennis. I was sitting on 
purpose near the umpire's chair so I could be near his legs. I just 
could not take my eyes off him, and when he was toweling down, 
he stared back for a lovely long moment, our eyes were really 
locked. He may have been wondering what this stupid woman 
(me) was looking at, but I prefer to think that my message got 
through, which was, "My God, I'd like you to thrust yourself 
inside me.' If it's possible for a woman to say that with her eyes, 
then I said it." 

Dr. Chartham' s advice to her and her subsequent reply follow. 


Dear Bellinda: 

By believing yourself to be, as you put it, a "sexual dud," you are 
making yourself one. 

You have quite the wrong attitude toward lovemaking, and your 
husband seems no better. 

You have got yourself all worked up about sexual responses and the 
quality of them, when you ought to be fully relaxed, and letting things 
just happen to your body. Instead of thinking about next day' s lunch 
while you are being made love to, why don't you think of John Harri- 
son's thighs, or better still imagine that those are John Harrison's hands 
and mouth caressing you, and John Harrison' s cock that is up you. Try 
it and see what happens. Let me know. 

We call it fantasizing, and nearly all of us, men and women, have 
our sexual fantasies - at least from time to time. It's quite a legitimate 
way of awakening our sexual senses. The only thing is, don't let on to 
your husband that you are imagining that he's John Harrison; he might 
be hurt. 

Best wishes, 
Robert Chartham 

Dear Dr. Chartham, 

Thank you so much for your letter. I am perfectly certain you were 
aware of the effect that phrase "John Harrison's cock that is up you" 
would have on me. Of course I have thought of this and longed for it, 
but being able to tell some one and see the words written down was 
somehow extra exciting. In my thoughts I have used the word penis, but 
your phrase sent a sort of electric shock through me. All that day (last 
Friday) I felt very odd, warm and sort of open and receptive. I bought a 
black scanty garment because I know that color turns my husband on. I 
just couldn't wait until we were in bed, as we have two children around. 
I was in bed first, so my husband hadn't seen the little black thing I was 

I must say it had a dramatic effect! He came into me right away and 
in a few seconds had come off. Needless to say, I couldn't quite match 
his speed, but came soon afterward and it was more intense than usual. 
We made love twice that night and again in the morning, and were both 
in a daze of wellbeing the next day. It is thanks to you, and I feel that 
it's now much more likely that I shall not have to fight for my orgasms 
in the future. To make things even more sexual for me, there was John 
Harrison himself on television doing a "B is to"commercial! Not a very 
erotic product, but I wasn't watching the gravy! I just hope I behaved 
naturally, as my husband was watching and it came as a bit of a shock. 


The orgasm in the morning was the best, as I threw all guilt to the 
winds and imagined John Harrison begging me to let him make love to 
me. In this fantasy he is completely unable to control himself and is 
holding his penis in an effort to suppress his erection. He fails, and 
comes white he is standing there, the semen spurting through his fingers 
onto me. 

I agree with you that this must be kept from my husband, as it would 
hurt him and might wreck future developments. 

I have never told anyone these things in my life before and I thank 
you for releasing thoughts which made me feel so guilty. My husband 
says he never thinks of me as a wife but as a mistress, so I suppose that 
is his fantasy. I shall have to be careful to keep your letter hidden; I 
don't want to lose it, as it is stimulating to see "John Harrison's cock up 
you" written down. 

I realize I can't feel this way every day of the year, but I have made 
a start and shall now enjoy my fantasies instead of trying to push them 


I said earlier that I didn't want to act too strongly as 
advocate in this book, that I wanted to let the material speak for 
itself. Aside from believing in sexual fantasy as an interesting 
side of women's sexualitybeing a fantasist myself - I had little to 
say on the subject before I began collecting this material. I've 
learned a lot from the women who contributed to this book; in 
fact, all I have to say comes directly from what they've told me, 
and have imaginatively illustrated for me in their fantasies. But if 
I haven't interfered with the fantasies themselves, I have selected 
certain ones to appear in the book, and grouped and classified 
them in a definite order of progression. 

Any number of people could have done this according to 
whatever arbitrary system of classification they might have 
chosen. That I have chosen this order therefore i means to me that 
I am acting as advocate after all. This book is designed to win 


you over, unequivocally, first to the idea of female sexual fantasy 
as an introduction to love play, and eventually to the validity of 
sexual fantasy at any time. 

I began by thinking that it was obvious that it doesn't matter 
what a woman is thinking of during sex; if it excites her, it's 
good, and thus adds to the joy of both. But I know how the 
material in this book has been received even by friends I'd call 
sophisticated and "liberated." Their reactions tell me how difficult 
it will be for other people to accept, even to believe, some of the 
sexual images women say they have, especially during sex. Even 
harder to believe will be the statements of these women that these 
fantasies occurred during happy, satisfying sex with men they 

That is why I broached the topic of fantasy during sex 3 with 
the easily understood idea of fantasy as sexual foreplay; I assume 
we are all in favor of that, of anything that leads to sex. As the 
next step, I would also assume that we are all in favor of anything 
that gives us stronger feelings of reassurance or approval during 
sex. (I need not explain to my women readers the 
misapprehension in the idea widespread among men, who have 
done most of the writing on sex, that because women don't have 
the outward giveaway of inner sexual anxieties - the limp cock - 
that women suffer less and need less reassurance.) Therefore, in 
the fantasies you are about to read, the fact that women like Sally, 
Vicki, and Sondra get the desired approval from such universal 
judgment figures as Mother, the doctor, and even Jesus Christ, 
should strike a sympathetic chord. If you can understand and 
accept the idea of female fantasy as a form of sexual foreplay and 
excitement, the idea that fantasy, by allaying anxiety, can allow 
the excitement to grow cannot be too strange a progression of 



My friend Sally owns her own small boutique. She's in her 
early twenties, has long, multilayered black hair, and the kind of 
figure that looks perfect under one of her own flowing chiffon 
designs. She recently finished a yearlong affair with a man twice 
her age, who, as a parting gesture, set her up in the boutique 
business. She considers this latest affair "the greatest education of 
my life." She is still terrifically fond of Alan, her benefactor, and 
talks of him with enthusiasm. Having known him briefly, and 
knowing Sally's zest for anything new, I would imagine that the 
"education" Sally refers to would include some fascinating new 
chapters in sexual exploration. She admits that he will be a hard 
act for any new man in her life to follow; "I really am so bored 
with younger men now," she says. 

I've thought about this fantasy quite a bit, ever since I started 
having it, dreaming it. I've analyzed it ten different ways, but I'm 
still not quite sure what it means. I don't think I had it before I 
knew Alan, but maybe I did. He brought me out in many different 
ways, so maybe the fantasy had been there all along, but I just 
never acknowledged it until him. It's really a very simple fantasy 
on the surface; I have a variety of twists I add to it depending on 
my mood. Basically, it's that while I am making love I have this 
image of me lying there, naked, just as I really am, with the man, 
or men, and while we are fucking I'm talking on the telephone to 
my mother. Isn't that weird? What I have to do, of course, is 
control my voice, talk to her normally as if nothing unusual is 
going on. Every now and then she'll ask, "What was that I 
heard?" Every time she becomes suspicious, I get wildly excited, 
but even during those long periods while she and I just chat - far 
more amiably than we do in reality - I lie there in a great warm 
bath of arousal. It's very comfortable talking to her like this, also 
wildly exciting. 


She used to come on very heavily with Alan - after all, they're 
about the same age. She's an incredible flirt. Also, she never 
really approved of me and Alan; either that or she was jealous. 
But she's always very sweet and understanding to me on the 
fantasy telephone. 

The funny thing is, when I do come, when I reach an orgasm 
and I can't control my voice any longer, she doesn't scold or hang 
up as you would expect, she just keeps on chatting in this kind of 
nice warm voice that she never uses with me in reality. [Taped 


Vicki is thirty -two and single, just out of her second 
divorce. Her exotic good looks appeal to a variety of men, but 
Vicki 's own preference has always been limited to the rat 
bastards. She's already set her sights on her next conquest (I 
mean victimizer) and is the first one to laugh at the hard knocks 
that lie ahead for her. "That's how I am," is how she puts it, 
adjusting the fall of a tight little T-shirt over her boyish figure, 
before sailing forth to meet her Waterloo. 

When she's not being knocked, Vicki' s generally to be found 
in the archives of some far-flung museum; she is a 
well-established art historian, appears regularly on TV, and 
writes for art publications in half a dozen countries. You would 
think she'd seen enough suffering on the cross without adding 
her own. 

Interesting you should ask, my dear, because I'm sure I've got 
you to thank - or blame - for these strange new thoughts that 
have entered my sex life ever since we talked about this book of 
yours last year. That's how long they've been going on. No, 
wrong, I'm sure they were there all along, but it was our talking 
about fantasies that brought them to the surface. Nowadays I 


can't seem to go to bed with a man without having this image 
that he is my doctor. I can't really say whether this focused 
fantasy has really heightened sex for me or not. All I know is that 
there he is, cap and mask, bearing just the slightest resemblance 
to my real doctor. Or is it just the cap and mask? You know the 
old line about doctors: They all look alike when you've got your 
feet in the stirrups. Not that I've had one of those examinations 
for years. Okay, I know it's dumb when you're over twenty-five 
not to, but I've always hated those check-ups. Remember how 
you screamed at me in college for not seeing a doctor when I 
hadn't had a period for six months? And me still a virgin. Well, 
that turned out all right, didn't it? 

You know, the only thing that bothers me about this doctor 
fantasy is that I don't understand the association. I've never had a 
romance with a doctor. God knows, I've never been excited 
during one of those examinations. I never even went through the 
ritual childhood games of Doctor and Nurse with the 
neighborhood boys. But get me in bed with a man these days and 
there we all are - me and the guy in bed, and me and the doctor 
in my head. The more excited I get, my legs up, the doctor 
between them - my lover I mean. . .well, you know what I mean - 
anyway, the more intent the examination, the more intense the 
excitement. The closer the doctor gets to his prognosis, the closer 
I get to orgasm. And then, without fail, right before orgasm, the 
doctor's masked face zooms in close to mine and those loving 
eyes tell me even before he speaks that I'm in great shape, 
everything's just where it should be. 

Now that I think of it, tell it out loud, I realize I should edit 
what I said earlier, the part about blaming you for bringing all 
this up. Whatever it means, all I know is my sex life has never 
been better. [Taped conversation] 



Francesca is a pretty Jewish mother of three. Her sweet 
disposition goes a long way in running a house constantly 
teeming with her teen-age children's friends and her non-stop 
husband's business associates, who seem to fly in hourly from all 
over the world. Under her quiet but firm hand, all generations 
and nationalities meet and merge around the family dining table. 
Her mother lives with them three months of the year. "I have very 
ambivalent feelings about my mother," she says. "I suppose I love 
her and accept her more now than I ever did, but it's very rare 
that I can even kiss her on the cheek. I used to sort of shrink from 
being touched by anyone, but now I'm much more liberated... 
with everyone except my mother. I've often wondered if there 
was anything homosexual about this fantasy; when I was 
nineteen I had an unfulfilled lesbian experience in Paris. But I 
don't know, as often as I fantasize about women, I fantasize 
about men, and my real sexual life is very much only with men." 

(This interview with Francesca shows how women often talk 
about their fantasies. Even though Francesca was an interested 
volunteer, she begins by trying to tell it all in one semiabstract 
sentence. Only as she reworks the almost unconscious images 
again and again in her mind as she tells it to me, will she 
remember the elaborate details.) 

I'm afraid my fantasies are just the usual ones. This is my 
favorite: I am brought at the age of thirteen or fourteen, as a 
pubescent girl, by my mother to be sold to an Oriental potentate. 

Actually, it's a faceless mother, not really my mother, because 
I rather have this thing against my mother. But she's somebody 
of authority and she's brought me here to sell me. She's told me 
in advance exactly what I am to do. In fact, she's trained me 
herself since childhood to perform sexually, she's raised me as a 
purely and perfect sexual object, demonstrating on me herself to 
show me just how everything should be done. She's performed 


cunnilingus on me, done everything to me, and showed me with her 
own body. Actually, it gets a little confusing here as to whether it's 
a mother or who it is... but it is a woman. 

We enter the palace. And there is the potentate sitting on his 
throne like a great Buddha, a rajah. I have been instructed by my 
mother exactly what I must do; there is no hesitation on my part, 
I must perform well, it is the culmination of my training, or I will 
not be bought. And it is a great honor to be bought. My mother 
begins by describing my abilities to the Rajah. In fact, she begins 
by demonstrating on him herself just what it is she has taught me 
to do. She fucks him, sitting on top of him on his throne, she goes 
down on him, she plays with him all the while talking to him of 

Then she performs on me, she goes down on me, she fucks me, 
but not with any apparatus - there's never any of that - she does 
it with her finger. I lie there, responding just as I should as her 
finger or her tongue enter me, my beautiful body reacting 

It gets confused here... let me think... The Rajah himself is 
passive throughout all of this. But he's pleased with my 
performance, very pleased, that's the most important thing, of 

He says, "Yes, she will do, she's marvelous, she will have a 
high position in the court ..." 

It never has anything to do with, "She'll be the most bejeweled 
or the richest"; it's not that kind of harem. The idea is that I've 
performed beautifully and that I'm the most sexual figure he's 
ever seen and he wants me there by his side. (I suppose this all 
has to do with pleasing the man, but it does get me worried 
afterward sometimes just why he is so passive, why I'm always 
doing to him. Let me try to remember more.) 

He, the Rajah, never leaves his throne. He sits up there and my 
mother and I perform below him on a kind of stage, a platform. 
We are naked at this point, but when I was brought in I was 
beautifully robed. I was taken to him and he parted my robes and 


murmured appreciation. But it's my mother who undresses me, 
pointing out all the beautiful parts of my body as she uncovers 
them, "Look at this body, the beauty of the breasts ..." (That's 
another thing; I used to be very hung-up about being flat-chested 
- I'm over that now - but certainly in fantasies I'm beautifully 
endowed.) "Look at how I've nurtured her," she continues, her 
hands moving over my hips, parting my ass for him to see, "look 
how beautifully she's shaped, just to please you." 

Then she has me lie down and she parts my legs, exposing my 
cunt so that he can see how perfect it is. This is when she 
performs on me. All this time he's masturbating. And so are the 
courtiers, oh yes, it's a big M-G-M court, with Nubians standing 
around holding torches (they're very tall and they aren't 
masturbating, but the others are, and the women courtiers too). 

Then I go and sit on the Rajah's lap, he just parts his gown, 
and I fuck him... after I've gone down on him. I sit there naked 
on his cock on his throne and through it all he does nothing, 
nothing to me, nothing for me. I do all the work. . .which is what 
I've been trained to do, so in the fantasy it doesn't matter, but 
now that I think of it, it's strange that there's really nothing in it 
for me sexually. What matters is that I'm the best, I'm accepted. 
The sex part with the Rajah isn't what counts - whether he's big 
or skillful or anything; I have other fantasies where size and skill 
and three men at once are what turns me on - but this one, and 
it's my favorite, it's all about being accepted. What I mean is, if 
I'm being fucked in real life, and I have this fantasy... it's the 
greatest pusher in the world. [Taped interview] 


Music is playing on the record player. As I sit listening to the 
plucking of the harpsichord, I wonder if Dali must have dreamed 
up this fantasy to torment me. You see, one of my fantasies 


concerns him. ..not that I want a wispy end of his mustache to 
tickle my cunt (a word I prefer to clitoris, which sounds so 
clinical, or clit, which is so flip) but I want that big black octopus 
to take me in every way all at once, with every tentacle going full 
force at the same time since I tire so easily. 

The big black octopus, I must explain, was in a gallery off 
Fifth Avenue. It was a Dali vernissage and included a huge 
painting of Jesus preaching his Sermon on the Mount. Well, 
exactly opposite this hedonism were several beautiful and erotic 
drawings, and the one I really fancied was this octopus having a 
girl. As I stared at it, I lived it. ..each black rhythmic finger in 
and out of her body and my body, winding all the way up 
(because I'm a very deep person) and ending in a thin point - not 
like a knife, but all the same gentle and definite. A corkscrew 
arrangement follows the end of the point with a kind of rubbing, 
twisting power and force; it makes me reel and scream with 
delight. One after the other, each tentacle makes me come again 
and again, many comings per black thing, and there is Jesus still 
talking to these poor infidels from his lofty place, but really He is 
watching me while I gaze into the eyes of my taker, this huge 
body - head like the end of a giant orchid penis as it fucks me 
and engulfs the whole of me with those spent fingers but with 
many more still poised, still ready to come as I come again and 
again. ..aaaahhhhhh! "Bless you, my child ..." [Conversation] 


The next three fantasies are from women who are sexually 
happy in their beds. At least they say they are, and I'm prepared 
to accept what a woman tells me about her sex life. The 
alternative is to say that because each of these women fantasizes 
beyond what is actually happening, it follows that the real sex is 
inadequate and she dissatisfied. But that would be playing more 


than amateur psychiatrist, it would be playing God. No thank 

For many women, fantasy is a way of exploring, safely, all the 
ideas and actions which might frighten them in real. ity. In 
fantasy they can expand their reality, play out certain sexual 
variables and images in much the same way that children enter 
into fantasy as a form of play, of trying out desires, releasing 
energies for which they have no outlet in reality. Thinking about 
it, even getting excited over the image, doesn't mean you want it 
as your reality. . .or else we all, night dreamers that we are, would 
be suppressed robbers, bisexuals, murderers, or even inanimate 


I have this fantasy quite often while Ben is fucking me. In fact, 
I'd say I have it during our best sessions, when my body is most 
relaxed and inventive. Ben gets so excited when I'm into this 
fantasy it's as though he were having it too. Yet I know if it were 
to really happen it would scare the hell out of him - and out of 
me. I don't think we have any room in our lives for any kind of 
group scene; it simply wouldn't fit in; we wouldn't know how to 
handle it. But in fantasy, it's fantastic. 

The three of us are in the living room, me, Ben, and my friend 
Helen. Our living room, here at home. Only the windows are 
larger, big bay windows with large panes and no drapes, no 
curtains, the way those windows are in the endless little houses - 
all lit up along the endless roads that stretch across the 
countryside, the people's lives exposed, like. . .We have just come 
in from shopping, the three of us, and as I go into the kitchen to 
put away the groceries and start dinner, I see Ben help Helen out 
of her coat. I stand at the sink, watching them behind me 
reflected in this huge polished window. Ben is standing behind 


her with his hands on her shoulders, on her coat, but she takes his 
hands quickly and slips them down, cupping them around her 
breasts, holding them there. They don't realize that I can see, as 
their backs are to me. I make little noises with the groceries to 
reassure them that I am busy putting things away. I run the water 
in the sink, giving them time to go on. Ben hesitates, letting her 
press his hands against her breasts. Then she presses back 
against him, rubbing against his groin. I can feel the rush of 
excitement that charges Ben, that gets him instantly erect as I can 
get him, as I so often have by rubbing my bottom against him. 

I go back into the living room, but first I clear my throat and 
start talking so they will know I am coming. I walk through the 
room, telling them I'm going up to have a quick bath, telling Ben 
to fix Helen a drink and keep her company. But I don't go 
upstairs. I stand just outside the door and wait, watching them. 
Ben sits on the sofa, shy as always, and it is Helen who moves in, 
kneels in front of him, unzips his fly and takes his penis in her 
hand, puts it into her mouth. Ben's hands start to push her 
away... He looks quickly in the direction I've gone. But the 
pleasure is too much. He sees Helen, sees her lips round his 
penis, her mouth full of him, her lips bulging around it as though 
she's going to swallow it. He reaches for her breasts again and 
fondles them; they seem to grow in his hands, to swell in size. 
Until they are as large as mine. Her blond head moves faster and 
faster, up and down on his penis, pushing her lips back so that 
Ben can see her teeth, small and white, moving as though she is 
eating some delicious piece of meat. The tip of it slips farther and 
farther down into her throat; Ben is practically paralyzed with 
ecstasy. He falls back against the sofa, his hands reaching for his 
trouser front, unfastening it altogether so that she can really get at 
him. He is no longer the Ben I know at all. Helen undoes her 
blouse, never letting his penis rest, sucking away on it. She takes 
her breasts in her own hands, and kneads them so that drops of 
milk gush from them onto Ben's pubic hairs, soaking them. I 


move quietly into the room, knowing they won't stop now, and 
wanting to watch them more closely. They have forgotten now 
that I am even in the house. Ben is about to come in her mouth, 
but he wants the milk even more and he lifts her, drags her onto 
the sofa, so that he can suck her breasts while his hands undress 
her, fondle her until she moans for him to put it into her, there on 
our sofa, their clothes half on, half off, in front of the huge picture 
window. I shake off my clothes and naked I go over to them. I get 
on the sofa behind Ben. I want so badly to join them, to give Ben 
even more pleasure in return for all the pleasure he is giving 
Helen - who is really part me and part Helen - and suddenly I 
have this warm wet thing to put into him, a penis, my penis. I 
press it into him slowly, but all the way in. Ben gasps with 
excitement, and I feel the same wild sensation as though it really 
was a port of me going into him, as if it really were my penis. 
Firmly, quickly, I move it in and out in rhythm with his fucking 
Helen, whose pleasure I can also feel. Having it both ways, 
having everything, it is overwhelming. I can't stand it, it is too 
much, and I press deeper and deeper into my husband until it 
seems my penis goes through Ben and into Helen, into me 
myself, and I die with pleasure. [Conversation] 


I've been thinking more and more about my fantasies lately. 
I've even tried talking to my husband about them, that is, the 
ones I think wouldn't make him angry. I wouldn't dare tell him 
that I often think of my old boy friend, of how it used to be with 
him, nor of my thoughts of some unknown man who has forced 
himself upon me, which in my imagination I seem to enjoy. 

For some odd reason, while having sexual relations with my 
husband I prefer him to be fully clothed, and while we are in bed, 
I'd rather not see his "parts." I'd rather we have sex when I didn't 
have to see his penis. Although he enjoys studying my "areas," I 


cannot bring myself to do the same. It turns me on more when 
things are left to the imagination. But my husband tends to 
parade his "parts" in front of me, even though I've asked him not 
to, and mentioned that our sex life might improve if he didn't. 

You may therefore find it strange that in my latest fantasy I tell 
my husband that I think I would enjoy watching him having sex 
with another woman. Not really someone we know - preferably 
some strange female. That way we'd know no relationship could 
come of it. But if it were to come true I don't know if I'd have the 
nerve to allow it. Yet I keep thinking it would be fun. 

I also have fantasies of me with other women. But these 
women have no face, I mean they are no one in particular. These 
occur usually during masturbation, which is maybe two, three 
times a month. I don't really have lesbian fantasies, because for 
me to do the act on a female, to me it seems repulsive, but the 
idea of a female doing it to me seems pleasurable. (Selfish, 

I know I began this letter by saying I do discuss some 
fantasies with my husband, but I'm afraid that even that is a 
fantasy! I can't think of any fantasy we've discussed, but then we 
have a communication problem! [Letter] 


I am thirty-seven years of age. My marriage is a happy one and 
the sexual part of our life together extremely satisfying. I like to 
think of my husband's penis as being small but very powerful. I 
often get on top of him, squatting in a knees-up position. He 
strokes my buttocks and caresses my anus while he thrusts from 
underneath. When I feel his fingers exploring my bottom, my 
fantasy is that a very long but delicately thin penis is penetrating 
my anus. I can feel this thin shaft penetrating me from behind 
and the feel of the palms of his hands pressing against my 
buttocks reminds me of another male attacking me from behind. 


This causes me to relieve the muscular tension which I have built 
up in my pelvis as though to admit this second party to my body. 
As my husband and I come to our climax, I imagine that this thin 
shaft inside my rear is pulsating and thrusting to fill me with a 
double ration of semen, thus ensuring that the act of intercourse, 
if not successful by my husband, has been achieved by the 
fantasy "thing" behind me. I have no feelings of who might be the 
owner of this aggressor from behind me. He or It is a nothing in 
my mind, but is a very real sensation of additional intrusion 
within my body. Sometimes the tension in my rear is so great that 
I lose all control, and the moment after my husband has come, 
my bladder relaxes completely and I pee, flooding back to him 
the semen that he has just shot into me. We have only once tried 
to have anal intercourse, but because of the thick dimension of 
his mighty dwarf I just could not take him. The fact of my 
involuntary release of just a little urine gives my man a 
tremendous thrill. 

I have seen cows being served by a bull on a farm that belongs 
to some friends. One particular bull is very broad across the back, 
like the flat top of a. table. My husband and I frequently have sex 
in the lounge or the kitchen after the children are in bed or away 
for the weekend. Then I imagine that I am lying on the back of 
the bull, while the bull is mounting a cow. I experience a distinct 
feeling of the kitchen table or the lounge settee on which I lie 
heaving up and down. My hands automatically go down on either 
side of the table to grasp the legs, to prevent myself from falling 
off the back of the frantic bull as he works away at the cow. I can 
feel my body thrusting up and down in time with the thrusts of 
the bull into the cow. Sometimes my husband has extreme 
difficulty staying inside me. Invariably I experience a climax 
before my husband in these situations, and his continuing action 
to bring off his own climax results in me having a second 
orgasm, which I imagine in my mind to be the bull flooding the 
cow with his sperm. On these occasions I imagine my husband's 


penis to be even greater in girth than it really is. In fact, I imagine 
it as thick as the bull. To make this even more realistic, I 
sometimes insert a finger into my vagina at the moment of his 
climax to swell his real dimension to what I imagine would 
represent the bull's erection. My husband enjoys this routine, 
feeling that my finger's there to help stimulate him. However, it 
is my desire to feel filled by an enormous penis that is really the 
key to the whole situation. [Letter] 


I'm twenty-two and very shy, and group gropes aren't my 
scene at all. But my imagination isn't the least bit shy. When my 
husband and I are making love, or when I masturbate, I visualize 
my husband screwing another woman while I am screwing 
another man. We're all in the same room, or in two double beds, 
and I can see what they're doing in a big mirror. It excites me 
very much. I can't remember when this started or what started it, 
but I very rarely reach orgasm without thinking about it. [Letter] 


Sometimes during sex, or just during the day, I think of what it 
would be like to trade husbands, that is, for me and my husband 
to have sex with a couple with whom we are good friends... me 
with the guy and my husband with the other wife. This can be 
one of several couples that we know, or any new couple we meet 
and hit it off with. 

I often tell my husband of these "group sex" fantasies, that is, 
of imagining trading off with our friends and imagining what 
they look like naked, and he reciprocates. We often talk of what it 
would be like to swap with Virginia and Dick or Fran and Ernie 
for instance, but never do so, and are quite sure we never will. 
It's just the imagining it, thinking of what it might be like, and 


their bodies, what we all might do that is so exciting. But if I 
happen to be around a friend when she is dressing or nude, which 
of course doesn't happen often, I make mental notes and then 
describe to him in great detail her feminine charms. He does the 
same for me if he happens to see someone I know in the men's 
room. We both thoroughly enjoy having this nude mutual 
fantasizing about our friends; we find it very stimulating and 
exciting, even if it will never happen. . .especially so, I guess. You 
can go so much further in fantasy than you can in reality. [Letter] 


Society encourages women to find sexual partners; a 
woman without one is disturbing, she is only half a woman 
(spinsters and nuns are downright creepy to some people). 
Society demands she have sex (a marriage must be consummated 
to be legal), yet she is barred from initiating sex. She is granted 
sexual desires, urged to fulfill them, but discouraged from taking 
the active role. . .except in fantasy, where, in her own way, in her 
own time, she can take what she's been told is hers rightfully as a 

What is meant by "She's a real woman"? Men say it with such 
loaded admiration that every woman within hearing distance 
freezes in envy and anticipation of finding out, at last, what it is 
that the "real" woman has. (Women don't say "She's a real 
woman" of one another; how would we recognize one? We've 
been trying to find out what it is to be a woman since we were 

Information' is so scarce and contradictory on the vital 
essentials of womanhood, you would think someone (Mother?) 
was intentionally trying to mislead us from the beginning. Not 
only contradictions within, but contradictions without; the clues 


we do get seem to go directly against what we feel, what we want 
to do. 

Our first toy is a baby, a doll baby; our first "play" role is that 
of Mother, and while we dimly know this all has something to do 
with our sex, we are given no clues about that. Some step seems 
to have been left out, and the anger and anxiety our mothers show 
beneath their fixed smiles when we ask questions about it show it 
was left out deliberately, and we'd better Keep Off that particular 
grass. We play house with our play babies, but it's a daddyless 
house. Little boys don't play house; it's not an accepted role. Nor 
is there any accepted play role in which the little mothers can 
explore their first sexual drives, which often come so 
unexpectedly. Little girls with lots of suddenly newfound energy, 
who want to run and holler, swing in trees and climb walls, are 
called tomboys. Clearly, spontaneity and action are not the 
quickest route to womanhood. But if it is not an acceptable outlet 
for these mysterious, perhaps troubling new energies, what is? 
We are not told. We only know there is a mystery here. We can 
go wrong somewhere. All about us is silence. We learn to be 
still. Passive. 

Eventually a girl grows out of doll babies and begins to get her 
first signs of having miraculously arrived at womanhood. 
(Without understanding how she got there, because to her 
knowledge she has done nothing, learned nothing, experienced 
nothing at all. Can this be it? Doing nothing, avoiding the 
mystery, being passive and ignorant - is that being a woman?) 
Whatever the answer is, boys are apparently aware which girls 
have solved the problem. They begin to ask those girls out on 
dates. Dates lead directly and naturally to those desires and urges 
she's been stifling. And wonder of wonders, the way to get asked 
out most (to be the most womanly?) is to do what you really want 
to do, and stifle nothing at all! Freedom, excitement and "real" 
womanhood suddenly and magically seem united and integrated, 
beckoning at last. 


Wrong. Once again it is pointed out by Mother and the 
other girls, if you're slow in catching on that action, the 
seemingly easiest way to womanhood, is not the nicest way. Is 
maybe not the way at all. In fact, once again, it seems 
womanhood has something to do with not doing what you want 
to do, with frustration and passivity. Suddenly childhood's vague 
distinction between "nice" little girls and girls who were not 
"nice" becomes a decided hard-line distinction between women: 
there are two kinds. The ones boys like to go out with, and the 
kind they marry. But which of the two is the "real" woman? The 
choice is more bewildering now that she's had a taste of the 
forbidden fruit: Whether to reach out and respond, or to hold 
back, to hold out for marriage. 

No one is taking any chances: Marriage is now painted - by 
Mother? - as the glorious answer to every maiden's prayer, the 
end of the rainbow, the beginning of "happily ever after ..." And 
just to be sure the marriage sticks - the maiden doesn't wander, 
the "real" woman is further defined as not only married, but also 
a mother. Or to put it another way - Mother's way - one isn't a 
real woman until one is a mother. 

But just as with baby doll toys that arrived out of a sexless 
void, a vital step between herself as she is now and this new 
"real" womanhood has been passed over in silence. With each 
new man in her life she could have learned something new, 
maybe contradictory things (one man's real woman is another 
man's dull or cutting tool), but always something that might have 
brought her closer to the enigma of herself and of what 
womanhood could indeed be for her. The prospect of this 
exploration of the variousness of men and women and life itself is 
fascinating, frightening, and forbidding - if not forbidden (by 
Mother and the other girls). 

I'm convinced this is why so many women marry early: For 
every woman who holds out for the unknown, for sexual 
exploration, there are hundreds who anxiously grab marriage, 


motherhood, and the symbolic surface manifestation that she has 
at last arrived: She is a real woman. The wedding ring certifies it 
and motherhood guarantees it. Who is there in the world to doubt 
these majestic reassurances? Only herself, the self in her fantasies 
who picks up where her real self left off in trying out and trying 
on women's various sexual roles. 

One role she's been denied from the beginning is that of 
sexual initiator, innovator. A woman may ask a man to dinner, 
but she may not ask him to dance. She may ask him to pass her 
the salt if she wants more of it, even reach across the table to get 
it, but she may not put her hand on his knee under it. She will 
coax him to try her new dishes and urge him to have more 
because Mother told her his stomach was a quicker (nicer) way to 
his heart than the telephone. Traditionally, women wait to be 
asked, or acted upon. To reach out for the man you want is to be 
aggressive, and to reach out for the way you want him in bed 
isn't just aggressive, it's unfeminine. The fact that he might enjoy 
what follows her first move isn't what's at issue: the point is that 
it isn't done, hasn't been done, and won't be done until men and 
women are convinced that changing the traditional sexual roles 
doesn't constitute a threat. 

Meanwhile, if he's too shy to telephone, or perhaps less 
imaginative or worn out in bed than she (might be, given the 
chance), then two people who'd like to never do get started and 
the sheets barely get rumpled. He never knows what he's missed; 
she does, but only in her fantasies. And if in those fantasies, as in 
so many in this book, she comes on like a tiger, in a startlingly 
aggressive role - she tying him down on the bed, don't hastily 
put the little lady down as a secret dominating sexual sadist: 
Sometimes you have to shout just to be heard. 

Even as sexually self-accepting a woman as Carol (below) has 
to fantasize a sex-instruction class where an imagined instructor 
tells her to take the initiative before she can, in reality, do 
something as loving and natural as climb on top of her husband. 


Faye's fantasy, which follows Carol's, of initiating her lover into 
a three-way sex scene, is something she has always longed to do 
and feels he would enjoy too, but only if she took him by the 
hand. Why not? Think how much more active the dance floor and 
the bedroom might be if women (and men) felt easier about 
taking the first step, making the first move, assuming a second 
position. . .or a third, or a fourth. 


My husband and I are expatriate New Zealanders. We live in 
Papua. My husband is fifty-five years old and I am nearly 
thirty-eight. We have been married 18 years. We have two 
children, and have had and continue to enjoy a highly satisfactory 
sex life together. 

My fantasy, which often occupies me, is that we are a 
demonstration couple for a class of young couples being 
instructed in the art of intercourse. I can hear the instructor telling 
the class of our progress toward climax. Every so often the 
instructor wants us to change position so that his pupils can get a 
better view between my legs. At this point I usually climb on top 
of my husband, sometimes adopting a squatting attitude over him 
to enable our audience to see our connected organs together. 
Sometimes I hear the instructor tell me to take the active part, 
whereupon I actually tell my husband that I want our movements 
to come only from me until he ejaculates. He will usually 
cooperate, unless I have misjudged hi, progress and he is about to 
come off anyway, in which case I will mentally apologize to the 
instructor. But on most of the occasions when my mind runs this 
way, I can hear the instructor accurately telling the audience my 
feelings while we are having each other, and he keeps talking the 
whole time in a soft voice so as not to distract the pair of us. 
Every time he instructs his class to watch more closely I become 
even more excited, feeling their eyes on us. The instructor's 


voice, as he calmly tells me to do all the things I want to do, is 
not like any voice I know, no particular friend or acquaintance. 
But he is a friend in that his role in my fantasy is that of 
benefactor, someone who is looking after me and knows my 
every desire. He and I have a wonderful rapport. [Letter] 


I'm not sure what got me started on this fantasy. I really like 
Richard; in a way we're more than just lovers, we're great 
friends. Marriage will never be our scene; we could go ages 
without seeing one another, but whenever we are together it's as 
lovers, and we can pick up wherever we left off. I do love him, 
but maybe it's because I love him without the possessiveness that 
so often goes with love that I have this fantasy. I don't think 
Richard's ever had a conscious queer notion in his head, I mean I 
don't think he'd ever acknowledge being attracted sexually to 
another guy. But I think there's a bit of the bisexual in all of us, 
and in some way I think I bring it out in Richard. Maybe it's 
because I want to. You see, I really get turned on by this idea of 
me and Richard making it with another guy. I'd just love to see 
him expressing some of that good solid love he has for sex, for 
women - sharing it with men too. 

And I'd love to be the one that makes it happen. That's it, I 
guess: I'd really love to initiate him into a happy little group 
scene, and as long as I'm there, involved, I think he'd do it and 
enjoy it. What's interesting is I know I'd never be turned on with 
this idea if Richard and I were serious about each other, because I 
am too damn jealous and possessive. But I'd love to turn him on, 
him and another man and me. It would be so friendly and 

I am kneeling in front of a fireplace, poking the embers back to 
life. Only it's not a real fire, it's papier-mache, and the room is 
like that chalet we once rented in Switzerland; in fact the room is 


a set, a stage. Because of the stage lights I can't see the audience, 
but I know they're out there. Also, the fake fire throws out a 
semicircular pink glow that surrounds me, making it hard to see 
who the other man is. 

He has just come into the room with Richard and they stand in 
the shadows behind me, talking. As Richard goes into the other 
room to mix us all a drink, the other man starts to follow him, 
then changes his mind and comes and stands behind me. He puts 
his big sheepskin coat around me, as I'm shivering. Then he 
kneels beside me and takes the poker, but keeps my hand under 
his, pressing it hard around the grooved handle. I watch my 
fingers whiten under the pressure of his. Richard's voice comes 
warm and happy from the other room, and the sound of the ice 
clinking in the glasses. I can smell the other man's warm brandy 
breath and feel the hardness of his thigh against me, and the 
unrelenting pressure of his hand. I let the coat slip from my 
shoulders, feeling the pain in my nipples as they harden visibly 
under my sweater. The audience murmurs appreciatively. Now I 
reach for a log to put on the fire and in the movement let my 
nipples graze his shoulder. My gesture lets him know I won't 
resist; his pressure on my hand lessens. The audience claps very 
quietly, approving. Squatting as he is, I can see the sudden bulge 
in his trousers as I acquiesce. His cock moves like a quick 
heartbeat, just above that mysterious place between a man's legs 
where all the seams of his trousers meet. Behind us is the 
familiar sound of Richard's voice, like a hum. He is humming as 
he puts on the music, Shirley Bassey's voice, heavy breathing 
music -to-get-laid-by, Richard calls it. With his finger, just the 
finger tip, the man lifts my sweater and bends his head to press 
his warm lips around my breast, holding me in his mouth, just 
his tongue flicking the nipple until I gasp. And the audience 
gasps, too. My body begins to move with the music, my body and 
this man's mouth in a dance, all wet and warm now. With my 
finger I begin to trace the seam between his legs and his mouth 


responds, his tongue circling downward as my hand spreads 
round his crotch, the fingers arched and separated over the 
pressure beneath. In one motion I unzip his fly, setting him free 
like some giant bird. Now his tongue is in my hair, reaching for it 
just below the top of my low-slung pants. His hands tug to ease 
them down so that he can get at me. I can feel his breath just 
above my clitoris and can feel him inhale the scent of me; I am 
wet with my own juices. His hands work quickly at the fastening 
on my pants and I am free, too, his mouth open wide now, his 
tongue full out for where I want it. I lean back, resting on my 
hands, raising myself up to him, and he holds my buttocks, 
pressing my upturned cunt to his mouth like some big, wet 
persimmon. The lips of my cunt seem to move like real lips in 
anticipation, begging him for his tongue until I feel it, warm and 
full on that little spot, sucking it in a kiss. I strain, arching my 
back to give him that whole part of my body, the music all 
around me, Shirley wailing away for more, my head thrown back, 
so far away from that other part of me, so lonely, until I open my 
eyes and see Richard watching us, fascinated, his own erection 
big and eager to share. "Come," my own lips form the word, and 
he is on us, on top of me, his grateful mouth on mine, his cock 
dangling in front of the other man's face. But only for a second, 
as the man raises his mouth from my cunt to Richard's cock, 
while thrusting his own cock into me with such force that my 
scream of pleasure is drowned in the thunderous ovation from the 
audience. [Taped interview] 


Why do women fantasize about sex when they've got it, when 
they're right in the midst of it, Why do unashamed and sexually 
satisfied women like Carol and Faye imagine more sex when they 
already have their hands (etc.) full? Maybe because physically 


women, most women, are never full, never sated sexually beyond 
their imagination. 

It need have nothing to do with reality, with whether the real 
man can (or even would if he could) totally satisfy her; as I said 
earlier, to reduce fantasy to the "nothing but" kind of thinking, 
which says it is "only" frustration, is too simple. Fantasy, by 
definition, is about something that isn't happening, and some of 
the most vivid fantasies I've collected are from women who are 
clear about not wanting their fantasies to be reality. 

No, rather than a frustrated cry for more real sex, I think that a 
lot of female fantasy is a psychic need for a more complete 
exploration of everything that was kept from them as girls, of 
everything that conceivably could be thought sexual. 

"The Road of Excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom," wrote 
William Blake, and the unconscious mind knows this is true. 
Fantasy means more involvement, more spontaneity, more take 
as well as give, more focus on herself, and maybe more noise, 
more black men, women, dogs, audiences, parents, experiences, 
attitudes, roles. For women, sex is still the infinite and 
inexhaustible variable, the one way she can unravel the mystery 
of what it is to be and feel a woman. I think women have 
enormous sexual appetites - far greater than is publicly 

Of course, these appetites could be fed in reality; often they are 
not. But they do exist and can be made known to the woman 
herself in fantasy. 


When my husband first begins to make love to me, just feeling 
me and kissing me, there is one imaginary scene that comes to 
my mind, and that is that I am an African fertility image or 
statuette with long pointed breasts grotesquely exaggerated in 
size, and that instead of my husband I am being loved by the 


male counterpart, a fertility figure with an enormous penis far out 
of proportion to his body. 

This image seems to turn itself on without my trying or doing 
anything about it, almost as soon as I am sure we will have 
intercourse, and continues until I have had an orgasm. It has 
nothing to do with my being dissatisfied with my husband's 
penis, which is a very good-sized one that fully satisfies me. I just 
somehow seem to imagine that this enormous, long, thick penis 
(with a giant knob on the end) is entering me. When we are just 
starting, I imagine this huge organ is rubbing my enormous 
breasts, and especially is more or less dueling with them, trying 
to slide up between them and poking at first one and then the 
other, and that I am holding it off from me by sticking my huge 
breasts in the way. This is when my husband is stroking or 
sucking my nipples. Again, it is not jealousy on my part or any 
feeling of inadequacy, since I am quite sure he thinks I am 
adequate in this respect. 

For example, I'll try to describe our very relaxed and loving 
habits with one another and our happy appreciation and 
acceptance of one another's bodies: We sleep nude, and he 
almost always is in bed before my hair is put up. I do this in the 
nude, standing in front of the large dresser mirror in our 
bedroom. He watches because he likes to see my breasts lift as I 
raise my arms to put in curlers, and then lower them. While we 
ordinarily are very old fashioned in our language, he almost 
invariably tells me, "You sure have yummy tits, kid," at such 
times. When I am done, I walk to the bed, bend over so he can 
nibble each nipple in turn for a moment, then turn the covers 
down so he is exposed, and bend over and give his penis a quick 
kiss. We do this every night, although we have sex only every 
second or third night on the average. If he already has an erection 
or a partial one, I linger longer on his penis since I know this is 
"the" night. If it is not, but I feel I would like a little loving and 
don't think he is tired or worried or something, I will work on his 


penis a bit more to see if he responds. But many nights it is only 
a wifely kiss and nothing more happens. (Of course we kiss 
mouth to mouth before going to sleep, too.) 

So you can see by the above that my fantasy of these 
over-enlarged sex organs doesn't come from any feeling of 
frustration or lack of appreciation. Looking further back, I can't 
remember any fantasy as a child other than that of erect penises. 
Although I don't do it much now, I can't remember when I 
wasn't masturbating some as a child... I am sure it was as young 
as eleven years old, because my mother caught a girl friend and 
me doing it together with candles when we were twelve, and I 
had been doing it a long time then. The candles were my friend's 
idea, since she had found some of those wicked comic books in 
her brother's room, showing Dag wood and Blondie and Harold 
Teen and Lillums and others having sex, both genital and oral, 
with the man in each case always endowed with an enormous 
and constantly erect penis. I kept that image in my mind the 
whole time I masturbated. . .the sort of scary and exciting pictures 
of those hug comic book penises. Actually, they weren't scary in 
the forbidden sense; sex was not a forbidden topic in our house. 
My mother had given me very full and complete sex instruction 
from a very early age, including the fact that sex is fun, which 
most parents never mention. Mother didn't scold us and didn't 
even tell my friend's mother what we had been up to. She just 
made us stop and told us to be careful not to hurt ourselves using 
candles or anything like that. Although I did not experience my 
first intercourse until I was fourteen, I always was definitely 
interested in boys' penises from that day on, as well as before. I 
do not know if this has anything to do with my African sex-god 
fantasy or not. It may have, I suppose. 

I might mention that I've never told my husband of this 
fantasy, and I'm afraid I never will, because he would think I 
thought he was too small, and I really don't at all. [Letter] 



My fantasy is nearly always the same: I am being raped by not 
one man, but three or four. But the strange thing is that as each 
man takes his turn, I have to take a bigger penis. Some of the 
sizes of them in my fantasies are nine and twelve inches. And as 
I have to open my legs wide to take them, the erotic pleasure I 
have always brings on the most wonderful orgasm. The pleasure 
I get is so intense that my husband also gets added pleasure, 
thinking that it is he alone who is giving it to me. [Letter] 


I am twenty-three years old, have been married two years, and 
have two children. The earliest fantasies I can remember were 
when I was nine or ten years old; I would imagine that the boys 
in my class were looking at me and touching me and discussing 
my anatomy. Nowadays my fantasies are similar. I often fantasize 
that the man I am with is closely examining my sexual organs, 
not as a doctor, but as a lover. Sometimes I imagine he's 
discussing me with a friend while they both examine me and 
bring me to orgasm manually while they watch. I often practice 
this fantasy in front of a mirror while masturbating. 

It was only recently that my husband and I admitted to one 
another that we had fantasies. We have never described them, 
just simply acknowledged their existence. I do sometimes think 
of other men while my husband and I are making love. I most 
often imagine men we know whom I find particularly attractive. I 
usually imagine that these men have begged me to have an affair 
with them and I've finally given in. 

I don't think my husband would be jealous if I told him of this 
fantasy. Perhaps if I fulfilled it, he would be. He does know that I 
enjoy thinking about men, and that I always wish I knew what's 
behind the zipper of every man I look at. [Letter] 



My husband is not an imaginative man and our lovemaking is 
not at all varied. I used to attempt to get him to try different 
things, but he never wanted to. The reason that I was more 
advanced was not that I'd had more experience before marriage 
than he had, but I had had some, and I guess what took place was 
what the man wanted, in all cases. Anyway, he was clearly 
offended, for example, when I tried once to push his head down 
toward my cunt, and he stubbornly pushed it up again to give me 
a conventional kiss on the mouth. He doesn't even seem happy 
with me on top, although he lets me once in a while. 

In every other area except bed I consider him an ideal husband 
- or at least a good one, so I'm determined to reconcile myself to 
a somewhat deprived sex life. The way I do it is I achieve variety 
with my fantasies, and I achieve an orgasm almost every time by 
using them. I think variety is the key to the whole thing, and the 
reason so many marriages go stale is that they just do the same 
thing over and over. Well, so do we, but in my head it's different 
every time. 

I do it all quite deliberately. I can tell, when I'm getting ready 
for bed, whether my husband is in the mood or not, and if he is I 
get myself all sexed up mentally, even before I get near the bed, 
while I'm brushing my hair and undressing and so forth. 
Sometimes I linger longer in the bathroom just so I can get to the 
right point in my fantasy. Then, when we're having the same old 
version of sex, I'm having my old Arabian Nights. I mean it; it's 
like the one thousand and one nights, with me as Scheherazade 
telling myself a different sex story each time. For the first dozen 
or so times, it was just me and a man; I'd describe all the 
different things we did. Then I went on to think of different 
settings, like doing it on the kitchen floor (maybe with a delivery 
boy) or in my neighbor's garage when I went to borrow a tool 
(Freudian slip). Then I got involved for a long time with doing 


sixty-nine with people watching. Then I started thinking of 
myself with two men, and just lately I've been in a whole group, 
both men and women (but the women were involved with the 
other men, not touching me). I've never imagined myself with a 
woman, but other than that I'll try anything mentally. I'm able to 
pace the flow of my thoughts to what's really going on, and this 
way it works for me almost every time. [Letter] 


You could say that a woman's life was made for fantasy. 
All those idle hours, the boring repetitive jobs that her hands do 
automatically, the endless opportunities to reflect, construct and 
reconstruct. In a sense we were born to dream, to stay at 
home... it is how most men dream of us. Even today's 
superwomen who leave the house to go to work have at least as 
much opportunity for the odd idle fantasy as the guy at the next 
desk (and more natural talent and practice at it) - the tedious 
subway rides, the dull business conferences, hungover days when 
you just can't concentrate on anything except the erotic 
possibilities of the boss's moustache, the provocative way the 
new account executive dresses on the right, last night's 
abandoned fuck with Harry, the prospect of tonight's with 

Does the adage "The idle mind is the devil's playground" 
indeed apply only to one sex? Why do advertisers consistently 
use a picture of a pretty girl with a faraway look in her eye to sell 
almost anything? Because it's universally accepted that women, 
dreamers all, dream the good pure thoughts that hold us all 
together - especially material things connected with the home. 
(And homemaking.) Whereas men, those lusty scoundrels, will 
dream only of things that might make their naughty dreams come 
true. What are men in advertisements wistful for? Automobiles, 


whiskey, rugged pipe tobacco... any thing that might lead them 
more successfully to sex. 

I suggest that next time you see that pretty female face with the 
Mona Lisa smile you consider, just consider, that she may not be 
thinking of a knight on a horse, just the horse. 

This lifelong habit of rumination is what makes women so 
good at fantasy; daydreams are often as close as they ever get to 
what they really want. A man finding desire upon him can pick 
up the phone, go see someone, ask a girl out, or order one. But it 
is not so easy for a woman to reach out as readily and 
shamelessly for what she wantsto take his clothes off, take him to 
bed, take him from above, below, and if he won't take her from 
behind, take a whore to bed who will 

Instead, women dream about it. 


This fantasy really happened. What I mean is that it was told 
to me by the guy involved; it happened to him and another girl. 
But I've always loved the story so, and I like him so much, even 
though we've never made it together, that I fantasize that I am the 
girl, that he and I do make it in this very jolly way. Sometimes 
I'll be on the subway and find I have this foolish smile on my 
face as I think about this fantasy. I wish it would happen. Even if 
it never does it's helped me pass a lot of otherwise boring hours. 

I've agreed to help a bachelor friend paint his new apartment, 
and since it's a hot day we've both shed our clothes to do the job. 
He's up on a high ladder slapping paint on the ceiling with a 
broad brush, while I'm standing below painting the walls with a 
roller. It's a water paint, pale grey and at one point as we are 
laughing at some joke - we've been smoking a joint, and the 
record player is on loud - I glance up at him as he grins down at 
me, and from below his balls look so funny (and nice) even 
though he and I have never been to bed together and I don't really 


know him well enough to know how he'll take it - even so I 
reach up with my roller dripping grey paint and slather his 
bouncing balls, and on up to his collarbone. He lets out a yell, 
and risking his life he's down the ladder like a flash and lets go - 
slap! slap! - with his brush, on my tits, left then right, and I go 
spinning around and he whops me on the can, left then right, 
with his big, fat brush. So I run my roller up one of his sides from 
the ankle to the armpit, so he dabs me in the navel, and I double 
over laughing and he's on top of me, and we go down in a puddle 
of grey paint, writhing and wrestling and struggling and both of 
us suddenly aroused; hot as hell and panting and I'm saying "Put 
it in" and he's trying to get me in position so he can, and I get my 
legs up around his neck in a frenzy so he can find my cunt and 
it's all impossible with all the goddam paint, and suddenly I see 
his eyes widen with panic and I feel it the same second: the paint 
is burning us up, but it's only the first second we mind it, then it 
becomes the greatest sensation in the world and we both start 
sliding together and the slimy stuff on all our surfaces glues us 
together and we get it in, and we slide around fucking and 
fucking and FUCKING and 

FFFUUUCCCKKKIIINNNGGG. . . [aaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh] 
[Taped interview] 


Molly specified that this fantasy is not something she thinks 
about during sex, but that it's more of a daydream, a little episode 
she likes to think about while driving to pick up the kids, or 
while she's doing housework. As Molly puts it, "It keeps my 
sexual machinery charged." She has never been a teacher, nor 
does she want to be, but she does admit to finding the young men 
her kids bring home attractive. She was married at 18. 

"Maybe," she admits, "a little too early for an imaginative girl. 
Sometimes I think there is so much I've missed." 


The scene is a one-room schoolhouse, somewhere out West. 
The teacher is about my age, thirty-five, or even older. But she is 
a virgin, a frustrated old maid. She has kept one of the pupils 
after school, a strong, six-foot-tall boy who isn't too bright. She 
goes through a stern lecture with him about how he's not been 
paying attention during class, etc. She asks him two or three 
tough questions, and when he can't answer says she's going to 
have to punish him. She tells him to take down his pants; he's 
embarrassed but she insists. She sits down on a chair and makes 
him lie down over her lap, face down, with his pants pulled down 
around his knees, and she starts spanking him. He gets an 
erection and she spanks harder, but at the same time more 
caressingly. Then she starts fingering his penis with her other 
hand and she keeps spanking. He gets a bigger and harder 
erection. She asks him if he's ever fucked a girl and he says no 
and she moves around on the chair to get her skirt up; she has no 
pants on. She also moves him about until she can maneuver his 
penis into her cunt, and at this point she goes back to the 
lecturing tone she'd had earlier, and tells him all about how he's 
going to have to improve his work; etc., while she's still 
spanking him, but the spanking is more of a pushing him into 
her. She's also moving her pelvis back and forth rhythmically, 
very actively, so she's controlling the whole thing for her own 
mounting pleasure but also giving him a fantastic time. 

He starts shouting, "Oh, teacher!" over and over as his climax 
begins, and she keeps trying to lecture him but the words fuck 
and cunt keep popping up in the middle of her lecture. They both 
work up to a noisy climax, by which time they've slid off the 
chair onto the floor. Afterward, she primly buttons her clothes 
and very mock-disapproving tells him he's going to have to stay 
after school again the next day unless he can bring his school 
work up to scratch, and he agrees that he certainly has been lazy, 
etc., and he just doesn't seem to be able to do the work. [Letter] 



Alicia has never really left school. She is thirty-four, an 
associate professor at a Midwestern university, and is to go to 
Africa to complete one of her many papers on anthropology. 
When you meet her, it's hard to believe she is so professional and 
self-sufficient, as she looks as vulnerable and appealing as 
Mississippi honeysuckle. But behind those violet eyes, there is a 
mind like a precision tool. She has a penchant for difficult men, 
types who beat her up either physically or mentally. I've never 
known her to be attracted to a "nice guy," and I get the feeling 
that there's something in her that would turn even a nice guy into 
a bastard. I do know one of her former lovers, and he's as much 
as said she invites or incites a put-down reaction from her men, 
that there is something in her that brings out the worst in a guy: 
"Maybe it's just that you always know with Alicia that she isn't 
sexually satisfied. No matter how often you tell yourself it's her 
and not you yourself that's sexually unsatisfied or unsatisfying - 
that there must be something wrong with her because you know, 
always, that you've not really moved that dame - still, a guy 
can't help feeling inadequate with her in bed. She just isn't all 

I don't fantasize during sex. My fantasies fall more into 
occasional daydreams. I like to imagine that I am a unique 
creature of the future. Ethereally beautiful, of course, but this 
isn't central to the idea. What is important is that I am the 
triumph of some incredibly advanced geneticist's work aimed at 
breeding a strain of people equipped for the ultimate in exquisite 
sensual pleasures - with nerve endings and sensory circuitry so 
highly pitched that they can experience ecstasies unimaginable 
for normal, limited human beings. 

For me, for those like me (and are there others like me? The 
excitement of this is that I don't know; I'm living my intense life 
in the midst of people who appear to be enjoying the same crude 


little pleasures as their ancestors and no more). . .for me, the touch 
of a tip of a feather on my knee can produce - if my mood is 
erotic - a sensation so intense that it would be like twenty 
orgasms at once for another woman. I experience this all right, 
but it is invisible, secret, known only to me. It's not simply a 
hypersensitivity over all my surfaces - no, I can be impervious, I 
can make my way through a jostling crowd with only the usual 
discomfort at the unwelcome human contact. I'm inexhaustibly 
tuned up exclusively for sensuality, for carnality, for all the 
feeling and desires of the sexual animal. My sexuality, while 
animal, is capable of such subtlety that a glance, received a 
certain way from a man I fancy even mildly, can bring on wave 
after wave of the sort of piercing sensation that would cause 
gasps and moans and even screams from another woman. All I 
may show is a small; smile in his direction, but what I am 
enjoying inside -just in a split second - is like the sum total of 
anyone else's lifetime of erotic experience. 

The climax of this fantasy, of course, will be when I meet up 
with a man whose senses are as fantastically heightened and 
refined as mine, but I haven't gotten to that point yet. There's too 
much going on here, and I'm only getting started. He'll come 
along a few chapters from now, and then I'll really get going. 
[Taped interview] 


Joe and I have been living together for three years now, but 
we've been making it for eight years. I think we've got a pretty 
imaginative sex life together, and I enjoy discussing my fantasies 
with him. Unless I were to tell him that I'd been thinking of 
another manduring a particularly passionate session, I don't think 
he would ever be jealous of my fantasies. 

But I can truthfully say that I've never had fantasies of another 
man while Joe was making love to me. I think most of my 


fantasies are of the daydream type. I have had several recurring 

1. 1 never had an affair with my ex-boss, but he was extremely 
attractive and had a moustache. At times I'd find myself staring 
at him and wondering what it would be like it he were to fondle 
and kiss my breasts with his moustache rubbing across my 
nipples. I imagined it would be a very erotic sensation to have 
him suck my nipples and feel his moustache next to my skin. 

2. I find myself staring at well-dressed black men on the 
subway. I begin by looking at their hair, then their faces, then I 
let my eye slowly, casually move down their bodies. I try to judge 
from the bulge just how large their penises are and with a little 
imagination I see them undressed and feel them inside me. I 
judge them as lovers individually. Occasionally I will do this 
with white men, but generally they are black. Joe is black, but I 
don't think this is why I do this. 

3. Sometimes on my way to work I think about the way Joe 
made love to me the night before and I get quite aroused. I can 
feel my clitoris get hard and it starts throbbing. It is always a 
sudden jolt back to reality when I suddenly see the crowd of 
people squeezing out of the station. 

I enjoyed answering your request. Yours is a great idea. 


Even when going about my household chores I sometimes 
think of how it feels to have a man run his hands all over my 
body. I often remind myself of the pleasure of having a firm penis 
sliding in and out of my mouth and try mentally to recreate any 
delicious experience. [Letter] 



I daydream a lot, which probably accounts for the fact that I 
enjoy sex so often. I do my housework in the tops of baby-doll 
pajamas, stay in a half-hot mood most of the time, what with 
touching myself, or rubbing against different objects. The nozzle 
of the vacuum cleaner hose, for instance, played lightly over the 
pubic area is terrific and will bring on an orgasm if desired. 
Sometimes I wear a dildo inserted while doing housework. I 
imagine it to be my boxer dog's prick. [Letter] 


I am a nurse and have been married ten years. During boring 
lectures at the hospital, I often fantasize going down on the 
lecturer. I try to imagine just how long he could go on talking all 
that mumbo-jumbo while I was kneeling there in front of him 
with his penis in my mouth. 

I also often find myself fantasizing about those patients who 
fill my particular fantasy type - usually strong, overwhelming, 
cavemen types with great staying power. It's funny: there they 
are, lying helpless in their little white beds or on the table, but 
when I'm looking at them and imagining, it's me who feels 
helpless and small, as they protect me and give me pleasure. 

This has nothing to do with not loving my husband. I do. 


Sometimes when I'm, say, peeling potatoes, I imagine that Bill 
will come up behind me, bend me over and enter me, right there 
at the kitchen sink. [Conversation] 



When I'm making love, I don't think of anything else but 
satisfying my lover. Would he be jealous if he knew I were 
thinking of someone else? Probably. Which is why I concentrate 
wholly on making love. 

I save my fantasizing for when I'm alone. I wait till evening, 
take a couple of drinks, and curl up in bed with a sexy book. 
Then when the drinks take hold I can imagine my hands are those 
of my lover. 

Other fantasies are just daydreams, which I have constantly. 
My favorite daydream is of me cooking or washing dishes, my 
lover comes in, puts his arms around me, and as we kiss and 
press against one another and our passion builds, I just reach 
behind me and turn off the stove, the dishes are forgotten, 
everything left wonderfully unfinished in this very interrupted 
state, as we go off to the bedroom to make love. [Interview] 


Not all idle minds drift to sexual fantasy, as not all sexual 
fantasy (and idle hands) leads to masturbation. In fact, it's the old 
chicken-and-the-egg routine. Fantasy and masturbation: which 
comes first? But one thing seems certain: that masturbation 
without fantasy is unlikely, unhappy, unreal. Masurbation 
doesn't just require fantasy, it demands it. Without fantasy, 
masturbation would be too lonely. I don't even want to think 
about it. 

In my researches I didn't find one woman who said she had 
never masturbated. You could say that this has something to do 
with the nature of my subject, that the kind of people who talked 
to me were bound to be more sexually candid. Perhaps my 
surprise at finding that all the women I talked to masturbated is 


more a comment on me than my contributors. Possibly. But you 
see, it wasn't that I didn't expect women to masturbate - to have 
tried it or stumbled upon it at some point in their lives - I simply 
didn't think my own experience was all that universal. It goes 
back again to how little women know about one another, how 
inclined we are to feel isolated, different, not like the other girls, 
because we don't know about other girls. 

We all know about men; they masturbate. Little boys and 
masturbation are a normal, even charming part of the women's 
magazine stories as to how little boys are. I suppose that's it; 
we've all read so much about it, about little boys discovering it, 
and being discovered. It's charming. 

But women? We're as hidden as our clitorises. By the time 
we've found them, hidden away up there, we're guilty at having 
located them. If it were meant to be found and enjoyed, wouldn't 
it be in the open, hanging down and swinging free like a cock? 
(No wonder little girls suffer penis envy.) 

That, I suppose, is why I was so surprised to find we all do it: 
I simply assumed without thinking that I was as alone in my 
discovery as I'd been alone while growing up, with my other 
female thoughts about my femaleness. Logically, I accepted my 
similarity to other women - why should I be different? - but 
emotionally I was as uncertain as to how I stood on the subject of 
masturbation as I was on whether I was oversexed. No one talked 
about girls masturbating, it was not a part of the prescribed myth 
of innocence, of growing up, of becoming a woman. Actually, I 
don't think there is a female version of that popular myth: neither 
Heidi, Nancy Drew, or the Little Women masturbated; there is no 
female equivalent to Studs Lonigan and Huck Finn. 

I'll tell you some things I've learned about women and 
masturbation. Despite their long training to reticence, once 
you've engaged their confidence, women talk about it easily. 
Once they realize they aren't the only ones, they admit to 
masturbation as readily as to sex, they accept it and, unlike men, 


seem to feel no less a woman for doing it. You could reduce this 
to a sign of our times, to the nature of my research or of the 
women who would talk to me. But it's more than that; it's the 
essence of what all this research boils down to: that women, once 
opened up and allied to other women, are indeed less ashamed, 
more adventurous, more accepting sexually than men. If books 
like mine help women to be more trusting with each other, to 
talk, to explore, we may find that the whole chapter on sex in our 
permissive age has not been written. Only half. 

Here is some incidental data on the subject of fantasy and 
masturbation that I found interesting: Most of the women I talked 
to remember their first sexual fantasies and their first 
masturbation to have occurred at about the same time, usually 
between seven and eleven (for reasons I don't understand, these 
two ages, seven and eleven, are the specific years most often 
mentioned). Also, when they do masturbate they don't fantasize 
about the same things that they do during sex. 

In fact, many fantasies during masturbation don't even 
concern active sex; sometimes just the fantasy of being nude on a 
beach is all the sexual imagery a woman wants or requires. One 
last thing: I think women's invention in the choice of their 
masturbatory tools is worth a mention - from the familiar finger, 
the dildo, the increasingly popular vibrators (although everyone 
mentions being put off by the noise of the batteries) to 
cucumbers, vacuum cleaner hoses, battery-operated Ronson 
toothbrushes, silver engraved hairbrush handles, exotic 
phallocrypts made by native houseboys, down to simple streams 
of water. Sometimes the tool is everything, appearing in both fact 
and fantasy in the same form - and sometimes the hairbrush 
becomes the desired lover's cock and the water from the bathtub 
faucet the pee from a very black man's cock. Shocking? Not 
when you think about it. 



Hope this letter will be of some help to you. To give you an 
idea of what I am like, and maybe help in working out why I 
think like this, I am twenty-nine years old, married six years, no 
children. We have sex an average of three to four times per week, 
but my husband does not know I am writing to you, as there are 
some points I think might make him wonder about me. 

First, I would like to say that I do masturbate. I use a vibrator, 
usually in the mornings and after I have a bath. I seem to get 
excited as I stroke my breasts and think of or look at some of the 
books we have. My breasts are not very big and when I see some 
of the girls with big full titties I really get excited. One of my 
favorite fantasies when I masturbate goes back to something that 
actually happened: 

Once I went to a sauna bath with a friend who I thought had 
lesbian tendencies. What happened can still bring me on. My 
nipples and clitoris get firm just thinking about it. We both 
stripped, put towels around us, and went inside. There was one 
other woman there. She lay down on her back, showing all. 
When she left, my pal undid her towel and stretched out on her 
back. It was the first time I had seen her in the nude and the way 
she was talking soon made me feel sexy. I took my towel off and 
she remarked how much darker and bushier my pubic hair was 
than hers. She was very fair, but her bust was a lot bigger than 
mine. She got up and came over to me and started massaging my 
legs. I let her carry on. Soon her hands were all over me. She 
asked me to go back to her flat for tea and said if I wanted she 
would finish me off. When we got there I was stripped by her and 
given a most satisfying thrill. She licked and sucked my breasts 
and went down between my legs and performed cunnilingus on 
me (better than my husband). I could feel her sucking my clitoris, 
and just to feel her breasts was enough to makeme come at least 


twice. I often thinkof this and then give my husband a good time. 


I think of Norma's name as being just right for her; to me it 
has an old-fashioned, prim ring. And so I was not surprised that 
Norma was reluctant to give an interview for this book. She 
thinks there is nothing wrong with it, however, and believes 
wholeheartedly that it can have a liberating purpose. She would 
even like her daughter ("if I'd had one") to read it. "I wouldn't 
want any girl to be brought up the way I was." 

Norma also told me that she hadn't slept with a man since her 
husband, who was more homosexual than not, left her over 
fifteen years ago, just after their son, Ted, was born. 

I'm very brave and aggressive in my fantasies. In fact, I take 
the lead. My fantasies are always about young men. You are 
probably thinking there is some element of incest there - some 
desire for Ted. But I don't think that's quite right. I think the 
reason that I imagine that the man is always fifteen or twenty 
years younger than I am is that it makes him less frightening to 
me. In fact, he's always someone who is a virgin, close to it. 
Somebody who doesn't really know what it - the bedroom, you 
understand - is all about. So it's up to me to teach him, and 
nothing he's going to do can surprise or worry me. He's just a 

I may as well tell you this: I always have my fantasies in the 
bathtub. Whenever I feel the urge, I just go in there and get in the 
bathtub. But I do it in a very special way. The way I was trained, 
brought up, I can never bring myself to touch myself there. Yes, 
there. Or to put anything inside myself. What I do is turn the 
water on to a nice warm temperature. Then I lie down flat on my 
back, with my bottom right up against the end of the tub where 
the faucet is, and I position myself with my legs open, feet up on 


the edge of the tub, directly under the running water. I usually 
have a towel under my head. The warm bubbling water plays 
over me; I can pace my fantasy by either just lying there and 
letting the warm pressure of the falling water find its source, or I 
can hold my lips apart so that the rushing water excites me 

Fantasies get worn out; somehow they finally lose their erotic 
charge. So you have to keep making up new ones. The one I 
recently made up is one of this beautiful young man and me. 
We're completely dressed, in fact, he's in black tie, and I'm 
wearing something long, black, and very dramatic. We're 
waiting for some people to arrive; the boy and I are strangers to 
each other, having only been invited to this house by mutual 
friends. Finally they phone to say they had to take a plane, and so 
will not arrive till midnight. They beg us not to go, however, but 
to pass the time as best we can until they arrive. 

I suggest to the young man that we play some cards. I tell him 
that while cards without risk is a boring game, I still do not like 
to play for money. So he laughs and asks what would I like to 
play for. I suggest we play poker, and that the 'winner can get the 
other person to do anything he or she wishes for five minutes 
after each winning hand. What I have in mind is a game of strip 
poker, you see, because I am a very good poker player and know 
that under the disguise of the game I can get him to do what I 
want, almost as a joke, without embarrassing myself. 

The young man agrees, and in ten or fifteen minutes he finds 
himself sitting dressed only in his stiff shirt, black tie, and shoes. 
The rest is naked Sometimes I imagine that he immediately 
develops an erection, other times I vary it a bit by having him so 
embarrassed he is unable to have one until I "carelessly" make 
some revealing gestures with my body. Or touch him. Then I 
suggest that we play for higher stakes. He asks what this means. 
I tell him we should play for more imaginative forfeits, and the 
penalty period should be increased from five to fifteen minutes or 


even a half hour. He becomes even more excited, and I see a 
gleam in his eye. He agrees. But of course I win again. 

"What do you want me to do?" he asks. I tell him to lie down 
on the bed, half undressed as he is, and then I proceed to tie his 
hands and feet to the bed. 

When I feel he really can't move, I go into my act. In my mind, 
I become the kind of sexy woman I've always wanted to be. 
While he's lying there, tied hand and foot, I go into the sexiest 
striptease you can imagine. This is the real part of the fantasy. All 
the rest has been a buildup. But when I get to this part, I can feel 
almost a flush of heat. My stomach muscles begin to cramp - but 
not with pain - with the feeling of approaching orgasm. I come 
and sit on him, but only for a second, so that before he can have 
an orgasm of his own I'm off him again, leaving him all the 
wilder, his face redder, his erection hard as a rock. I talk to him, 
asking him wouldn't he like to put it in me? Sometimes I pretend 
I'm angry with him, and say that I'd rather stick a candle up 
myself than him. Sometimes I imagine that I do, and I can see 
myself, naked, with a large red Christmas candle sticking half 
out of me, dancing around this beautiful young boy. I tell him 
that if he'll push the candle all the way in with his teeth, I may 
untie him and let him make love to me. Or I use that stiff erection 
like a ramrod, kneeling over him so that his own erection - it's 
now so hard he couldn't make it soft if he tried - pushes the 
candle all the way in for me. 

And all the time I'm having these thoughts, I can feel the 
lovely warm water touching me, stroking me, bringing my own 
rush of blood there. Then suddenly my muscles do cramp, and I 
have an orgasm right there in the nice clean bathtub. Then I just 
have a real bath and get into bed and have the most refreshing 
nap you can imagine. [Taped interview] 



Sometimes when I masturbate there is this lovely person, who 
is, of course, my lover, and he gathers together a bunch of darling 
gentlemen who want very much to fuck me... seems there are 
always these guys in my fantasies just dying to get at me. 
Anyway, they all have wonderful members with remarkable 
proportions and they tell him that they think I'm swell, and I'm 
really having a bit of a ball myself. But the funny thing is that my 
gentleman friend who has gone to the trouble of finding me all 
these screws gets a little angry because I start liking it a bit too 
much when one of the fellows in the crowd gets to propositioning 
me for doing other things (which aren't included in the package 
deal). I am tempted and my lover gets angry with both me and 
the other guy and gently tells us not to be so familiar. Does that 
sound crazy? I suppose so, but you asked for it. [Taped interview] 

Mary Beth 

On the rare occasions I masturbate, I use the engraved silver 
handle of a hairbrush, and think about my former lover, who used 
to let me fellatiate him. ..an act I love to do, but which my 
husband doesn't permit. I visualize my lover's prick getting hard 
in my mouth, the veins coming out on it, and then, just as I'm 
about to come, I love to look down and see my own juices caught 
between my husband's engraved initials .... [Letter] 


I imagine a variety of things when I masturbate. Sometimes 
it's that a man has come to the door selling something and I 
invite him in. While he stands there displaying his Fuller brushes 
or whatever, I begin to caress myself. He watches, obviously 
aroused, and finding it harder and harder to continue his sales 


spiel. Then I remove my clothes and begin to masturbate, all the 
while watching his efforts to control himself. He's in a real state, 
and of course I'm very cool in one sense, but I'm also getting 
very worked up. Sometimes at this point I'll invite him to 
penetrate me, much to his surprise and delight. He can barely get 
his trousers off, his erection is so enormous. And he breaks half 
of whatever it is he's selling - steps all over it - in his haste to 
get at me. While imagining this I will insert a carrot or some 
similar object into my anus while I stimulate my clitoris 
manually or with a vibrator to enhance the fantasy. 

Sometimes I change the plot: I make no attempt to entice or 
encourage the man. But once in the house, he is unable to 
withstand my quite formidable charms and he rapes me, right 
there in the living room - taking care not to cause any real pain or 
damage to me. I imagine him to be an extremely skillful lover, so 
that although I start out repulsed by him and trying to dissuade 
him, I end up begging him for more while he teases and entices 
me and demands that I do various things for him. ..many of 
which I've never done before, never been asked to do before, and 
often wish my husband would ask me to do. [Letter] 

Mary jane 

I almost never masturbate, now that I am married, but when I 
do, my fantasies involve only myself in most cases. I will list a 
few of the fantasies that I can remember. In one, I think of being 
alone on a beautiful white ocean beach. The sky is clear, the sun 
is shining, and warm breezes are softly blowing. I walk along the 
beach for awhile, and then I stop and take off all my clothes. 
When I am nude, I go for a leisurely swim in the ocean. When I 
come out of the water, I lie down on the soft, warm sand and feel 
the breezes blowing over me and the sun warming my body. In a 
variation of this fantasy, I think of doing similar things by a 
mountain waterfall. Most of my fantasies involve thoughts of my 


taking off all of my clothes, and often the setting is outdoors. A 
few times, I have begun masturbating while I was fully clothed 
and, as I was masturbating, I removed all of my clothes. [Letter] 


When I masturbate, I have a recurring "daydream" of a 
salesman approaching a lovely white cottage on a beach and 
finding the door partly open. He calls and, getting no answer, 
wanders through all the rooms looking for some Sign of 
occupancy. Finally he comes to a closed door and hears water 
running within. Opening the door he finds a woman showering 
and he proceeds to undress, climb into the shower, and make love 
to the woman. By this time I usually have my climax. [Letter] 


"I have never cheated on my husband, even though before 
our marriage I was rather promiscuous," says Alix. "Even on our 
wedding day, I wondered if I could be happy with one man. But I 

Alix is twenty-four, married four years, and mother of two. Her 
husband's frequent business journeys give her a lot of time for 
her fantasies. These fall into two principal categories, lesbian and 

Alix has told her husband of the latter, and as he has his own, 
they often share their masturbatory fantasies together. But Alix 
has never mentioned her lesbian fantasies to her husband, even 
though, as is characteristic with many men, he thinks of a lesbian 
episode as essentially a frivolous matter, of less serious import 
than male homosexuality; for instance, he has told her he 
wouldn't think it "cheating" if she had sex with another woman. 


Most of my lesbian fantasies occur during masturbation. The 
most common is one in which I am watching women 
masturbating themselves in demonstration for me. I visualize 
many different positions and techniques, all under spectacular 

For instance, I fantasize that I am held captive by native 
women who dance around me in a kind of pagan rite and then 
make me watch them masturbate. Then there is the fantasy where 
I am walking through the woods and come across a woman 
making love to herself. These fantasies of women masturbating 
really stir me up. Then, while I am actually masturbating myself, 
I fantasize that someone, like a neighbor or my husband, has 
walked in the room just as I am at the height and am climaxing 
over and over, but I can't stop - even though someone is 
watching - because it is so good. 

My preoccupation with masturbation extends to idle 
daydreaming, or imaginings when I see or meet someone 
attractive: I invariably wonder whether that woman or that man 
"eats" his or her partner, and whether he or she masturbates. I 
don't think of these things in connection with myself, but I 
simply wonder whether or not they do these things. 

My husband does not know of my fixation with masturbation 
and of my secret desire to have a woman make love to me. 
However, the fantasy we engage in together is very enjoyable and 
leads to wild times together. I love to hear him tell about 
masturbating himself that day (if he did that day, if not he tells 
the circumstances of another time, which excites me even though 
I've heard it before). 

My husband is a carpenter and he will tell me, for instance, 
that during his noon hour he went to a part of the building that 
was finished - all the other guys were nowhere around - shut 
himself in a closet, took out his penis and jerked off for ten to 
fifteen minutes, then shot his semen on the floor. All the details 
of these circumstances really excite me. Sometimes he 


masturbates in the bathroom during his coffee break. He says he 
gets to thinking about me giving him a blow job and he just has 
to masturbate. Sometimes he tells me about masturbating in the 
woods when he goes hunting. When I take the kids to see my 
mother - she lives 350 miles away - I am gone several days. He 
masturbates while I am away and tells me the details during our 
lovemaking when I get back. 

Then he says, "Honey, did you do it today?" and I tell him the 
circumstances under which I was masturbating and where I did 
it. He gets very excited. He always wants to know if I took my 
clothes off or if I just put my hand up my panties, whether I used 
an object in my vagina or if I used my two hands - one to 
stimulate my clitoris, and the other rapidly in and out. However, I 
do not tell him of my lesbian fantasies during masturbation. I tell 
him that I was thinking about us. 

All this time, while we are exchanging tales, we are engaging 
in serious foreplay. We also like to masturbate together and 
watch each other masturbate. 

My orgasms during masturbation are very different from those 
I have during intercourse. Eventually we do have intercourse, and 
by this time we are wild for each other. I must tell you that before 
we brought this aspect into our lovemaking, that we made love 
infrequently and all passion on my part was fake. For three years 
of our marriage '1 never experienced an orgasm unless I 

Then one night during foreplay, I said to him, "Do it like this," 
and tried to guide his fingers. 

Then he said, "You do it, baby," so I played with myself, but 
very inhibitedly because I didn't want him to know that I had 
done it very often before. He saw how excited I was getting, 
though, and said to me, "Fuck yourself, baby," and he played 
with his penis while I did it. 

That was the start of our new great sex life. It took several 
more sessions before we both made full confessions, but it turned 


out that he had been masturbating since our marriage and long 
before. I never tried it until we were married one year, and I had 
never done it as a teenager. The guilt I felt was awful until I 
started looking into the subject and learned that it is common and 
natural. I still, felt guilty, though, until we started doing it 

I really think I am more intrigued with masturbation, both 
sexes, than with lesbianism. The latter is just part of the former. 
What I mean is I've always been fascinated with men and would 
never want to live with a woman. I remember as a child of about 
seven, when I saw my father and some pals of his urinating 
behind a barn. Penis envy was my first fantasy, and how I wanted 
one. I used to think that if Daddy put his penis between my legs 
that I would grow one too. I think men, their penises, are 
fascinating; sometimes I think how much I'd love to "catch" my 
husband masturbating, to secretly see his actions and passion 
when he was completely alone and uninhibited. 

I find that with time, with talking about them, our fantasies 
and our love life get better and better. I wish we'd started talking 
earlier. [Taped interview] 


There is nothing consistent about women and fantasy, the 
reasons and circumstances for it. It varies from woman to 
woman. And with each individual woman, from night to night 
and lover to lover. Even with the same lover within the same hour 
a woman may or may not fantasize, depending on so many 
things, all the uncharted tides and moons of a woman's psyche. 
But lesbians are different. Their whole lives contain an element of 
fantasy - that they are both their own sex and another. It is my 
belief, therefore, that lesbians fantasize more often than other 


During sex a lesbian's fantasies have to be especially active to 
help make rational to herself her often wildly veering changes of 
identification between one sex and the other, as she switches 
from the male to the female role and back again. In Marion's 
fantasy, the first in the group that follows, she admits she has to 
fantasize when she's actively exciting her girl friend just so she 
can be excited too. And even though Marion is the butch lesbian, 
her favorite part of the fantasy is when Lilly grabs the Ronson 
dildo and becomes the man, and she, Marion becomes "just a 
simple cunt, being fucked by some motorcycle guy." 

Most women, I have found, have what they call their "lesbian 
fantasies" from time to time, that is, sexual fantasies that involve 
other women. They have these even though their real lives are 
totally or predominantly heterosexual. Some women accept these 
images as naturally as their own female anatomy - "of course 
women think about other women"; for others they raise a 
question, the possibility of their own latent bisexuality, while still 
others ponder guiltily over whether thinking about it means they 
really want it. Women's secret thoughts of other women; it's like 
a mystery within a mystery, and a topic I'd like to save till later. 
For now, these fantasies are from lesbians, women who accept 
and/or practice their preferred attraction to women. 


Marion was born on a farm in North Dakota, and her first 
name is really Marianne; she changed it to the more sexually 
ambiguous Marion when she came to an understanding of herself 
later in life. She has never liked men. 

Maybe it was my father's jokes that turned me off men so 
strong. My father wasn't really intelligent. Even as a kid, I knew 
he was hopeless. A big -boned, large - I don't know, unfinished - 
kind of man. I remember even today the phone calls that would 
make my mother cry. Other women phoning him. I remember 


thinking about one of these other chicks - Why does my father 
like her over my mother? This other one sounded so stupid. Once 
there was a terrible fight over a letter he got from one of them. 
But I remember more than anything else in, my childhood the 
phone calls, and my mother crying. I can even remember saying 
to myself as a kid that I never wanted to be like her. Like my 

You won't laugh? Fuck you if you do. What the hell do I care 
what you think. What I want is for a lot of cunts like you to 
understand how it is with people like me. Lesbians. The fuckin' 
word sounds so rotten. And I don't like to be called "gay." I'm no 
faggot. But why should the word sound so rotten? You like 
lettuce and I like apples. 

You like men and I like women. So what? What the hell is so 
criminal about that? 

Shit on the soapbox. I mean, on preaching. But it's a downer - 
always having to defend yourself. Okay, here's what goes 
through my head: 

Lilly and I, we like to use an electric toothbrush. The 
battery-operated kind, so you don't have to worry about the 
electric wires, or plugging it in. [Laugh] Except that's just what 
you do - plug it in. 

You ever go to a doctor or a dentist, and he's cut his finger, 
and he wears a little rubber cap on his finger? Like a little 
condom? Anyway, we use that - we use epoxy glue to glue the 
toothbrush itself onto the little metal head otherwise the 
vibration'll shake the brush off. Then I use the same glue to put 
the rubber cap on the brush, so that it covers the bristles. Some of 
our friends do this, too. It's like our own "in" joke. "What are you 
using tonight, Jack?" we say to each other, when somebody's 
picked up a new girl. "A Schick?" We trade brand names. I like a 
Ronson. It's got four, or maybe six batteries, I forget, but it really 


I have a kind of strap. It goes around my waist and up over my 
shoulders, crossing in the back and then down under my ass and 
coming back up to the belt again. I had a sandal-maker make it 
for me. So the Ronson is really anchored right down low and in 
place. I mean, it's rigid. [Laugh] 

Look, you talk to any guy, and the first thing he wants to 
know, Has he made the girl come? That's their mark of virility. 
That's what they're anxious about. But me and my Ronson, I can 
make any girl come, every time. It's simple biology. Men have 
this business, they don't even understand, to get deep inside. To 
plant the seed. That's biology. Okay, I'm butch, I'm also a 
woman. I understand the clit. I don't have that urge to go deep 
into a woman. Maybe I'm competitive with men. Or maybe I 
don't want to just give in to biology. But I don't care about going 
in deep. I know about myself and I never forget that the clit is 
where it's at. 

So I know what Lilly's getting out of it. But there I am all 
alone in my head, very excited, but still somehow ally, alone. I 
know Lilly is going to be okay, but I have to make up these 
images in my mind so that I can get excited, too. What turns me 
on is that I'm raping a motorcycle rider. One of these butch studs 
in the polished black leather, and the big machine. I'm moving in 
and out of Lilly, giving her a little bit of clit, a little bit of cunt, 
and then a lot more of clit. But meanwhile, I can see myself in my 
mind, I'm still wearing that Ronson, but it isn't Lilly anymore. 
It's this stud, and I've got him over his bike. He's got his ass to 
me. He's that big, butch faggot, get it? And I'm giving him the 
Ronson up the ass. And he loves it. He's shoving that ass up at 
me. He can't get enough. And in my mind, I reach down under, 
to tickle his clit. As if he were really Lilly, and I was deep inside, 
but I knew she wanted her clit tickled too. And - I can feel it 
right now - I'm suddenly surprised. He doesn't have a cock at 
all. He is a cunt. He does have a clit. I have him from the back, 
and I reach down under his hips and push my finger through the 


hair and he's got a cunt. A clit. And then he flops over on his 
back, and I can feel the Ronson really plugged into him, and my 
own clit is vibrating too. He's got his legs wide open and then he 
puts them up over my shoulders. He's all cunt and I know the 
vibration is going all through Lilly, but it's going all through me, 
too, and sometimes at this point, Lilly grabs the Ronson out of its 
holder and shoves it up me and I love it. 

She suddenly becomes the guy in the motorcycle leather, and 
I'm just a cunt, just a simple cunt, being fucked by some 
motorcycle guy, and I love it. I love it that Lilly is so excited that 
she's changed roles. Changed positions, so that suddenly I'm not 
the guy any more, but she is. Then I put my finger inside her 
cunt, and when I feel her stomach muscles begin to heave, that 
terrific contraction, spasm after spasm, I find myself almost 
screaming. I'm coming myself. [Taped interview] 


Jeanne was born in Belgium, but has lived most of her 
twenty-five years in the USA. She had her first lesbian experience 
with her cousin Renee, who was a year older, and with whom she 
was sharing a summer at their uncle's farm. 

Jeanne considers herself a lesbian still, "by choice, rather than 
the result of "unhappy home-life,' economic conditions, 
socioeconomic factors, etc...." At one time she felt ashamed of 
her desires, but now "a lover who really cares brought me to the 
realization that I'm not mentally ill simply because my sexual 
preference is for another woman." Jeanne has been living with 
this lover, Paula, for the past two years. 

The incident that became imbedded in Jeanne's mind, and 
forms the seed from which her very elaborate fantasy grew, took 
place in the hayloft of her uncle's farm, where she and her cousin 
Renee were lying in each other's arms. The two girls were 
interrupted in their love play by the sight of Anjou, the cousin's 


young dog, mounting a bitch on the floor below. Both girls were 
intrigued by Anjou's "bevel-pointed maleness" entering into the 
bitch, and took turns describing to each other what an experience 
with Anjou might be like. Today, those descriptions have become 
ritualized into sexual fantasy, extremely detailed and lovingly 
elaborated. As with any work of art, it is this exactness of detail 
which makes the emotion of the fantasizer so real to the reader. 

Knowing that we will not be discovered, my cousin calls 
Anjou into the barn after he has finished with a bitch he has been 
mating with. Anjou's animal maleness has not receded into the 
sheath beneath his warm belly, and as Renee puts her arms 
around him she whispers to me, "Help get him on my back; I 
want to try, too." I am out of my mind with passion and emotion, 
and after closing the door, I quickly return to the rear of the barn 
where Renee is already pulling hay down and making another 
"nest." I'm fascinated with Anjou's animal maleness; the 
enormous length of the glistening red, arrow-pointed organ is still 
exposed, and as Renee kneels on her hands and knees, saying, 
"Help me, put him up on my back," she lifts her dress up over her 
beautiful young hips and back, exposing her white rounded 
buttocks, spreading her legs apart, the moist flesh of her outer 
lips now totally exposed. I try several times to lift Anjou, but he 
growls, and then Renee reaches around and puts her hand around 
his organ, saying, "Jeanne, put your hand on my puss and then 
put it on his muzzle." All the while she is sliding her hand back 
and forth on the now vanishing organ of Anjou's maleness. As 
soon as Anjou licks my hand, his head moves at once to Renee' s 
exposed bottom, and I become more excited as I see his long 
tongue flash out and he begins lapping Renee' s exposed vagina. 

Renee begins to moan softly, her voice comes to me from 
somewhere. Anjou is already mounted on her back, shifting from 
one leg to another as he tries unsuccessfully to introduce his 
bevel-tipped glistening organ into her youthful virgin vagina. 


"Help him, put it in for him, hurry, Jeanne," and I put my hand 
around the vibrating, hot, glistening red maleness, and holding it 
gently I move it back and forth between the wet, fleshy, parted 
lips of her vaginal canal, until I direct it into the exposed mouth 
of her vagina. 

I sit fascinated, rooted to the spot, as Anjou's red, arrow-like 
organ slips from its short hairy sheath and disappears into my 
cousin's exposed cunnie. She gasps and soon moans as Anjou 
begins to pump, my cousin backing her exposed bottom to meet 
his animal thrusts. Renee cries and moans with pleasure, and 
finally she begins to rotate her hips as I watch Anjou's long 
animal maleness move in and out of her exposed cunnie. The 
fleshy lips cling to his animal organ as he withdraws it and then 
with his forward thrusts it disappears into my cousin's belly. I 
can't stand it any more, and I get on my knees and crawl around 
my cousin, finally squatting in front of her so that she can apply 
her mouth to my fiery vagina even While Anjou's maleness is 
still pumping inside her. 

Even today, I close my eyes and wish for all the world that 
Paula had an enormous, bevel-pointed organ stirring within me. 
As yet, I haven't confided to Paula that I fantasize that her 
elongated clitoris is Anjou's animal maleness, since I feel she 
might be disturbed, thinking I would prefer an animal to herself, 
which is quite absurd. And yet the association persists, - and I 
like it. [Letter] 


Although I am married, most of my fantasies are about 
lesbians, and I continue to have occasional lesbian experiences. 
When my lesbian friend is making love to me, masturbating me, 
I climax to the thought of her having intercourse with me using a 


I suppose I began having fantasies about the age of sixteen. 
Then, my fantasies were of going to bed with a man, having 
intercourse, but not having a climax. Now, when I am with my 
husband, my fantasies are often of animals. I imagine that he and 
I are lying on the bed, when a dog comes into the room and 
begins to lick me. I then masturbate the dog, get onto my knees, 
and the dog mounts me. I like to imagine that the dog ejaculates 
into me. I imagine that my husband mounts the dog as it mounts 

My other fantasy is of a donkey. I imagine that my husband 
has sold me to an Arab, and that I am in the desert. My slave 
master brings his friend to watch me, their new entertainment. I 
am told I must entertain the animal, the donkey. I follow this 
through from beginning to end: the animal is led in and I 
masturbate and suck it. When the donkey is excited, it mounts 
me from behind. I like to take all of its tool and it ejaculates into 

But my fantasies with my lesbian friend are the most exciting; 
it is then that the man's tool, her dildo, becomes real and totally 
satisfies me. [Letter] 


My name is Zizi. I am French and militant in the "Mouvement 
de Liberation de la Femme" [Women's Lib]. As far as my 
establishment in time is concerned, I'm twenty-three years old. 

I think that female sexuality is too hidden by taboos and 
inhibitions, that is why I don't hesitate to express some of my 
so-called fantasies. (In spite of my poor English, your curiosity of 
searching in that area excites me, I must admit.) 

My first sexual experiences were the reflection of my 
submission to the patriarchal ideology, so I will not speak about 
that. My last relations with guys were more in connection with 
my subjectivity. What was significant for me was the overcoming 


of the stereotype "occidental basic position." I find my pleasure 
by climbing on top of the guy. I stick his penis in my cunt and I 
ride him like a horse. Then I squeeze my thighs (his penis is still 
inside me). His legs are spread - I have the feeling that I am a 
boy making a passive girl, the feeling that I have literally a 
phallus that is penetrating a cunt. That is a kind of revenge that I 
take after years of docileness. When I reach the orgasm, I feel my 
penis which ejaculates. 

Through my love affairs with guys, I become to be conscious 
of my strong desires for other girls. Before I had re= ally had sex 
with a girl (in Paris) I used to play some underneath 
"perversions." I'll summarize one: I lived in a fiat in town; on the 
other side of the courtyard I noticed a middle-aged woman 
(housewife type) who was often leaning out of her window. One 
day, for some reason (!), I had the idea to walk nude in my room 
with the blind half down. She could not see my face. So she had 
the feeling' that. I could not see hers (no guilt). In fact, I was 
looking', at her thanks to a subterfuge of mirror. I pretended to 
wash myself. She was extremely into her peeping trip. I began, to 
masturbate my clitoris with my finger while I was half cleaning 
myself. The more her attention seems to increase, the more I was 
caressing myself till I came. 

Some months after that I had a love affair with a girl. We like 
the sixty-nine position, but we sometimes did unusual things 
(sort of in connection with my former fantasies). We decided to 
look at one another masturbating. We both sat in an armchair (we 
were half-dressed in order to make it more obscene). We looked 
at the movements of our fingers rubbing our clitorises - terribly 
exciting. We did not touch one another at all. The pleasure of one 
worked on the other and vice versa. 

I could write more, but the fact that I don't know you really 
limits my pleasure in writing. Although it is a kind of trip to send 
some intimate sensations to an unknown girl (that I could 
eventually seduce? Who knows.). 


Je m'aventure a te donner un baiser, ma douce inconnue. 


I have a permanent girl friend with whom I still sleep on 
occasion. I got married with her agreement and on the 
understanding that I give her detailed accounts of all that 
transpired when my husband did anything. Which I do in very 
complete detail. 

Both Mary and I were virgins, as we only used our fingers 
vaginally with a homemade dildo which had a tube through it 
and a bulb on one end so that we could squeeze hand cream or 
something similar when used up our bums... which we both 
found very exciting. Apart from watching men masturbate and 
teasing them, neither of us was really interested in men, and I 
was still a virgin on my honeymoon, which Mary proved with her 
finger on the wedding eve. I was wondering what would happen 
on the first night, as I had agreed with Mary that I would stay a 
virgin but didn't think it would be possible. In our bedroom on 
that first night I waited until Fred went to the bathroom, then I 
quickly got into my nightie and into bed. 

(We had twin beds and still always have.) He came back and 
undressed and walked to my bedside naked (I hadn't seen him 
naked before nor felt his prick outside his trousers), and I judged 
his prick to be about 5 inches long and it was slightly bent. He 
pulled the bedclothes off of me and held his prick and started 
rubbing it as he pulled my nightie off my shoulders, exposing my 
tits, which are well developed and firm with prominent teats 
when roused. By now he was stiff - about 6 inches long and he 
just looked at me. 

Then he said, "I'm going to christen you," and he knelt over 
my shoulders. 


He kept on rubbing, with his balls swinging and touching my 
nipples, and suddenly he started rubbing faster and breathing ard 
and his spunk went all over my face and mouth. He' got off, put 
the light out, and got in his bed. 

After that night he always tossed off like that, either on my 
face or my tits or cunt, and left me to satisfy myself. Often at 
night when he thought I was asleep I watched him rub off, 
hearing those little squeezing noises as he rubbed his wet prick 
dry on my nightie. It was then I acted my fantasy as I lay in bed. I 
pulled my nipples and fingered my cunt with my legs wide open, 
imagining a big dog was coming at me and watching him lick his 
prick and then my cunt until I was somehow compelled to open 
my legs wide, raised up, as he fucked me hard, stimulated by 
suitable action with my finger. 

I was able to produce a wonderful thrill as I imagined the dog, 
who was always with a man who carried a whip in case I 

I actually bought a long, low stool, such as I imagined lying on 
in my dreams, and in the days when I was alone would strip 
naked and lie on this with a dog whip by me, legs wide apart, 
dreaming my fantasy as often as I wanted. I was able to place the 
stool in such a position that the man in the house opposite would 
- and often did - watch me from his bedroom window while I 
would watch him in a carefully placed mirror. 

One day Mary came in and caught me and made me confess 
everything, and later on helped me make my fantasy a fact. We 
had several times watched dogs and found it very exciting when 
they couldn't pull out of the bitch for a few minutes afterward. A 
new neighbor moved in and his wife had a lovely Alsatian dog, 
and one day when I was with Mary he came into our garden. 
Mary called him in and right away he put his nose to my cunt. 
She made me fondle him and get his prick out, and I was quite 
surprised how big and hard it was. She made me wash it and 
then lie down and actually suck it, giving me a flick with the 


whip to help. Finally, she made me lie on the stool with my legs 
open, and rubbed my now very wet cunt with her fingers and 
rubbed her hand over my nipples. She coaxed the dog astride me 
and got him to lick my nipples and she rubbed his cock and got it 
into my cunt. He knew what was required and obviously was 
experienced. It went right up me and he thrust hard and fast until 
I felt my cunt go wet as he squirted inside me. 

This was the culmination of my fantasy, though I still dream it 
very often. It's lovely to be able to tell you - with Mary's consent, 
as you can see. 

I confirm this. (Signed) Mary. [Letter] 




You already know, or can easily imagine, many of the most 
popular themes and devices of sexual fantasy, leitmotifs as 
familiar and beloved to the medium as the toad prince and the 
moustached villain are to fairy tales and vaudeville (nor is the 
comparison accidentally chosen). And although a woman will 
cast and style her sexual imagery as individually as she would a 
dinner party, she will probably - as I have found after collecting 
over four hundred fantasies - select as her own one of the 
archetypal dozen or so constantly recurring "stock" situations to 
build upon; she then embellishes her chosen situation with the 
subjective detail which makes it most alive to her, just as a 
woman will use accessories to dress a basic dress up, or down, to 
suit her desires of the moment. 

Many artists have painted the female nude, but each picture 
speaks to different audiences and different emotions, and in 
different ways. The theme is classic, or, if you like, "stock"; the 
details are subjective, personal, and make "the difference. 

Therefore, if I say there are sixteen principal themes (more or 
less) which run through all sexual fantasy, I don't mean this as 
simplistic reduction. Knowing this does not mean one knows 
"all" there is about fantasy, nor are these sixteen themes what 


fantasy is "only" about. This is how I have structured the 
material, letting the recognizable, the familiar, act as a frame for 
the unique, startling, and exotic; it gives understandable content, 
and hence meaning, to the most fascinating stuff of fantasy: the 
emotion-packed detail. 

Take, for instance, a standard fantasy situation: the masked 
rape scene. What could be more predictable? What is new, 
though, and what is different each time is the way each woman 
will "dress" that scene - the setting, the lighting, the nuances of 
action and dialogue. It's almost as though she chose the obvious 
cardboard fixtures as a kind of diversion or cover-up for the 
incredible amount of sexual detail she is giving away about 
herself in the actual fantasy. For instance, who do those masks 
cover? Her stepfather? A priest? Her sister? Nine black men? 

Perhaps this is why so many women don't remember more 
than the vague bones of their fantasies, why they keep their 
descriptions one level of abstraction removed from the 
all-revealing detail. To recollect more, not just to me but even to 
herself, would be too highly charged, too naked, too close to 
acknowledging the extent and complexities of her sexual appetite 
- an appetite women aren't supposed to have (or there would be a 
less pejorative name for it than nymphomania). Nine times out of 
ten, therefore, when a woman tells her fantasy, it begins and ends 
with something like, "I have these strange thoughts of being 
humiliated"; that's all, or that's all she chooses to remember. (As 
with recalling dreams in psychoanalysis, however, having 
acknowledged this much, she will probably remember more the 
next time if encouraged.) 

And so for every rich, highly stylized, and imaginatively 
plotted fantasy I've heard or read, there have been a dozen 
concise repeats of the obvious favorites, the Big Sixteen. (For a 
psychoanalyst's interpretation of these themes, read the afterword 
by Dr. Martin Shepard.) They are the old tried-and-true darlings 
that never really do grow old, or wear out; and no male house of 


prostitution should fail to take account of them, giving each 
female client at least a starting chance of getting what she's paid 
for. As Genet's characters in his play The Balcony come to the 
female bordello to live out their sexual dreams, so should women 
in a true House of Fantasy be encouraged to do the same by an 
understanding and sympathetic management. 

In time, I think, women would go far beyond the obvious, 
building new wings beyond the Domination Room, finding new 
roles for the staff to play in addition to the Big Black Bully. But 
for now, let no House of Fantasy call itself complete unless it has 
rooms with the following signs above their doors. 


Anonymity is fantasy's best friend. It heightens romance 
and adds drama; it increases pleasure and eliminates guilt, 
fantasy's enemy. Whether the concealing device be simply 
night's darkness or a sudden power failure in the fantasy 
restaurant; whether the mask be an unfriendly rapist's 
handkerchief or the familiar hygienic face mask worn by the 
doctor; whether the man fucks her from behind so that she cannot 
see him, or is a visible total stranger. ..no matter how it's 
achieved, a woman will try for anonymity, even in passing, for its 
known sure-fire power of release and lift. 

With it she is Madame X, sexually free at last to do and be 
done to; with no relationship beyond the purely physical one of 
the moment, she is free for a one-night stand, free to play Sailors 
Ashore, with all inhibitions thousands of miles away. The not 
knowing - her not knowing who he is, and his not knowing who 


she is - reduces them both to sex objects, reduces the relationship 
to a purely physical one with no previous or promised 
commitments. While there are none of the more tender emotions, 
they are not what is wanted for the moment. 

Anonymity frees a woman to take what she's always wanted 
sexually, taking it the way she's always wanted it, with no one to 
face; no known face, either, to account to afterward. As long as 
no one will ever know, since the strangers by the law of fantasy 
will never meet again, and while this is the first time with all its 
sexual excitement, it is also the last, with all the urgency that 
comes before farewell. . .why not try anything? 


Linda is an old friend of mine, and in my mind she's always 
just come back from Paris. She is a syndicated fashion illustrator. 
When you see drawings in your local newspaper of the latest 
European collections, chances may well be that Linda did them. 

She has been married twice and now lives in New York with a 
man who is not her second husband. He has a certain amount of 
money, and Linda herself makes a good salary. They live very 
well and quarrel constantly, not always quietly. I sometimes 
think their relationship is spiced by - if not based on - a certain 
amount of antagonism, like so many couples whose highest 
sexual moments follow their bitterest quarrels. 

Linda is about thirty, small featured, blond - pretty in a kind of 
old-fashioned movie star way (which by the time you .read this 
will probably no longer be old fashioned). I'm not surprised by 
her fantasy of "the hair store" (as she's always called a beauty 
salon). She was talking freely and imaginatively about sex before 
it was fashionable to do so. 

Gerald doesn't know this one. I can't wait until he reads it. . .1 
suppose that's why I'm telling you. He thinks he's such a stud 
that there isn't anything he hasn't done, or wouldn't do. But this 


fantasy. . . well, he doesn't even enter into it, does he? But I don't 
want to be unfair to the guy. He really is fantastic in bed. And 
what kind of a man - except some nut, and even I don't want that 
- could give me this kind of thing? But that's what fantasies are 
for, right? For what you don't get in life? 

I'm at this hair store, a very posh number like Lizzy Arden's 
or one of the Revlon emporiums. Some fag with a very vulgar 
idea of elegance has decorated it with chandeliers and fountains, 
gold basins and shocking pink Barca-lounger reclining chairs 
where you half lie while your hair's drying and you're having a 
manicure or a facial. All these chairs are in a long row, with a 
discreet distance between each, where green potted things grow, 
giving all us ladies the feeling of privacy. 

I've just had a facial, so I've got this mask on, and there are 
cool cotton pads on my eyes. I can't see a thing. Not that I could 
see what's going on anyway, because there's a white silk curtain 
that falls from the ceiling down to my waist, then on down to the 
floor. No one can see me from the waist down. Neither can I. I 
can't see what's on the other side of the curtain. But I know. 
Over there, on the other side, is a young man - actually, lots of 
them, a row of young, big, strapping types, half nude. They're 
wearing a kind of loin cloth, and their bodies glisten with sweat 
as they go about their business. Their business is us ladies. They 
are there to service us. But as posh as our set-up is on our side of 
the curtain - with the chandeliers and fountains and privacy - 
these guys are over there on their side of the curtain working like 
galley slaves, one alongside the other, no nice lights, no pretty 
music, just the crack-crack of the whip as the guy in charge 
strides up and down making sure none of them misses a stroke - 
so to speak. 

My particular guy is dark, good-looking in a hard, impersonal 
sort of way. After all, he can't see me either; to him I'm just 
another cunt. For all I know, he could be a fag... which doesn't 
lessen or heighten the enjoyment for me. But the important thing 


is that this is his job, his employment. He is a service this swell 
salon offers, like a masseur. He crouches there between my legs, 
and with the greatest expertise in the world, he goes down on me. 
That first moment is wildly exciting: I'm lying there, my legs in a 
big V, waiting for him, and I can't see him approach, I don't 
know he's near, until his tongue, the tip of it, suddenly flicks me 
with the most excruciating Zing ! 

So there he is, working away on me wonderfully, and me lying 
over there on the other side of the curtain, my expression of bliss 
concealed by my mask, the fountains and the Muzak playing 
away. His head moves from side to side as he expertly, but 
mechanically, builds and teases me, builds and teases... but 
mostly builds. Now, generally, he gets nothing out of this himself 
- except his pay. His little cock just dangles there, small as a 
thumb between his legs as he squats and nibbles away 
perfunctorily. But suddenly, with me, it's different. I'm special. 
The life he's aroused in my cunt communicates to him, this 
incredible sexuality I have... maybe it's the pulse in my cunt that 
he can feel beating. Haven't you ever felt the pulse there? With 
me it's like drums when it starts. . . when I start. 

But back to my mise en scene. Suddenly the mean old 
whipmaster realizes that my guy has slowed down on the job. By 
that, I mean that he's giving it too much valuable time, that he's 
really into what he's doing, giving the client more than is 
required. He gives my guy a smart flick of the whip, but my boy 
doesn't even turn around. He's groaning and pressed into my 
cunt as though there's no tomorrow, and his cock is enormous 
now, his hand stroking it, bringing himself to climax as he brings 
me closer. The whipmaster gives him a terrible blow, but the guy 
is lost to everything but me. ..we're getting closer and closer, 
together now, and I suddenly start praying that the ogre 
whipmaster won't drag him away just as we're about to reach the 
most glorious climax of our lives. The whipmaster grabs him by 
the shoulder - my heart almost sinks - he can't understand it. 


He's never seen one of these gorgeous flunkies behaving like 
this, getting turned on by a client, by a client's cunt! Then, just at 
the crucial point, the whipmaster, dumbfounded, loses his 
professional cool, our excitement communicates to him. Like 
when the cynical stage manager hears little Judy Garland 
audition "Over the Rainbow" and realizes a star is born. 

"I've never seen this happen before!" the whip guy yells. "Why 
this man is so delirious with pleasure he refuses to be paid!" (I 
don't know how he's managed to communicate this, with his 
mouth full.) 

But that does it: The whipmaster is so whipped up himself, he 
takes out his cock and works feverishly to our pitch, so that when 
we come, he comes... and oh boy, it's quite a day in the old hair 
store! [Taped interview] 


I am on an absolutely deserted beach, lying on my back, sound 
asleep. I am wearing only a bikini, the bottom part fastened on 
each side with only a tiny bow, and the top fastened in front only 
with a bow, too, between my enormous breasts, which are 
already almost overwhelming the little bit of cloth that is the bra. 
I breathe deeply and evenly, shifting positions lightly as I sleep. 
A man's shadow falls across me; he stands looking down at me 
as I sleep. He's very tanned and wears only swimming trunks. He 
watches, and as he watches me sleeping he gets excited. He 
kneels beside me, very softly and gently so as not to awaken me, 
and very carefully unties the bow at one of my hips, then reaches 
over me to untie the other side. He lays the bikini back, exposing 
me to his gaze. 

For a moment he just sits there, taking me all in. I murmur in 
my sleep and shift position slightly, separating my thighs 
somewhat, which angles my slit upwards. His erection grows 
enormous; he slips out of his shorts and then kneels over me with 


one knee on each side of my thighs. Although I don't even open 
my eyes, I glide one hand out to his penis and caress it gently, 
and then glide it, to his surprise, right into my cunt. He then 
fucks the bejesus out of me and I rock along with him. But I 
never open my eyes, just murmur as if I were sleeping and 
enjoying a good dream. [Taped interview] 


Marie has the scrubbed good looks of the other young 
women who live in the suburban area where she and her husband 
moved following the birth of their second child. She told me that 
she was a virgin when she and Phil married, that she's been 
tempted once or twice to continue one of the idle flirtations that 
started up at the country club or at some neighbor's party, but 
that she was always scared off by the consequences. 

I don't think I could look Phil in the eye if I ever really went to 
bed with another man. I'd really like to be able to do it, because 
I've had so little sex, and I feel so out of things, so 
inexperienced. ..so dull. But I just haven't got the nerve. I really 
envy girls a few years younger than me who've been able to cash 
in on all this sexual freedom. I even feel guilty about having this 
fantasy, but I can't keep it from popping into my mind every time 
we do have sex now. It makes it so much more exciting, and I try 
to tell myself I deserve it. . .just the fantasy, if not the reality. Who 
knows? If it ever happened in reality, as it does in m y mind, I 
just might go through with it. I even find myself thinking about it 
if I'm standing around at someone's party outdoors. I stand there 
holding my gin and tonic, wishing he knew what was on my 
mind, the man I'm talking to. 

In my imagination I picture this garden party, very much like 
one of the evenings that go on around here two and three times a 
week during the summer. I practically landscape the setting in 
my mind: the sloping lawns, the big trees, the rows of hedges, all 


very nicely kept up. I can even hear the gardeners delicately 
snipping away at the shrubs somewhere off in the night. . . not 
that gardeners work at night, except in my fantasy. It is night, 
because all the men are in black tie. I'm in a short dress, the only 
really short dress I ever bought (my concession to the mini craze). 
More important, I'm not wearing any stockings. 

Not even panty hose, which is not at all like me. My dress is a 
very pretty blue - like the real one was - and all the waiters are in 
short red jackets. Is it normal to fantasize in color? Well, I do. 

I've wandered off to a rather distant corner of the garden on 
my own. That's typical, as I love flowers and always investigate 
every new garden I see. Suddenly I meet a man, another guest, 
and we begin to discuss flowers and things. I don't know him. 
I've never seen him before. He's probably someone's husband; 
most of the men at these parties generally are. In fact, I know in 
my fantasy that he belongs to someone else. . .which both makes 
it easier and more exciting. 

He bends down to pick a flower for me. But he doesn't get up; 
I mean, he doesn't stand up. He comes up under my dress. I 
stand there, not protesting, just holding my drink and smiling 
vaguely at the other distant guests, who can only see me from the 
waist up because I'm standing behind this rather high hedge. I 
think it's a boxwood, or a yew. Anyway, it's very thick and 
sturdy, which is meaningful because it almost supports me as I 
lean against it in the excitement that follows. You see, this man 
has discovered that I'm not' wearing any underwear, which so 
surprises him (no woman where we live would think of going 
without something) that he doesn't waste any time: He presses 
his mouth right up against me, sticks his tongue right up into me. 
I practically fall into the hedge, I get so weak in the knees. There 
might have been a minute there, when he first came up under my 
dress, when I would have stepped away, but his mouth is too 
much and now I pray for him to go on. 


I look down around this point and see that he's unzipped his 
fly, and that he's playing with himself and has an erection the 
size of which I've never seen. I keep staring at his penis, which 
grows as my own excitement grows. His mouth is like nothing 
I've ever felt before, it's like magic, it's tender and demanding, 
and his own hand on his cock, the veins are as strained as the 
veins in his penis. My legs become so weak, it's almost as if I'm 
poised there on his mouth, that it's holding me up, and I feel if I 
take my eyes off his hand, his penis, that I'll faint. Suddenly, as 
I'm just about to climax, but not quite -just as I know I'm going 
to, though - these little bubbles begin to appear at the tip of his 
penis, bubbles, faster and faster, one after the other, and I begin 
to worry he'll finish before I do and .that he will stop. 

And then, on top of everything, the other people begin calling 
to us, I can even hear Phil's voice calling to me to come in to 
dinner. I don't know what would be worse at this point. . .if they 
were to find us or if he were to stop before I'd finished. For an 
instant I hang there in space, totally dependent on this unknown 
man; I couldn't move if Phil were to walk straight toward me, 
which he is just about to do. But then, thank goodness, 
everything happens at once: Just as Phil is about to be close 
enough to see the expression on my face, the entire garden party, 
all the other people, turn as a body to follow our hostess in to 
dinner, and at that moment, this man's bubbles turn into the most 
incredible jet, ejaculation, and I climax. I suppose I almost drown 
the poor man. [Interview] 



We spend most of our fucking lives trying to be alone, 
trying to improve the privacy of our fucking with sound-proofed 
bedroom walls, No-Lite window blinds, and locked doors. We 
race miles with our lovers to "get away from everyone," and if 
sexual desire overcomes us at a crowded party or in a restaurant, 
the first impulse is to get out of there and be alone before Act 

That is reality, and with no moral judgment intended, it's 
probably just as well. 

But fantasy goes in the opposite direction: more often than not 
there are other people present. I'm not talking about orgy 
fantasies. They exist too, but often the other people in fantasies 
don't join in, in fact their presence isn't meant to imply even the 
possibility of an orgy. A fantasizer will indeed go out of her way 
to point out that the other people aren't really watching her and 
what she's doing with the six baldheaded waiters. The audience 
is simply there. Doing what? Perhaps lending their tacit approval 
simply by their presence. ("It's okay to fuck.") Or by adding a 
touch of suspense with the implication that at any minute they 
could turn, and see what's going on: "My God, look at that, 
Harry and Isobel are having it off and her husband's in the next 
room!" (Alternatively, the point of the audience's surprise could 
be that Harry and Isobel are not in the accepted missionary 
position, or that they have a second man or a dog in the act, 
whatever it is that makes the scene particularly exciting to the 
fantasizer, and so particularly "loaded" when discovered by the 
audience.) The possibility of being seen, watched, discovered, 
can be more exciting than the actual presence of an audience. 
Anyone who has ever fucked in the warm sunlight of a 
(seemingly) secluded beach, or within earshot but out of sight of 


others, must admit the added excitement which the imminence of 
an audience brings to an already fine fuck. ..or she's a liar. 

But not all fantasy audiences are passive bystanders, 
inoperative in the fantasy story line. Some creative women give 
their fantasy audiences the active, participating role of a real 
audience they have them applaud, Oh! and Ah!, and she, lucky 
lady, becomes not only the Sarah Bernhardt of Fucking, but also 
the Fellini of Fantasy, controlling both her own performance and 
that of the audience, her critics, pacing the one against the other 
so that her fantasy audience reinforces her fantasy performance, 
which in turn heightens the ebb and flow of her very real fucking. 
Complicated? Read Caroline's fantasy below, keeping in mind 
the newspaper reports of what happened to some of the members 
of the cast of Oh, Calcutta!: they became so dependent on the 
excitement the audience brought to their performance in the 
theater, they were unable to perform sexually without an audience 
back home. 


I met Caroline, a young actress, in London through, mutual 
friends at a party. Right off, she seemed to me to lack that 
narcissistic self -involvement that I had always thought of as the 
curse and/or blessing necessary to achieve theatrical prominence. 
Therefore, I was not surprised that I had never heard her name, 
although she said she was currently playing in a hit in the West 

Mostly we talked about Italy, and she told me briefly about the 
village where she and a lover had spent six months "trying out 
the idea of being married." They had decided against it. She was 
enthusiastic to hear about my years in Rome, and my own ideas 
on marriage. 

A few nights later, I saw Caroline's name on a theater poster 
on Shaftesbury Avenue, and on impulse bought seats for that 


night. Her role required her to spend the entire evening onstage 
almost totally nude, and the first curtain fell on a protracted, 
tumultuous scene in which she was required to have (just barely 
simulated?) sexual intercourse on stage, front and center. The 
audience loved it, and her. It made me curious about a girl who 
was so reticent to speak about herself privately, but was so 
uninhibited otherwise as to be able to perform this role on stage. 

We went backstage afterward, and a group of us went on to 
dinner, during which the subject of this book came up. She told 
me she would like to contribute. Hers wasn't a typical fantasy, 
she said, but I might find it interesting. 

Ever since I had to do this love scene in the play you saw - it's 
been running now for six months - I've needed to feel that the 
same audience is there when I'm making love at home or 
anywhere else offstage. I suppose having to be, or at least to 
appear to be, so excited on the stage every night in front of so 
many people has really affected me. At first I tried to tell myself 
that it was just another role... you have to act so many emotions 
in the theater, and there's all that "Method" business of feeling 
yourself into the part ... . But as I said, in the beginning I tried to 
keep a little "distance" between the personal me, and me, the 
actress, making love in front of all those people. 

But I couldn't. As I got more and more used to the role, more 
comfortable in it, I found that instead of dreading the moment 
when I had to begin, I was looking forward to it. My nipples 
would become tight and erect. It was a surprisingly seductive 
feeling, one I enjoyed. I began wearing tighter and tighter 
blouses, filmier ones, more see-through, so that the audience 
could see my excitement, could see the excitement I felt right 
down - or up - to my nipples. I needed the audience's excitement 
for my own. ..a form of complicity was set up between them and 
me, a sexual conspiracy which heightened my ability, or rather, 
desire to play the part. 


The silence, the tension in the theater during the scene 
communicates itself through the house - from me to them, from 
them to me - and at the end of the night's performance, when 
they clap and call me back for curtain call after curtain call, I feel 
it's not only the actress they're applauding, but me, Caroline, the 
woman, too. Acting often tends to split you off from yourself, and 
you don't know who you are. But in this role, the audience's 
applause - their approval - somehow reunites the actress in me 
with the private self in me. Now when I make love privately, I 
sometimes think, Oh, what's the use... it's all so dull and 
unstimulating. And there's this feeling of anxiety. It's as if I'm 
not sure I'm doing it well, you see, no matter what the man says. 

Before this play, I didn't need fantasies. Or that's what I 
would have told you six months ago. I realize now that 
somewhere in the back of my mind I'd always had someone 
watching while I made love: me. This split between the me who 
is in the act, actually making love, and the me who is watching, 
this split IS healed by the audience taking over the role of watcher 
and applauding me for my efforts. I can't tell you the feeling of 
satisfaction it gives me. 

I remember the first time we did the love scene before an 
audience. The rehearsals had naturally been private, and I had 
been able to be professionally cool and clinical about it. But on 
opening night I was very nervous and apprehensive, I imagine 
because I was afraid that they would think I was not very good, 
or wouldn't give me their approval by becoming excited 
themselves. ..that they would just think the scene odd, and me 
very strange for being in it. But when they applauded . . . 

Now I need an audience; without it, there's just no excitement. 
So even if I'm with the man I'm in love with, somehow in my 
mind I twist his face around so that it's the face of the actor I'm 
in the play with. The funny thing is, I don't even like the actor. 
Maybe that makes it even more exciting for me, I don't know. I 
haven't really figured this out. But I think it's because behind 


him, behind his back is the audience, and they're applauding him 
for making love to me and applauding me for responding to him 
in such a loving way. And as my own excitement mounts and 
mounts, the applause gets louder arid louder. ..[Taped interview] 


As I am sure most women do, I have had the usual 
exhibition-type fantasies. I especially enjoy the thought of being 
watched by someone who is not aware that I know he is watching 
me. Or I imagine that I am making love to someone, perhaps a 
close friend of the family, and my husband comes in and watches 
us, as prearranged between my husband and myself without the 
knowledge of the other man. It would be equally intriguing to 
walk in and catch my husband with another woman, also by 
prearrangement. I don't think about this with my husband; I only 
think about it for excitement. [Letter] 

Mary Jo 

In the first sexual fantasy that I can remember, I thought of 
myself undressing while a boy I liked watched me. That became 
one of my most common fantasies when I was a teen-age girl. 


I am twenty-five years old and have been happily married for 
four years. My earliest memories of sexual sensation go back to 
when I was about three years old. I remember after my parents 
put me to bed that I would take my clothes off. I enjoyed being 
nude. Then I would put them back on. That is all I can remember; 
the exciting feelings of my own nude body. 


My fantasies during masturbation are generally of my old boy 
friends. I never had intercourse with any of them, but when I 
masturbate I wonder what it would be like. Often, during the 
fantasy, my husband watches. He doesn't do anything, he simply 
is there. 

My fantasies during sex with my husband are quite different. 
Mostly my thoughts are on what we are doing, although 
sometimes mentally I take it out of the bedroom and imagine we 
are on a quiet beach, quite nude, or lying in an open field with 
green grass all around us. I often think of us skinny dipping on a 
lonely beach. The idea of nudity, of the two of us being nude 
outdoors, excites me. 

I have no desire to tell my husband of my fantasies, of the 
excitement it would give me for the two of us to be nude outside 
the privacy of our bedroom. I think speaking them out loud 
would definitely lessen their effectiveness. [Letter] 


Celeste is a pretty, very bright-faced, red-cheeked blonde in 
her early thirties. She had been a legal secretary when she met 
Charlie, and had liked the work, but gave it up without a qualm 
when Charlie asked her to when they got married. They've been 
married twelve years. Today they live in a comfortable suburban 
home and have two children. Celeste works for the League of 
Women Voters and is an officer in the local PTA. 
She describes their sex life as "very satisfactory." 
We still enjoy making love at unusual times, like when we're 
already late for a party, or an impromptu session on the living 
room rug, the kitchen table, etc .... time we can steal while the 
kids are away at a Boy Scout meeting or football game. I'd say 
we have sex most nights of the week, even when Charlie's so 
tired he just comes and falls asleep while he's still on top and 
inside me. 


But something different happened the other evening when 
Charlie got home early and we thought we could steal some time 
before the kids got back. Suddenly we were interrupted - we 
were in the living room - by the unexpected arrival of our 
next-door neighbor. I just had time to pull my skirt down before 
Charlie let him in. He only stayed five or ten minutes, but all the 
time he was here, I knew something was up. I couldn't help 
noticing the way this guy kept fidgeting. . .and then I noticed this 
big bulge in the front of his trousers while he was talking to me. 

It was only after he'd left that I realized that in my haste I'd 
forgot to put my tights back on; all during our talk, my short skirt 
had ridden up, leaving me totally exposed to the man. For a few 
minutes I was mortified, absolutely embarrassed. Then the shock 
wore off and I was left with this odd feeling of excitement, which 
is still with me when I think about it, although I consider our 
neighbor about as exciting as a graham cracker. 

I could hardly wait for us to get to bed that night. It was one of 
the most exciting sessions that I'd ever had. But I couldn't sleep, 
I really couldn't, until I'd told Charlie what had got me so 
aroused. I expected it would make him angry, just as I thought it 
would make me angry, too. But the idea that another man had 
been' staring at the quim he had just enjoyed excited Charlie so 
much, he put out his cigarette and got on top of me again. He 
didn't wait the usual time it takes him on those nights we do it 
more than once. He wasn't in me more than a few seconds before 
he came again, almost like an explosion. It's as though this idea 
has given our sex lives a whole new dimension. Now when we're 
in bed together it's almost become a necessity for us. 

Instead of Charlie whispering things into my ear (that really 
didn't excite him, they were more or less routine words to him, 
but he knew they excited me), I tell him of imaginary 
experiences. For instance, that I'm on one of those stirrup tables 
that gynecologists have, where they spread your legs and look 
deep into you. But the table is in the middle of the ring, in 


Madison Square Garden, and it's mounted on a revolving 
platform. Thousands of men have paid fifty or a hundred dollars 
each for tickets, and the ushers are selling binoculars so they can 
get a better view. I tell Charlie that the table is slowly turning 
around and around, with the bright lights illuminating me, and 
the men in the seats all around begin pushing forward, jumping 
out of their seats, the whole giant mob wild with excitement to 
see, thousands and thousands of men in a circle all around me, all 
wild with excitement to see me better, to fuck me, to get deep 
inside those wet, red lips they can see so plainly. 

And all the time I'm lying on the table, I never move, except 
once in a while I put my two hands down, and with my fingertips 
just delicately open the lips so they can see the juices inside, 
glistening inside me, and then all the men begin to cream and 
some of them have unzipped themselves, and from under my 
closed eyelids I can see hundreds, thousands of erections just 
screaming to get inside me. 

But all the time, I know that Charlie is waiting for me in a 
dressing room off-stage where he has a warm bed, and where in 
just a minute or two more, the uniformed ushers will wheel the 
table in, and lock the door behind them as they go out. Charlie is 
there, waiting for me, but it's a strange Charlie, naked, standing 
up, with a giant erection so big that the skin is stretched and I can 
see the purple veins. What's strange about him is that he doesn't 
speak to me, or smile at me. He's wearing the same kind of 
emotionless, unmoving, unmoved face that I had just been 
wearing when I was outside on the platform with all the men 
screaming around me. Charlie doesn't even wait for me to get out 
of the stirrups, but just pulls me to him without a word, standing 
up, standing between the stirrups, and sometimes at this point I 
imagine myself on a kind of operating table, the kind where they 
strap you down at the wrists and ankles so you can't fall off. And 
I feel the tip of that enormous hard-on just touching the lips as he 
pulls me onto him. He still doesn't smile, doesn't say a word, 


shows no pleasure, no excitement, but I can feel myself tighten, 
my stomach muscles tighten as if anticipating some sexual blow, 
some sexual assault. ..but it's really my inside muscles, doubling 
over on themselves, that intense, silent moment before orgasm 
when your stomach and vaginal muscles almost feel as if you're 
having cramps, and it's at that moment when instead of a blow, I 
feel him penetrating me, impaling me on his body, that I finally 
get free of the stirrups and wrap my legs around him as my 
cramped muscles release. . .release and release again in an ecstasy 
of pleasure all the greater because of the almost-pain of the 
tightness they had felt a moment before. Release after release 
after release. I sometimes finish this fantasy weeping. With just 
the pleasure and happiness of it, you understand? 

You always hear about men exhibiting themselves on trains or 
on deserted beaches or somewhere. I wonder if other women have 
this hidden exhibitionistic desire the way I do? [Interview] 


Rape does for a woman's sexual fantasy what the first 
martini does for her in reality: both relieve her of responsibility 
and guilt. By putting herself in the hands of her fantasy assailant 
- by making him an assailant - she gets him to do what she 
wants him to do, while seeming to be forced to do what he wants. 
Both ways she wins, and all the while she's blameless, at the 
mercy of a force stronger than herself. The pain she may suffer, 
the bruises and indignity, are the necessary price she pays for 
getting the kind of guiltless pleasure she may be unable to face or 
find in reality. 


It's worth repeating my conviction that fantasy need have 
nothing to do with reality, in terms of suppressed 
wish-fulfillment. Women like Julietta (coming up), whose 
fantasy life is focused on the rape theme, invariably insist that 
they have no real desire to be raped, and would, in, fact, run a 
mile from anyone who raised a finger against, them, and I believe 
them. The message isn't in the plot - the old hackneyed rape 
story - but in the emotions that story releases. 

J ulietta 

"I believe I can love more than one man at a time. That's not 
a theory. I always do. That's why I don't want to get married, and 
why I prefer my affairs with men who already are. They are in no 
position to demand monogamy from me." That's Julietta. 

With strong views like these, it didn't come as any surprise to 
me when she told me during our conversations that she is a 
strong believer in Women's Lib. "But it would frighten my 
mother to hear me say it," says Julietta. "I grew up on a little 
farm, but I left as soon as I was old enough to travel by myself. 
My mother stayed on the farm. That's the difference between 
women of her generation and me." 

It may sound freaky coming from me, but while I enjoy going 
to bed with some guy I dig almost anytime, I especially like it if 
there's something in the air that lets me think I'm doing it 
against my will. That I'm being forced by the man's 
overwhelming physical strength. Something like that. The 
doctors call this kind of thing a rape fantasy, but that's as far as I 
want it to go. On the fantasy level, not the real thing. I don't go 
out by myself on dark nights, and if any horny stud threatened 
me, even with a gun, I'd scream my head off. All this doesn't 
sound like me, but you might say that the person I am today is 
totally at war with the girl my mother tried to make me. So 
whatever there is left in me of the girl my mother preferred, that 


girl wants to think that it's not really her fault, that she's being 
forced into this sexual scene. That I'm really good little Julie. 

So when I'm in bed with someone, I don't mind if he wants 
the lights on or if it's daylight. I like the look of a man... all of 
him. But when I get to a certain point, when I really become 
excited, I close my eyes, or bury my face in the pillow, or fling 
my arm or the pillow over my eyes. That way, while I can feel 
everything, I can also be back there in the dark, having my own 
thoughts. In fact, having something over my eyes gave me a 
fantasy I really dig. I imagine that I've been brought to some 
warehouse, or place like that, against my will. I'm stripped naked 
and the only thing I'm allowed to wear is a black silk mask. This 
is because whatever powerful person has brought me there does 
not want the men - yes, always more than one in this fantasy - 
for whom he has procured me, to know who I am. In this way, 
though he's brought me there against my will, he somehow 
wants to protect me too. I never know who he is, and he himself 
never fucks me. I just know that he's somewhere in the 
background, enjoying this feeling of power he has, not only over 
me, but over the men, too. That's because they're so hot with 
desire for me that they can barely control themselves. But he can 
take me away from them whenever he wants to. In my mind I can 
imagine the men, all big and powerfully built. They're naked, 
too, while they wait their turn with me. I think of them watching 
each other as each of them performs, talking about various 
techniques, and what they're going to do when their turn comes 
with me. 

Meanwhile, the guy who is really with me, every time he tries 
a different position, or a different idea, I pretend to myself that 
it's the next man in line. So it's always exciting this way, 
because I seemingly have an endless supply of men fucking 
me. . .but .they never know who I am. Even if I met one of them 
on the street the next day, or had lunch with him, he wouldn't 


But that's all I think of, me naked on this rough bed with just 
this little black mask on my face, and these five or six naked men 
all waiting their turn to fuck me. That picture in my mind makes 
me come every time. [Taped interview] 


I am thirty years old, have two children, and have been 
married for nine and a half years. 

I have a frequent sexual fantasy about being raped, by one or 
more men. These fantasies do not take place, however, while 
having sex with my husband. They take place when I am alone, 
and with time on my hands. I know it sounds weird or even 
crazy, but at times I feel as if I want to actually act my fantasy 
out, as if it were truly happening! I don't know why this happens, 
or why I should even feel this way. 

At the age of seventeen I was almost raped by a boy who was 
my best friend's boy friend. The act was never completed. ..he 
was finally stopped by my crying. This all took place in his car, 
while he was supposed to be taking me home from a party after 
he'd had a quarrel with his girl friend. She left the party, and he 
stayed and drank pretty heavily, as did the rest of us. He 
volunteered to take me home, after my boy friend, who is now my 
husband, called me at the party from his job and told me he had 
to work late and couldn't make it. 

I remember wondering what my girl friend actually saw in the 
boy, who was nothing but a rough, tough, and more or less 
foulmouthed bully. He had always been nice to me, but treated 
her like dirt. And yet she loved him, and took any kind of abuse 
from him, including getting pregnant by him, and then losing the 
baby by miscarriage in her fourth month. 

Anyway, on the way home he pulled into a deserted spot in our 
neighborhood. 1 immediately sensed what was about to happen 
and I had mixed emotions about it. I thought to myself how 


awfully exciting this was in one way, and then again I was truly 

He immediately pulled me to him and wanted to kiss me, but I 
automatically refused. I really wanted to, just to find out if it was 
his animal charm, so to speak, that my girl friend was in love 

He told me to relax, and that he wouldn't hurt me, and not to 
be afraid. He then asked what I saw in my boy friend, and 
whether he had really ever satisfied me sexually. I went to my 
boy friend's defense, of course, explaining that he was decent, 
kind, and a gentle person, in contrast to this fellow. He laughed 
and told me to cut out the "mushy stuff," in his exact words, and 
to relax and let him show me how it should be. I let him kiss and 
hold me, but when he started to explore me with his hands I 
panicked, and started to struggle to make him stop. He became 
angry and said he wasn't going to stop. We struggled for what 
seemed to be hours, and I was physically exhausted and by now 
really terrified. He kept saying that he wouldn't make me 
pregnant, if that was my worry, and to just let it happen and 
enjoy it. But I couldn't, and then just as it seemed that nothing 
would or could stop him, I started to cry uncontrollably. That did 
something to him, because he finally stopped, let me go, and 
started straightening my clothes, etc. He said he'd take me home 
now, but that I'd better not make trouble and tell anyone at all. I 
promised, of course. 

When we got to my home, as I was getting out of the car, he 
suddenly took my arm and told me that he was sorry, and 
couldn't I please forgive him, and he started to cry, actually cry. I 
felt so strange then, actually sorry for him. I told him to forget it, 
and that everything was okay, that I wasn't angry or anything. He 
left, after giving me a kiss on my forehead. And that was that. 
Since then, we've always acted as if nothing had happened, have 
remained not good friends, but friends nevertheless, as he finally 
married my girl friend, the one who worshipped him so. 


But he is still an animal, as everyone knows. He beats her, is a 
very heavy drinker, and is still foulmouthed. 

My whole point in telling you this is that at times, even though 
I know it's wrong or crazy, I have fantasies that he is trying to 
rape me - either in his car, my home, his home, or even in his 
own gas station. I become awfully excited at these thoughts. 

I also have fantasized that he and a couple of his rough tough 
friends attack me. At times, however, it's not him at all, but 
anyone I happen to dream up. 

I don't know why I have these sexual fantasies. At other times 
I envision rape scenes, and actually shudder and become 
nauseated at the idea or thought. So, at times I enjoy my 
fantasies, and at other times I become almost sick. 

I hope all this has helped your work in some way. I know it 
has helped me to finally get my experience off my chest to 
someone at last, after all these years. [Letter] 


Hi! I just read about your work and wanted to contribute. I am 
twenty two years old, white, Latin, and a university student. And, 
of course, female. That is, bisexual. Actually, I don't fit any 
categories. I have been a lesbian, also I thought you might want 
background info. But to get on with the fantasy business. I have a 
few really interesting ones. I fantasize not only when I 
masturbate, but also when I am making love. (Then I feel a little 
guilt, but it's such fun.) 

Fantasy 1: I walk into a drugstore in a small Southern town. I 
am a stranger. I am dressed outlandishly, like a whore. There are 
several local men in the store and they all look at me with lust in 
their eyes. I go to the counter and order a tube .of contraceptive 
cream. The druggist gives it to me. I take it and try to leave, but 
the men close the door and tell me I should "try it out" (the 
cream). They rape me. They squeeze cream into my vagina and 


anus. They make me go down on all fours and come in from 
behind. At one point I have to get on top of a man and come 
down on his penis while another is coming in through my anus 
from behind and another is inside my mouth. 

Fantasy 2: I am speeding on the New Jersey Turnpike. Two 
policemen stop me. I tell them I will "do anything not to get a 
ticket." They make me get in the back seat and spread my legs 
very wide (one of them is in the front seat, the other in the back 
seat). While one of them drives, the other one has me. They take 
turns. And then they meet a friend and he gets in on it too. 

Fantasy 3: I am in a woman's prison. I tried to escape or lead 
a demonstration or something illegal like that. The warden is a 
big black woman. While two women guards hold me, she pulls 
up my skirt and pulls down my panties and spanks me with a 
ruler. Then she takes out a dildo and fucks me with it very 
roughly. When I get excited, she laughs. Then she tells the 
guards to hold me down on her desk. She looks over my cunt and 
says, "Mmm mmm, this is some nice pussy," and then she licks 
my cunt and sucks it till I come. 

Fantasy 4: I am at a convention. I am the only woman there. I 
have no choice: I bend over a chair and all the men are in line to 
fuck me. I act very nonchalant. 

I could go on. .. . [Letter] 


I have always fantasized during intercourse and masturbation. 
I am being raped by one man or a group of men, while many of 
them watch the others "abuse" me. My attackers are always very 
handsome - dark hair, muscular, sexually well endowed - and 
brutal, in that they take what they want and the hell with what I 
want. . .or pretend I want. (I'm after what they are, really.) 

My husband is very curious about my fantasies, will 
occasionally enter into them, but puts them and me down as 


childish and immature. He doesn't know what he's missing, in 
my opinion. 

Other fantasies of mine include a fraternity initiation where I 
am tied to the bed hand and foot and all the brothers take their 
pleasure with me while the initiates, watch. Then the new ones 
take their turn with me. There is always a certain "officer" in the 
fraternity's organization whose sole purpose is to arouse the girl 
chosen so that she can't help enjoying herself - although she's 
protesting. Or. I fantasize that I am a "bottomless" waitress; every 
time I bend to serve a customer, someone attacks me from the, 
rear. As waiting on tables is my sole means of support, I' have no 
choice. Even if I do one of those "Bunny Dips" (that the Playboy 
Bunnies do so that they don't have to bend over), I will then be 
assaulted from the customer in front of me, who simply pulls me 
forward onto his lap, onto his prick, which is erect and exposed. 

I know that they say that women aren't turned on by visual 
stimuli; I think it's untrue. It's another unexplored area where 
women are silent or ashamed. I am very aroused by hard-core 
pornography. If I see a picture, for example, of a black man and a 
white woman, I'm ready for sex almost immediately. 

Incidentally, I am twenty-four, have a B.A., M.A., am white, 
Catholic, married six years and no children. [Letter] 


Women are always being tied up or down in fantasy. They 
use "force" words liberally, almost involuntarily - "He made me 
do this ..." "I then had to ..." - in describing their fantasies, even 
when the fantasy has nothing to do with rape or pain. We are 


made to understand that even in her fantasy the fantasist doesn't 
have control over what's happening to her - unless, of course, 
control is what she is after, as in some of Barbara's fantasies 

But even when the force is intended, there is a clear distinction 
as to whether what is going on is indeed rape, or a 
pain-for-pain's-sake number. I would hope that whoever is in 
charge of the Masochist Wing of our House of Fantasy - he of the 
mask and heavy hand - would be familiar with the subtleties of 
his specialty. He must have separate rooms: the first, for the rape 
fantasists; the second, for the masochists. Otherwise, the "Ouch!" 
cries from the latter would disturb or distract the rapees, who are 
more intent on being forced than on feeling pain. For them, any 
pain felt is merely the cost of fulfilling their desire, a means to 
their end. For the other women like Sylvia (below), the desire is 
for pain itself and the pain is everything. Carried to its extreme, 
as in Amanda's fantasy, this desire for pain becomes genuinely 
disturbing and shows to what ends - imagined though they may 
be - a woman will go to feel something at last, to feel at least 


We have not yet come to the difficult question of people 
who want to turn their fantasies into real life actualities, but 
while we are in this room, I think we can appropriately say that 
Barbara's fantasy of being spanked or caned is the type my 
contributors most often feel driven to experiment with. This may 
sound contradictory, since many of them go on to say that they in 
fact hate real pain. 

But as Barbara says, I think the explanation lies in the fact she 
feels she can make a bargain with the spanker about just how 
many strokes she will receive, and how hard - and that if the 
sexual experience should turn out to be more painful in fact than 


titillating in imagination, the proceedings can be called off at a 

I am not a lesbian, and I preface my letter with this comment 
because it may be thought that I am one when you hear about my 
fantasies. My particular fantasy concerns punishment with the 
cane, and by talking about it once, I was introduced to a woman 
who looked normal outwardly, but within a few minutes at her 
home, when I first went there, I realized that she wanted to whip 
me before having her usual larks in her kind of sex. I made the 
bargain with her that the only instrument to which I would 
subject myself was the school cane - not a garden cane or 
something about an inch thick. I cannot tell you why, but my 
fantasy has always been that I like to imagine myself as a 
naughty girl of about seventeen, hauled up in front of the 
headmistress for a caning, and that I am wearing the 
old-fashioned type of gym tunic and Directoire knickers down to 
my knees. From this stage I like to be told to bend over, after a 
lecturing, and then get caned with my gym tunic raised, the cane 
corning on my knickers. Therefore I told my lesbian friend just 
how far she could go, and the date and scene were agreed upon. 
Naturally I found that the whipping I got with the cane wasn't 
half so thrilling as the fantasy, and while I had no heart in 
masturbation with the lesbian woman, it came easily after the 

Since then I've found a young man - much younger than I am 
by the way - who enjoys playing these caning games with me, 
and in addition allows me to flog him with the cane, on his 
bottom. When our bottoms are red and smarting, but not horribly 
marked with a real thrashing, we get down to sex. All my 
fantasies are concerned with various methods of being caned, and 
various methods of me giving the cane to someone else. For 
instance, I would like to be tied hand and foot, and then given 
twelve strokes of the birch, but if this happened, I would proba- 
bly faint with the awful pain. Another of my ideas is to be 


strapped down on a wide seat of a swing, secured to the ceiling. 
As the swing comes backwards, my bottom would make a fine 
target for the person caning me. Another idea is that I would like 
to be strapped down over a flogging bench, just in knickers and 
bra, and the flogging bench would have handles in front which I 
would grip with my hands. As I pressed these bars down, by 
leverage there would be a rubber penis at the other end, and this 
would come right into me between my legs. I imagine myself 
being caned in this way, and enjoying masturbation via the 
rubber penis once the caning got going. 

Yet another fantasy is that I would like a man to get on top of 
me, both of us naked, then gently lower himself until his 
enormous erect penis was resting in between my breasts. I would 
like to watch it as he moves up and down, then when it is getting 
near his time I would like him to lower himself and push it into 
me in the right place. 

I must tell you that whenever I have sex with a man, all the 
time I am pretending to myself that I am wearing long knickers, 
bending over in the headmistress' study, and getting soundly 
caned on my bottom. I can only think of two possible causes of 
my fantasies. The first happened when I was about six or seven. I 
had an elder sister who was then about fourteen, and for probably 
a series of misdemeanors, my stepmother said she would cane 
her. My sister was ordered out of her frock, in front of me, and 
then stepmother pushed her over the settee arm. My sister Jean 
was wearing the usual school Directoire knickers at the time, 
much longer than those worn today, of course, and with her 
bottom in the air and her feet off the ground, the knickers 
tightened around her buttocks. 

Stepmother then started to smack my sister's bottom with the 
cane, and I don't suppose it was a terrible thrashing. But 'it was 
stinging enough to make Jean yell out at every stroke of the cane. 
The second incident happened when I was fifteen, and getting to 
know a few things about sex. There was a boy next door aged 


about seventeen, and I used to get him to help me with my school 
homework. We used to cuddle and kiss. One night he said that I 
was so bad at math that what I needed was a good spanking, and 
then he pushed my face downward across his lap. After making a 
pretend resistance and wriggling, I had my gym frock well above 
my waist; I knew he could see my knickers from waist to leg. 
Moreover, I also knew that this had given him an erection, which 
I could feel. So he spanked me, good and hard, but I still enjoyed 
it. After that, almost each night I went to see him it ended up in 
me first getting spanked, and then he turned me round in the 
armchair and got on top of me, and we both masturbated. Later, I 
asked him . what it was like at his school when naughty boys got 
the cane. It was a loaded question, and it brought the answer I 
wanted. He said he would give me a demonstration, and when he 
told me that "tonight was the night," before going in to see him I 
put on some very thrilling white knickers, long in the leg, and 
with fancy pink lace at the leg ends. His parents were out, and 
having the place to ourselves we lost no time in the caning dem- 
onstration. He showed me how to bend over the end of the settee 
with my arms stretched forward, and in that position I felt my 
knickers tighten up round my legs and thighs. I'd slipped out of 
my short frock beforehand, and we'd kissed and hugged, so that 
already he had a big erection. Then for the first time I got the 
cane on my knickers. He gave me four terrific swipes, and they 
certainly made me wince and yell. When he'd finished, I took 
hold of the cane and told him that it was his turn for punishment. 
I found that I was terribly thrilled on seeing his trousers tight 
round his bottom as he bent over, and I gave him a severe caning, 
enjoying the feel of the cane in my hands. 

Another of my fantasies is when I imagine I am secretary to 
the headmistress of some school for girls between the ages of 
fifteen and nineteen. One of my jobs, being a big strong girl, is to 
cane girls who have been sentenced to be caned by the 
headmistress. Two or three nights in the week I imagine I have 


about six girls waiting outside my office in a queue for the cane, 
and one by one they enter at my command, strip off their gym 
tunics, and are then ordered to bend over the whipping block, 
where they get the number of strokes of the cane ordered by the 
headmistress. Then I change the fantasy and imagine that I am 
one of the senior girls, aged about eighteen, caught smoking and 
sentenced to twelve strokes of the cane. We stand outside the 
door of the secretary's room and listen to the sounds of the caning 
going on inside. Then it is my turn. I go in, get out of my gym 
tunic, and stand there feeling tense in my tight knickers. The 
secretary points to the flogging block, says Bend over, girl, and I 
get across it, ready for my thrashing with the cane on my 
knickers. While I am pretending that I am getting caned, I 

I've read many stories of how women used to be punished in 
the old days, and many of these appeal to me in my fantasies. 
There is a lovely tale of a rich man, in the 1880's, who employed 
a governess for his large family of eight daughters and six sons. 
Frequently the children were caned, and at all such canings the 
master was present while the governess administered the 
punishment. The boys had to drop their trousers before being 
lashed down across a bench, and the girls had to remove outer 
clothing, the caning being given on their frilly long white 
drawers. I picture myself as the governess, first because I would 
enjoy giving the cane, and secondly because I fancy that after all 
this corporal punishment I could go to bed with the master of the 
house, who was widowed. 

In another book of stories about the Midwest in the early days, 
there is a story of how girls found guilty in the courts were 
publicly punished. They were taken to the front of the courthouse 
in the one main street, and there had their wrists fastened above 
their heads to a whipping block, so that in their underwear, and 
bending forward, they were unable to move. The number of 
whacks with the cane varied according to their crimes, but after 


the sentence had been passed, the girl was left there so that 
passersby could pick up a cane and give her another whipping. 
The culprit was released after three hours. 

What happened, of course, was that whenever there was a 
public caning of a nice young woman, practically the whole 
population was present, and when it was over, most of the men 
had erections and were ready to take their own females back to 
the bedrooms. Then again, in the Middle Ages, and even in later 
years, there were some priests who used the cane as punishment 
for young girls after confessions. The girl was made to undress 
and lie over the priest's table, where he caned her bottom, 
afterward getting into bed with her, so that many young girls who 
fancied their particular priest simply went and lied in the 
confession, knowing whatitwould lead to. [Letter] 


Several years ago my parents became members of a certain 
religious denomination, and I began to receive religious 
instruction in preparation for my own acceptance. At first I was 
very happy about this, until a friend told me something about the 
man giving me this instruction. 

I know you will think I must have been stupid, because at 
twentythree years of age I saw nothing wrong in anything that 
had happened and I really thought it was all part of the 
instruction, even though I felt that he touched me a lot. In the end 
he began to undress me altogether, although I want to say that 
nothing else then happened except that he handled me all over 
and did things to hurt my body, especially my busts. 

The disgusting thing was that although I then knew it was 
very wrong, I did nothing to stop him. I even longed for him to do 
it to me, even though he sometimes hurt me dreadfully. 
Afterward I used to feel very ashamed, and eventually I told my 
parents what had happened. Although they, too, were disgusted, 


they asked me not to make a complaint in order not to upset their 
own position in the church. 

In the end, and as a direct result of all this, I left home. 
Although at the time I was very unhappy about this, it seems now 
to have been for the best. My husband, who is a Methodist 
minister, is the kindest man and most sympathetic. I have no 
complaints, except that at the times when my husband is being 
very attentive to me, my thoughts return to this man and what he 
did to me all those times. I know this is perfectly dreadful, but it 
happens every time. [Letter] 

Rose Ann 

My husband has tried to get me to tell him about my sexual 
fantasies, but so far I have told him that I have none. It's almost 
as though he knew there was something or someone, in addition 
to himself, that was exciting me. . .perhaps because of the cries and 
noises I make while he is making love to me. They are not just cries 
of pleasure, there are also the cries of pain that I feel in my 
fantasies. In fact, I wouldn't know where to draw the line between 
the two. 

My fantasies occur whenever I am beginning to feel any real 
sexual arousal, and real pleasure. They don't distract from the 
pleasure, but on the contrary, enhance it. I am sure it is very hard 
for anyone to understand this, and how can I possibly tell my 
husband, whom I love, that I am dreaming that the most 
atrocious things are being done to my body while he is being so 
loving to me? 

These fantasies or dreams usually begin with my body being 
stretched, one brutal man on each limb, pulling me in opposite 
directions, literally spreading me wide open so that some 
immensely huge penis - there is no one or nothing on the end of 
it - begins to enter me, stretching me, ripping me, my vagina, 
wide open as it pushes its way deeper into me. The men twist my 


arms painfully as well as pull them, and I can hear my bones 
breaking and cracking, while the sound of my skin, around my 
vagina, also rips audibly. I cry out in reality even as I cry out in 
my fantasy. But I love it, even though my intelligence and logic 
tell me that I am being ghoulish, that this is not a normal way to 
enjoy sex. And I do enjoy it. I hate what is happening to me in 
my fantasies, but it is inextricably involved with my very real 
pleasure. [Letter] 


I read your interesting letter and thought that I would like to 
write to you about my own experiences, which I hope are of 
assistance to you in your book. I am thirty-six years old, married 
with two children, and often indulge in fantasies, even during the 
day, as a relief from the pure boredom of my life. 

I do not remember when I first started fantasizing, but when I 
was very young I used to lie stretched out on my; bed and dream 
that I was a princess who had been captured and who was 
waiting to be tortured, and this made me feel pleasurably 
aroused. Later, as I became more sophisticated and my thoughts 
developed, I imagined myself being racked, impaled, flogged, 
branded, and every other thing that you can think of, ending with 
vigorous and orgasmic masturbation. I masturbated frequently 
and, for that matter, still do, because, although my husband is the 
kindest man, he is the world's worst lover. 

As a girl I longed to be subjected to the most outrageous forms 
of abuse, and could embroider little incidents to enormous 
fantasies of atrocities. Toward the end of school we underwent 
the usual examination, and in. truth the doctor barely looked at 
me, although I hoped, and dreaded, that he would find it 
necessary to carry out some dreadful form of surgical mutilation. 
For years afterward in my dreams I imagined myself being 
prepared by male nurses and then voluntarily submitting myself 


to the most atrocious vivisection, scornfully refusing anesthetics 
and bravely absolving my tormentors from any guilt in my slow, 
lingering death (in the name of science, of course). 

From all this you will think that I am masochistic, but the truth 
of the matter is that I am not and I just cannot stand pain. My 
parents never punished me and once, after stealing some money, I 
was threatened with the strap and this sent me into howling 
hysterics. In fact, you can say that I was overindulged in every 
way possible, and, to a degree, this has continued right up to my 
present circumstances. 

About two years ago a friend described to me, in some detail, 
the lewd suggestions made to her by a man who had pierced her 
ears. Despite her warning, I visited him in the hope that he would 
make them to me, but, arriving at the door, I lost confidence and 
would have fled if he had not come up the garden path behind 

I think my friend's account had been grossly elaborated, 
because when I warmed to the true purpose of my trip, he nearly 
had a fit when I insisted upon removing my dress and slip. 
Eventually, and not at all at his suggestion, I ended up stripped to 
my shoes, stockings, and garter belt, and submitted to a few 
half-hearted fumblings and gropings before going home with my 
ears pierced lopsidedly and decidedly sore. 

Despite the shabbiness of the incident, in my dreams I regally 
and serenely present myself in front of a huge audience for the 
ritual piercing of my nipples with hot needles, after which huge 
rings are inserted. More recently this has expanded, so that in 
taking a simple bath I am being prepared for an elaborate ritual 
of circumcision, ceremonial rape, and final sacrifice (by 
disemboweling) to some awesome god. This is my latest and 
most protracted fantasy, and one which drives me to distraction 
whenever I indulge in it. 

I hope that what I have written is of interest to you and I do 
assure you that every word is true. [Letter] 



I'd put this room next to Rape and Masochism. Not for the 
convenience of the clients - a woman is faithful to her favorites, 
and there'd be very little running about from room to room - but 
for the economy of the management: the costumes and props are 
interchangeable among the three. There, however, the sharing 
stops; force may be applied in all three rooms simultaneously - 
but to different degrees and in different directions, and the precise 
emotions being aroused and released will differ dramatically. Or 
"deliriously," as the clients themselves might say. 

Whatever their reasons for wanting it, the domination 
fantasists long to feel low. They relish being debased and; 
reduced by whatever means to a state of abject humiliation. How 
they get down there doesn't matter: Poppy (below) doesn't even 
bother to say how she is "made" to perform her humiliating tasks; 
Nathalie may get spanked into submission, but spanking is such 
an obvious childhood symbol of domination that we don't need 
Nathalie to tell us that it isn't the spanking itself that turns her 
on. It's the state to which that humiliating act reduces her that 
matters. And the more exactly specified those depths can be, the 
better. Heather doesn't just long to be knocked off the pristine 
pedestal her lover has put her on, she wants to be fiat on her ass, 
in the lowest, most purely sexual, position; Nathalie doesn't stop 
at yearning to be reduced to that bane of proud and liberated 


women, an object - she wants it all the way, to be a thoroughly, 
exclusively sexual object at that. 

As women move more strongly into their recently won sexual 
freedom, and leave their historic role of second (and "silent") sex 
behind, I predict that they will, ironically, get into domination 
fantasies more and ,more. But the move will be in two different 
directions. First, the new reality of being man's equal makes 
them unconsciously nervous about their identity as women, and 
so throws them back into longing for the traditional, safe, and 
"known" role vis-a-vis the dominating man; but second, they will 
want to explore, and signal even to themselves, their new 
liberated age by putting themselves into the dominant position of 
the sexual brute. Whether as brute or brutalized, in fantasy at 
least the centuries of female submission are about to be avenged. 

But what it all comes back to in the end is that if you're into 
the sadomasochistic thing it really doesn't matter, of course, 
which end of the stick (or whip!) you're on; turnabout can be 
lovely play, and as long as somebody is being debased, and 
you're in on it, it's great. 


You are so right that one tends to feel one's sexual fantasies 
are too "odd" to admit to or discuss. I have never "card another 
woman mention the topic, although I'm sure we all have some 
fantasy or another. I have finally been able to mention my two 
fantasies to my current lover, amidst much "fear and trembling" 
and aided by the effects of several martinis. The feeling of relief I 
have from just getting this out into the open has made me feel 
free enough to broach the subject to several of my closest women 
friends, who agree that we all have weird notions, but who are 
too reticent to share theirs with me! 

I don't know if you want background or not - I'm assuming 
you do. I'm twenty-nine years old, swinging and single. I 


consider myself to be liberal and liberated sexually. I've had 
more than twenty semiserious affairs since I was relieved of my 
virginity seven years ago. I adore sex and will try anything to 
enhance my lover's pleasure. I masturbate regularly, and climax 
within minutes, especially if I fantasize, although I don't need to. 
I've always loved the whole sex thing, from the first touch to the 
last kiss, even though I never climaxed with a man until about 
three years ago. 

I enjoy being sexually aggressive at times, and at times I crave 
to be dominated. I think about sex a lot and can get turned on 
easily by erotic reading material. 

Now, for my fantasies, neither of which has been fulfilled - 
yet. The thought that my lover is now aware of them and is 
planning our next encounter around them is driving me wild. 

My first fantasy is that of being spanked: I have always 
provoked the spanking, it's never unjustified. My innate female 
bitchiness causes my lover to say very quietly, "All right, that's 
enough!" I say, "Don't order me around." He says, "You're 
asking for a good spanking." I say, "I'd like to see you try it," in a 
very taunting manner. 

At which point, he grabs me, grasps both hands firmly behind 
my back, pulls down my panties, turns me over on his knee, and 
traps my kicking legs between his. I am embarrassed and scared. 
He usually uses his hand, spanking me maybe two dozen times, 
very hard. Sometimes I fantasize that he uses a hairbrush or ruler. 
Usually his hand, though. I am sobbing and enraged. The rage 
turns to humiliation, which turns to submission. At the end he 
forces me back on the bed and enters me, not roughly, but 
without foreplay either. Or sometimes I like to think of myself 
staying at the enraged part throughout the spanking. He pushes 
me back on the bed, hovers over me, and shoves his erect penis 
into my mouth, ordering me to suck it. I refuse and bite him, 
which brings on another, still more painful spanking, at which 
point I am eager to do whatever, he asks. I've never fantasized 


being brutalized; I don't, think I'd care for whippings (although 
excerpts from The Pearl or The Story of O stimulate me 
tremendously). As a rule I hate pain, except when approaching a 
climax, when I find pleasure in being bitten on my inner thighs 
hard enough to bruise the skin. But this spanking fantasy has 
been with me for years and years. The thought of being spanked 
used to arouse sexual feelings at the age of six or seven, even 
though I didn't recognize them, and, of course, I didn't know 
about intercourse or fellatio at that age. If it matters, I have never 
in my conscious memory been spanked by either of my parents. 

My second fantasy is as follows. Screaming and scratching 
and struggling, I am tied or strapped on my back to my bed. I am 
spreadeagled, and my arms and legs are forced just past the point 
of being comfortable. He has forced a pillow under my hips, and 
of course I am naked. The pillow has the effect of raising and 
exposing my vulva, and I can move only an inch or two up and 
down or from side to side. I am extremely panicky. I am pleading 
and begging and crying. He is never angry; he responds to me at 
all times as if I were an object, very matter of factly. He is fully 
clothed as he moves around checking the ropes to be sure they're 

ME: Please let me go. 

HIM: Not yet. 

ME: If you let me go, I'll suck you dry. 

HIM: You'll do that anyway, honey, in a minute or two. 

ME: If you don't let me go, you bastard, I swear I'll never let 

you in my mouth again. 
HIM: Yes you will, love. 
ME: But I don't want to belike this! 

HIM: It really doesn't matter what you want right now, honey. 
ME: (Assorted obscenities, mixed with sobs and twisting at 

the ropes) 
HIM: That's enough. (All the time he's very cool and calm.) 


ME: My legs hurt, my arms ache, my crotch is splitting. 

HIM: A little pain is good for you. 
ME: (More obscenities) 
HIM: Honey, stop that. 
ME: (More obscenities) 
He reaches out and pinches the inside of both my thighs, very 

HIM: You will be quiet now, darling, please. 
ME: Yes. (Crying more from pain and rage) 

He then leaves the room for what seems like hours, because of 
the strain on my arms and legs. When he returns he is nude and 
he has an enormous erection, which makes me whimper in 
anticipated pain. He doesn't touch me. He kneels at the foot of 
the bed, gazing at my exposed vulnerable pubic area. I am utterly 
mortified, because I have no control now. I can't shield myself or 
put my legs together or roll over. My whole crotch is so exposed 
and open to his eyes and mouth and/or penis. I'm totally at his 
mercy. I keep saying, "What are you going to do to me?" and he 
just sits there. Then the fantasy takes one of several courses. 
Sometimes he loves me all over with his mouth, until I beg him 
to enter me. Sometimes he enters me without foreplay and 
seemingly just takes me as if I'm nothing. Sometimes he enters 
my mouth, from above, which I hate because of the control he has 
and the gagging depth he can achieve. (In real life, I love 
performing fellatio, but only when I'm above him, so I can keep 
it shallow.) Whatever he does, the fantasy ends with him 
releasing me and hugging me and massaging my sore muscles 
and my sobbing with relief and thanking him - not for letting me 
go, but for tying me up! 

This second fantasy is extremely fascinating to me, although 
both ideas really turn me on. I've just recently added this one to 
my repertoire, but it isn't quite as powerful as the other. It goes as 


follows: I manage to tie him to the bed, spread-eagled exactly as I 
was. This is done by some sort of "innocent" playfulness, like, 
"Honey, show me how to tie that knot. Oh, I see. Let me try ..." 
and so on. When he realizes he's been tricked, he reacts with 
rage and fear, much as I did in my second fantasy. As a matter of 
fact, we pretty much change roles - he's helpless and scared, 
while I'm cool and matter of fact. He doesn't cry, of course, but 
he feels, if anything, more vulnerable, exposed, and helpless than 
I did, because of his absolute inability to protect his genitals. 
Usually in this fantasy I just start out kissing him ever so gently, 
all over, gradually working down to his pelvis, and then up inside 
his thighs, just tantalizing him. I avoid all contact with, his penis 
or testicles, but just keep on caressing and licking, etc., until he 
begs me to touch his genitals. But I delay until he's really in a 
frenzy before doing so, and even then I hardly touch himl just 
keep up the teasing, tantalizing, etc., until he can't take it any 
more. Then I either suck him till he comes in my mouth or I have 
him climax in my vagina. Occasionally, during the. tantalizing, 
nongenital phase, when he seems to relax and give himself up to 
me, I put a little fear back into him by giving him a painful nip or 
pinch inside his thighs. Usually, though, I am just gentle and 
loving. I never threaten his genitals, nor do I hurt him there 
unless he asks me to bite him, which in real life he likes. 

P.S. A few thoughts I've had on sexual fantasies: It seems that 
the more liberated I become (I'm really digging Women's Lib 
now) the more I fantasize about the spanking and the bondage. 
Since I'm fully liberated in my work situation, social life, etc., 
it's almost as if I'm trying to achieve some sort of counterbalance 
to this liberation in my sexual life. I've always had the first two 
fantasies, but never so intensely as since I've been involved in 
Women's Lib, or rather, since I've embraced the principles 
behind the movement. I am sure there are other women like me, 
who having emerged from being under male domination, crave to 
return to it in bed. 


Another thing - the more I think of it, the more I feel an ideal 
male-female relationship would be one in which both feel free to 
confide their fantasies to each other and both care enough for 
each other to endeavor to make these fantasies come true. It 
would be great, for example, if my fantasy were to mesh with his, 
i.e., if he craved to 

spank me or tie me down while I craved to be spanked or tied 
down. This is not the case, but he loves me enough to be willing 
to try these things. Now I intend to discover his fantasy, and if 
it's at all possible, I shall attempt to fulfill that fantasy. Again, it 
would be too much to expect (but maybe it's true) that he 
fantasizes being tied down. But if he should desire to paint my 
body, say, or be whipped, or, have me wear some kind of 
costume, I'll do all in my power to accommodate him. What's 
wrong with playing out these inner desires? Why are we so afraid 
to share them? 

I hope you can use my experiences. I feel really turned . on just 
writing about them! Good luck with your project. [Letter] 


I am a white Catholic American woman, 32 years old with 
three sons. I have been married twice. My second husband and I 
have been married more than eleven years. 

I always entertain a sexual fantasy while having sex which 
results in an orgasm for me. Over the years the fantasy has 
changed, as we have moved about the country a great deal, and I 
am thus always meeting new people and finding myself in new 

My fantasy is about the man with whom I recently had. an 
affair which lasted seven months. He is married and is eleven 
years younger than I. He has two younger college age brothers. I 
fantasize that his family, he, his two brothers, his wife, and his 
father take my clothes off and make me wait on them, doing 


anything they ask. I am required to suck off all the men in front of 
everyone, and if the man does not feel I have done a good job, he 
spanks me. I receive many spankings. After I have performed 
fellatio on them all - including cunnilingus on the wife - I am 
tied to a bed spread-eagle style and they play with me, sometimes 
. roughly, i.e., one of the men will put his anus over my mouth 
and request that I tongue him. His wife usually performs 
cunnilingus on me, and I get very excited looking at her and 
having everyone standing around and watching. I am required to 
say words like "fuck" frequently and must describe my aroused 
feelings to them all. Usually I come at about this time. 

Sometimes I am allowed to choose someone to degrade, and I 
always choose the father, whom I didn't like. I make him perform 
cunnilingus on me for hours and I always end up whipping him 
for poor performance. [Letter] 


I am writing in reply to your request for female sexual 

I do, fantasize, sometimes when I am having difficulty 
reaching an orgasm (my boy friend always has to stimulate me 
manually after he has come). I pretend that I am being humiliated 
in some way. Or that I am being displayed by a man, such as a 
slave owner, for the benefit of his friends. Heaven knows why, 
but if I can think of this intensely enough, I have a fantastic 

I don't think he would be jealous if I told him about these 
fantasies, just angry. I think he just wouldn't be able to 
understand, and would be rather disappointed in me and 
disgusted. You see, we are both university graduates; he has 
always been proud of my intelligence. He can't stand girls who 
can't discuss a variety of topics with him with some degree of 
knowledge. He likes to think of us as being down-to-earth, 


sensible people. I am reserved, rather tall, dress in a fashionable 
but sophisticated way - he doesn't like fluffy, giggly girls. He 
dominates me in ordinary things - I never get my own way when 
deciding when or where to eat, what film to see, etc. But he does 
not dominate me sexually, at least in - the way I want him to. 

He will make me massage his back or scratch it until I am 
bored to tears; he expects me to fondle him and kiss him for long 
periods of time without actually doing anything to me. But he 
would never dream of forcing me to make love, or hit me or 

Actually, he is very good in bed. I have slept with eight other 
men, so I have grounds for judging him. There are times when I 
reach the heights of ecstasy, but there are times when I feel 
strongly frustrated and restless. This is when I have these strange 
domination-humiliation fantasies. I even have them during 
masturbation. (I don't actually fantasize during masturbation, I 
simply have to think about the threat itself.) 

From what I've told you of our relationship, I suppose you are 
wondering why I don't tell him about my domination wish. After 
all, he will listen to anything I care to tell him about myself or my 
desires without being shocked (although he never offers up any 
thoughts of his own). Well, the reason is he spent a year in digs. 
His landlady was a nymphomaniac. She slept with any man she 
could lay her hands on, and she seduced him. He was young and 
inexperienced, and he admits she taught him everything he 
knows. She used to creep into his room at night, leaving her 
husband in bed, and make love to him. Her husband knew, but 
because he couldn't satisfy her, he was resigned to letting her get 
satisfaction elsewhere. 

My boy friend enjoyed the lovemaking but felt dirty and 
disgusted with himself afterwards. He has always said how he 
enjoys our "pure" lovemaking. He loves me and says it makes 
him feel happy afterward. I felt very inferior when he told me. He 
made her sound so much sexier. Of course, she had so much 


more experience than I did. However, whenever I suggest 
extending our lovemaking, in particular to fellatio, he says he 
doesn't want me to do it because he's sure I won't like it. He 
admits he enjoyed it very much when she did it to him, however. 
He refuses to believe I really want to do it. I have done it with 
other men and enjoyed it, but he just won't let me. At least, he 
will to the point of ejaculation, then he pulls me away. 

So you see, he has put me on a pedestal in a way. He sees me 
as pure, clean, and wholesome (even though he knows about the 
other men) and doesn't want that image destroyed. 

My first sexual fantasy occurred soon after puberty. I was 
about eleven or twelve. At night I would lie in bed and imagine I 
was walking in the woods. A strange man followed me, and 
when I started to run away, he caught me and beat me. Every 
night I would go through varieties on this theme - the man would 
overpower me - take me away and force me to do things against 
my will. The sex part was rather hazy. I had no clear ideas on that 
at that age. By thinking about this before going to sleep, I could 
make myself dream about it, too. Later the fantasy changed to me 
being taken away to the East and sold as a slave. There were an 
infinite number of possibilities to the story, as I was bought and 
sold by a number of men in succession. Very occasionally I still 
fantasize about this. My fantasies obviously fall into the "being 
on exhibition" category in the humiliation sense rather than one 
of showing off. 

My farfetched slave girl fantasies seem absurd, but there is one 
I will never tire of until something definite happens to end it. I 
went out with a boy four years ago. I was still a virgin and very 
green. He flirted with me, made me fall madly in love with him, 
and then dropped me flat. The main reason I fell for him was that 
he had a sense of cruelty in him - not vicious, but enough to 
satisfy my desires. He would grab hold of my wrists and pin me 
against a wall or on the bed, and force me to kiss him. I would 
struggle but he would always win, being extremely strong. We 


both enjoyed these encounters, but we never went further than 
that and I was still a virgin when he finished with me. 

The strange thing is that we still know each other, and we are 
always very aware of each other's presence. When we met at a 
party a few months ago, we flirted with each other, and he did 
things that other people didn't notice, like crushing my hand 
when he held it, and biting my lips when we kissed until I nearly 
cried out in pain. He saw this and was obviously enjoying it. 
Then we had a serious talk, and decided we should stop messing 
about and be sincere friends (we didn't mention the pleasure we 
both got out of pain in our different ways. . .we never have and no 
one else knows). Since then he has been very kind to me. . .when I 
was upset about my boy friend, he comforted me and let me stay 
with him. We slept together, but I was too miserable to enjoy it 
and he was doing it out of concern, not desire, so it was not a 
success. He treats me very normally, usually, always when in 
front of his friends.... But when they're not around, there are 
flashes of the old treatment. He knows - I can tell by the way he 
looks at me - of my need for domination, and likes to tease me by 
sometimes cooperating and sometimes refusing to, just in little 
things, this is. 

However, I fantasize constantly about what would happen if 
we were completely alone somewhere, away from all our friends, 
and we could let ourselves go, and not pretend to be 

I can never get him out of my mind. It is now four years, and 
yet when he walks in the room, I still tense up. I can never relax 
when he's there. Other girls, many of them, have come and gone. 
All of them have been hurt by him, and I am the only one who is 
still a friend. He has strong ambitions, he wants to travel abroad 
and make a success of his career, and he has no time for a steady 
girl friend, much less a wife who will tie him down. There has 
always been a bond between us, and I only wish I had met him 
about five years from now when he had got settled in his career, 


because I think he is the only person who could fulfill all of my 
needs. He has more or less said the same to me. 

As it is, I am going to marry my boy friend. He will make a 
good husband and father, but I am afraid that I may go through 
the rest of my life feeling something is missing. 

Well, I hope that somewhere in this long, confused letter you 
can find something of use to you. It has been a relief to talk about 
it, anyway. [Letter] 


A few days after my wedding, I read about a young woman 
who on her honeymoon was taken every day to a tattooist by her 
husband, and during the two weeks they were staying there she 
had to agree to whatever her husband wanted, and she was 
tattooed on every part of her body. 

I don't know whether it is true or not, but I thought about it a 
lot and I even asked my husband if he would like to have me 
tattooed. He thought I was kinky or something and that he had 
married a crazy woman, so I never dared mention it again. 

Since then, whenever my husband fucks me I just think about 
being tattooed and I imagine myself having to strip and be 
tattooed without being asked if I want it or not. I think of what it 
would be like to have really cheeky words and pictures put on 
me. This gets me steamed up and really going and my husband 
thinks it is him that is getting me like that, and it is not at all. 

At one time I used to collect pictures of tattooed people and 
patterns that I thought would be nice as things to have done, but 
then I threw them away because I got frightened that he might 
find them. I really would like to be tattooed, but of course it is not 
possible. But just to think about it gets me going. Mostly though, 
it only happens when I am having it off with my husband; and 
there is another little thing: If I get too randy, I start rolling about, 


and if my husband loses it out of me he gets mad at me. So I have 
to be a bit careful. 

I have never told anyone else about this and I know you will 
think I am silly but it really does happen. [Letter] 



I may be making work for myself, defining differences in 
the emotions behind fantasy where they may not exist, setting up 
two rooms in the House of Fantasy where there could be one. It 
would be easier - certainly more obvious - to relegate Johanna 
(below) to the Rape Room, instead of arranging for a completely 
separate space just to satisfy her slightly different, though none 
the less real, sexual desires. 

But this House has no precedent, nor has my work, and 
therefore I choose to specify a whole separate area of fantasy that 
is occupied by fear. Not just ordinary fear, but the kind of total 
and complete terror that can be strangely sexual when you see it 
as leading to loss of control. It's the only way I can account for 
the different quality in the fantasies that follow. You don't have 
to be a psychiatrist to understand that for some women who never 
reach an orgasm, it may have to do with their fear of letting go, 
fear of the helplessness, the lack of control, that goes with or- 
gasm. ..you just have to be a woman. And for some women - 
especially highly independent, self-contained women like 
Johanna and Anne (below), who manage their lives unto 
themselves - the loss of this control must be terrifying, the 
experience of orgasm impossible without, and synonymous with, 
the terror. 

You don't have to have been "scared shitless" to know what it 
means. Continue the sensation of the pounding heart, the open 
mouth; the helpless, limp attitude of the body on to orgasm, and 
you're halfway to understanding the sexuality of fear for these 



During the time my husband and I were living just outside 
Mexico City, we met another couple who lived about a mile 
down the road, named Charles and Johanna. One day while 
Johanna and I were alone in their house, she opened a drawer; 
inside it was a gun. "Charles leaves it for me when I'm alone," 
she said. "I was once raped here, before we were married. 
Charles always makes sure I have it when he has to go away." 
More recently when I saw Johanna and asked if she would 
contribute to this book, I got more of the story. 

You could say that my inner sexual life still revolves around 
the rape I told you about. I don't think a day goes by without my 
remembering it. I was in this little house, where I was living 
alone before I met Charles. A man came in. He wasn't Mexican; 
I don't know what he was. He pretended that he was interested in 
selling me something, but I knew something was wrong. He 
asked if I was alone, but in such a smooth, easy way that he 
didn't frighten me. But maybe something in me was frightened. 
Because I almost knew before he did it what he was going to do 
next. He took a knife out with the same easy manner with which 
he had asked me if we were alone. He put the knife on the table, 
near his hand. Then he told me what he was going to do. He told 
me that he wasn't a pervert, and that if I did everything he said, 
he would not harm me. He even told me I would enjoy it. All the 
time he was talking, I could see the front of his trousers begin to 
bulge. I couldn't look him in the eyes. I kept my eyes down. He 
may have thought I was staring at the ground. I was watching 
that huge mound in the front of his trousers. I remember thinking 
what a cruel, powerful bulge it made. 

He told me to take off my clothes. I did, with one eye on my 
buttons, the other on the knife that was so close to his hand. 
Then, when I was naked, he told me to unzip his trousers. I did. 
"Take it out," he said, "and kiss it." I did. 


I didn't understand what I was doing. It all seemed so natural, 
it almost seemed as if I was in a hurry to help him. I did 
everything he told me. Then he told me to lie down on my back, 
on my work table, but with my feet on the floor. While I did it, he 
picked up the knife, and came to stand between my legs. "Spread 
them wider," he said, and as I did, he stepped between them even 
closer to me, and suddenly raising the knife above his head, 
plunged it point first into the table, right beside my hips. Then he 
knelt down in front of me, his two arms on either side of me, one 
hand still holding the knife that was stuck into the table, and he 
went down on me. I tried to think of how terrified I was, how 
much I hated him. But I felt myself becoming more and more 
excited. I closed my eyes and tried to turn from side to side, as if 
trying to get away from his tongue, but it was also to have that 
tongue touch different sides of me, inside. Once I opened my 
eyes. All I could see was the dark top of his head, his hair, and 
the hand holding the knife just beside me. Then I closed my eyes 
again, and I suddenly couldn't help it, I pulled his head right into 
me, pulled his tongue right into me as high as possible, and then 
I came, over and over again. 

The next thing I saw was his face. He was smiling. He was on 
top of me, still on the table. He was on me. "Put it in," he said, 
and I was now eager to do anything he said. With one hand I 
held the lips open, with the other I guided his erection right into 
me. I remember he wasn't very big around, but very long and 
slim. I wanted to feel it all the way inside me. In just a few 
thrusts I could feel him coming, and I came again, too. I had 
forgotten to think about how much I hated him. I could only think 
of his long thing, long and slim, all the way up and lost inside 
me, and I came and came again. Then the man just went away: 
Just as he had promised. 

I told my husband about what had happened before we were 
married, but I never told him how it made me feel. The time 
when this happened, I was going with a Mexican boy, and there 


was another man before I met Charles. Neither one had ever 
made me feel so sexually in heat the way that man did when he 
raped me. Neither has Charles. It's no good when I'm in bed 
with Charles, telling myself that I love him, and that I hate that 
other strange man. It just kills whatever erotic feelings I have. 
Other times, Charles can bring me to the point himself, and I 
don't have to think about that other man. 

But sometimes when I'm not really in the mood, and I know 
Charles is. . . or that funny kind of way that a really erotic mood 
will overtake you and then just drift away for no reason at 
all. . .that's when I deliberately think of that man. I close my eyes 
and imagine myself back on that table, with my legs hanging 
down from the knees over the edge, and him in between them. I 
remember how, much I hated him, and the, I don't know, the 
fear, the frenzy of the experience, and how I responded to it. 
Whenever I imagine that, I still respond the same way. Every 
time. [Taped interview] 


Anne is a widow and older than most of the other 
contributors in this book, and therefore her language is more 
restrained than most. But this does not mean that her life has 
been in any way less adventurous. 

Anne is a long-time friend of my husband's, who also knew 
her husband John very well until John's sudden accidental death. 
She works in the fringe land of the films, and is around movie 
people a great deal. She had been married once before and 
figured in a Hollywood divorce trial written up by all the 
newspapers in the early 1950's. "But once I met John, he was the 
only man for me, ever," she told me. Romantic talk, if a teen-ager 
had said it. But from a woman of Anne's experience and honesty, 
positively breathtaking. Nevertheless, she is such a vital, warm, 
attractive woman that I find it hard to understand why she has 


never remarried. I don't doubt that she's been asked, and I don't 
understand how such a sexual woman can live alone. 

I have always thought of Anne as the most intelligent, good, 
openminded woman I know... of any generation. She is fun to be 
with and never lays her problems on you, though she's got them. 
Her vivid stories of her own sexual-social explorations of twenty 
or thirty years ago stand up to anything I've seen in the past 
world-changing decade. If I ever thought that / was alone (i.e., 
not like the other girls) in my 1960's explorations, how very 
"different" Anne must have felt back there in the thirties. 

It's one thing to be the first girl on the block to smoke pot, take 
a lover, etc., but for all the zest that being an adventuress can 
bring, it can also bring, very early on, a seemingly contradictory 
feeling of the need for self-control. Mountain climbers have to be 
more careful than earth dwellers. At least, that's my explanation 
for my own late arrival to a full appreciation of sex. Anne, I am 
sure, has her own explanation. 

Now that I think of it, I find it difficult to describe. I mean 
what goes on in my mind during sex. I don't think I can ... I am 
in the dark, but it is not just dark of night; it's a blackness of 
infinite space. This is probably scientifically incorrect, because I 
guess the astronauts, the cosmonauts, whatever they are, find 
light. My own blackness is a more mythological thing . . . that 
"outer darkness" ... but it's not death. It's being way, way, far 
out somewhere in infinite space. I'm somehow in my body, but 
also outside of it. I'm liable at any second to fall down through 
infinite, unimaginable darkness, sort of like Lucifer . . . that's my 
second reference to Paradise Lost; I wonder what that means? 
Maybe another way to put it is that it's like falling out of a space 
rocket, only in absolute darkness. It's frightening and thrilling. I 
suppose that's what I think of men. Unless they're a little bit 
frightening ... without a touch of the devil, I don't find them 


thrilling. There... that explains all the Lucifer associations. He 
was supposed to be the most beautiful angel of all. 

I don't know why I should have this particular fantasy ... I 
certainly didn't deliberately choose it . . . because I have that fear 
of heights, what's it called? ... cannot look out of a plane 
window or even an office window high up in Rockefeller Center, 
never can go near the edge of anyone's penthouse terrace . . . am 
terrified because I want to jump. And I never had this until after I 
started to have really satisfactory sex relations. I suppose I never 
really understood that terrific loss of control, that falling down 
into you don't know what, that letting go of everything that 
orgasm brings. Before then, as a child and as a girl, I had no fear 
of heights, no frightening impulse to jump. I think that's it. The 
fear so many women have that they'll leap from the heights is 
some kind of desire to leap into orgasm. I suppose that's the 
connection. . .do you? [Taped interview] 


At full strength, the sensation of guilt contains an element 
of discovery, the possibility of being discovered. ..by someone. 
You could say, therefore, that fantasies wherein guilt is the 
motivating emotion belong in the Audience Room (I even think I 
have one there), where the desired fuel comes from the presence, 
or imminent presence, of other people. But guilt is too prevalent 
and powerful an emotion to be carried as an addendum to another 


idea. It can bring, all of its own, such vitality to sexual fantasy 
that I give it a room of its own. 

My own fantasies often ride high on the risk of doing the 
forbidden. I am by nature, like a lot of other women, what could 
be called "the faithful type," and for this type, men other than our 
husbands or current lovers are taboo. (This is simplistic language 
for defining both myself and the idea of fidelity, but I choose to 
be clear rather than analytically thorough.) For us, fantasies 
which involve us with this or that sexually attractive man in some 
compromising situation give us the desired sexual kick without 
the real guilt; in fact, guilt, the deterrent in reality, has been 
transformed by harmless fantasy into guilt the exciter. We win 
both ways. 

Some people rob banks for the sheer thrill of getting away with 
it. Or, to put it another way, for the excitement of maybe being 
caught. In every suspense-thriller the clock ticks ominously. . it is 
only a matter of time. This idea of time running out on the guilty 
act heightens everything. It's especially so when the guilty act is 
sex. Whether it's the illicit affair in reality (the only sort some 
women enjoy) or the forbidden sex in fantasy, with both it's only 
a matter of time before that time runs out, before the whistle 
blows, the footsteps come closer, the bedroom door is opened and 
the discovery made. In fantasy, time is on guilt's (sex's) side, in 
that it adds to the thrill by threatening to run out. You only have 
to think of the added charge in a shipboard romance, summer 
love, sex in another town. To really appreciate the thrill of guilt, 
add the element of "stolen" love to "September Song." 


I am hiding from the others. We are playing a game of 
sardines and I have been given a head start to find a hiding place. 
At the top of the house I have found an empty room with only a 
bed in it. Quickly, in the dark, I slide under the bed and wait for 


the others to find me; their voices are very distant now. They are 
far away, except for one pair of footsteps, one person, who is 
getting closer and closer. He comes in such a direct line toward 
me, it's as though he knew where I was, as if I had left him a 
trail, a scent. As if we had planned this hiding place together. I 
catch my breath, my heart pounding, because I know who it is, 
the one person in the group I want to have find me, to find me 
before the others. It has to be him. I will it to be him. 

He comes straight to the room, quietly and quickly so the 
others won't hear him, and slides under the bed beside me in the 
darkness. We lie together, hardly breathing, our hands beginning 
to move over one another. Hands that have never before touched 
me move all over me. Hands I put a face to in my mind, that face 
I've always found exciting but that was never mine to kiss. I 
hardly dare breathe as I listen for the others' voices, moving in 
and then away as they explore room after distant room. We both 
move slowly. My skin is alive, the excitement running all through 
me as my own hands help him to ease up my sweater, direct his 
mouth to my breast. I help him work the zip on the back of my 
pants, and then with the most incredible daring I push my 
buttocks up and his head down. His mouth caresses me all over. 
My hands, braver and braver in the dark, move over him, find his 
erection like a rock, and all the while we seem to move in slow 
motion on this bare floor, scarcely breathing, our bodies moving 
against the background noise of the voices on the floor below. 
They are calling to one another, "Have you found them?" Then 
calling my name, "Emma! Where are you, Emma?" With every 
step they move closer. The louder their approaching voices get, 
the more urgent our bodies grow. They laugh and call to one 
another, suggesting places I may have hidden; they are aware 
now that we are the only two missing. Then their voices fade and 
I pray, dear God, don't let them find us yetl Then I hear my boy 
friend Larry's voice, and though there is not a note of suspicion in 
it, the fear and anxiety I feel make me hotter, make me do the 


most incredible things with this man whom I hardly know. Now 
there is nothing I wouldn't let him do to me; even pain, even 
words in my ear that no man has ever said. "More." My own 
whisper is in my ear. "More!" I demand of him and I am wet 
through before he is quite in me. We are like two conspirators in 
the dark, breathing so hard it seems incredible they can't hear us. 
Now that they know we are together, the search takes on new 
urgency. "What are you two up to? Where are you?" they call, 
laughing, teasing now. Their urgency becomes ours, hidden, 
sopping wet all over now with one another's sweat, with our 
clothes half on and half off. . .how will we explain to the others? 
But it's too late for that now. There are footsteps on the stairs, 
someone's found the little door that leads to the attic. It's just one 
pair of footsteps coming. We need more time, just seconds. We 
hear the searcher stumble in the dark, and as the cock inside me 
thrusts deeper and deeper, my teeth are tearing the skin on my 
lower lip and our fucking is paced in doubletime to the steps 
outside in the dark, coming closer and closer, as we get closer 
and closer to something we can no longer avoid. Now as I know 
it is beyond my control, I also know that the person coming is 
Larry. He calls down,to the others below that he thinks he's 
found us. As the footsteps and voices move closer and closer, so 
do we, until I come. [Written down on request] 


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. 


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] 


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 


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 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 


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." 


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. 


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 - we were 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. 


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. 


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 


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


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 

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, 


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. 

It's important to me how the guy talks about what we're 
doing: I like to hear the word "fucking," and even more, "balling" 
(calling it "cunting" would be absurd, wouldn't it? Whereas 
"intercourse" is too scientific and detached, and "making love" is 
too liberal and has become an offensive cliche, though if I really 
love somebody, "making love" is not offensive as long as both 
people understand that it's also fucking... then it really feels like 
making love). But I love to get myself worked up thinking or 
saying things like fuck, cunt, cock, dick, tits, sucking, 
cocking. . .it really makes me feel good and lewd, just so long as 
it's natural and doesn't sound like we're trying too hard, using 
these words. 

When I'm really into a fantasy, really into fucking, I love 
sucking a man - although my arm and hand and mouth 
sometimes get tired and I hate getting that choking feeling in the 
throat - and when I'm really aroused I like him to come in my 
mouth, in my hair, in my eyes, on my tits, on my ass, etc. When 
this happens I can imagine that he is doing the same thing to me: 
licking my nipples, running his tongue down the middle of my 
stomach down to my crotch, licking my clitoris and then right up 
my back. Do you understand? In my fantasy I can change the 
whole thing around, and that's great. 


As for my lesbian fantasies: girls that turn me on the most are 
not usually friends but relative strangers. They are not necessarily 
"pretty"; usually slender, feminine, but not "cutesy pie"; often 
tomboyish; occasionally mysterious or gypsylike in appearance. 
Sometimes a super-bitch appearance turns me on. (Very 
fascinated to watch superfeminine idiotic types or super-feminine 
cool sexy type... but I can't really fantasize this type in sexual 
activity with me. Not particularly turned on by "Mother Earth" or 
clean-cut cold look.) I've always fantasized about making it with 
this kind of women. In high school I used to parade around my 
room by myself with a very tight sweater on, having stuffed my 
mother's bra with Kleenex (although I was very modest in 
public). I've had three real sexual experiences with women. 
Usually I have to fantasize that they are men, or I think about the 
time I felt up this crazy chick in a car (I loved her tits!); I think 
about them when I'm with a girl... those tits. The last time was 
with a real lesbian, for whom I felt a kind of compassion. I tried 
thinking of myself as the aggressor, but it just didn't work. 

Now for my fantasies and sex since LSD. I should mention 
that I was a virgin until I was twenty-one. I'd had this strong 
feeling that "being felt up" or screwing would make me 
considered to be a whore. I really wanted to be respected. It 
seemed to me that all guys had this double 

standard: they wanted me to give in, but if I had, they'd have 
thought me a whore. Finally, when I was seventeen, a guy forced 
me to feel him up - he tore off my blouse and played with me - 
and I did it - jerked him off - but I felt a total disgust and hatred. 
Then, when I was twenty-one, I met this guy I loved (not my 
husband) and we took LSD and fucked. It was unlike anything 
that had ever happened before: I had none of those feelings of 
"dirtiness." My mind wasn't really thinking about the sexual 
organs; I lost myself in a very tangible, three-dimensional, 
colorful, blissful something I can't describe. For the first time I 
had this strong feeling that this was another human being that I 


loved it was a kind of fantasy in that it all went on in my mind. It 
was what I was thinking more than feeling with my body that 
made it all so beautiful, and I felt good and not at all paranoid. 
For the first time I wanted to make love to everything in the 
universe (very unlike me). After that first trip, whenever I was 
fucking I'd remember the images in my head when I'd done it the 
first time, the thoughts of love, of thinking love, and I began to 
have orgasms. Then I had a bad trip on LSD, and for the next six 
months I had, maybe, one half an orgasm. 

After that, I tried thinking my old lewd thoughts: I'd think 
about the guy who'd once stuck a hose up my cunt, and a wine 
bottle (pouring in the wine). It wasn't that I'd enjoyed these 
things, but thinking about it later made me feel very liberated in 
the sense of letting go, trying new things, and loving a relative 
stranger as a human, a man whom I really didn't like. I didn't 
think about him, but the fact that we were doing such weird 
things, it made me feel better, more relaxed about myself and 
other people. Once I had a fantasy about hitchhiking, of being 
picked up by a dirty old man and being raped; I thought that if I 
made love to him and loved him, then it wouldn't have to be 
rape; it was an exciting idea, and I rethought it when I was with 
other guys; it made me enjoy their fucking more. 

I really think your book is a good idea, since nonfictional 
female sexual fantasies and experiences are rarely openly 
discussed. They are usually only in works of fiction written by 
men. Thank you. [Letter] 



The letters in the words above this room should be woven in 
wheat, or embroidered by hand onto a baby-blue sampler. They 
axe that homey and acceptable. Images of fertility rites, even the 
fantasy of a matriarchal society where men are fed to satisfy 
women's sexual appetites, (as in Marina's fantasy below, are 
close enough to mythology and to "nature" to be as acceptable as, 
for instance, Grimm's fairy tales - which, despite fashionable 
psychoanalytic horror at their content, nevertheless put children 
to sleep. 

Many women do, in fact, live the earth mother fantasy from 
day to day without arousing anxiety in anyone. Of all women's 
sexual fantasies, those that depend on the idea of woman as the 
symbol of fertility are probably the least threatening to both men 
and women. Other women - women other than the fantasist - 
even breathe a sigh of jealousy-free relief at such a Ceres, who is 
usually so all-accepting as to be almost sexless. This accounts, I 
suppose, for the many mothers who pray that their daughters 
(should they fall into such a House) would go straight to this 

But for all its Mother's Oats cycle-of-life connotations, the 
image of fertility is as potent to some women as the idea of 
watching a girl being fucked by an Alsatian might be to the 
average Playboy reader. 


Vivian works part time as a secretary for a friend of mine 
who runs a theatrical production company from his home. She 
works for him in the evenings and has a fulltime job during the 
day. She is saving to go to medical school, "but when I start, I 
want to have enough money saved so that I can concentrate 


entirely on medicine," she says, "and not have to hassle for 
money." Her mother and father died in an auto accident, and she 
lives with a maiden aunt. She is twenty-one, pretty in an 
unfashionable scrubbed kind of way, and very intense. 

I had this fantasy the very first time I had sex. Jimmy was the 
first man for me. He's still the only one, but no matter who I 
sleep with later on, I think I'll always have these thoughts I have 
with Jimmy. They just seem to automatically spring to mind 
whenever I open my legs. 

Anyway, that first night, I don't think we slept very much. 
We'd had some grass, and so I can't remember just how many 
times. It didn't hurt a bit and there was hardly any bleeding. 
Maybe the second or third time that night, he put me into this 
position; I think it's the position that inspired this idea in the first 
place, the idea that I was being planted. I mean, you can't have 
the feeling that you're being planted unless your cunt is pointed 
straight up at the sky, can you? Because that's what it was: I was 
lying on my back, all my weight on my shoulders, really, with my 
legs straight up and over his shoulders. He was high above me - 
I remember looking up and seeing him looming large over me 
and coming down into me, boring down on me. Straight down 
into me. Not a frightening picture - on the contrary, I felt very 
large and accommodating, very wide and open, waiting for him 
to fill me up with his thrust. Waiting for him to plant seed like I 
was a large, warm, fertile hole in the earth, there just for him, just 
for that purpose, to be planted. I was the earth and I was the hole 
in the earth. In fact, I was all hole, and he, he was like some great 
International Harvester Seed Planter moving down the field, me, 
moving from hole to hole with each thrust. And I was all the 
holes, I was the earth. I was planted again and again. It was so 
exciting... and so, well, so right, so natural. Lying there on my 
back with my legs up in the air, my feet facing the ceiling, it 
seemed, at last, the most natural position in the world. And to be 
fucked, to be planted by an earth planting machine, this 


enormous International Harvester that could plunge deeper into 
the earth than anything, could fill me up and leave me planted, 
ripe... that was it, I guess: not just the excitement of being 
planted, but of knowing that with each thrust I would be left 
whole, complete. Can you understand that? It wasn't the machine 
that was exciting - though the inexorable size of it was. What 
was exciting was the seed part. Or me being the earth. God, I 
don't know. . .but I love that feeling. [Taped interview] 


Marina belongs more to her nomadic social set than to any 
country. Now she lives in Boston. Last year it was Paris. Her 
current lover is an Italian banker: her former an English lord. The 
only thing they have in common is that each is almost three times 
her age. She is twenty. Her mother is French, her father Swiss, 
her bank balance high. For all the miles she's packed into her 
life, she remains incredibly naive. She speaks half a dozen 
languages and works for an ad agency. 

I had masturbated systematically from a very early age, around 
three, I think, and so much and so often that my parents 
consulted a doctor about it. As a child, I used to think of a 
favorite friend or playmate, or a beautiful lady neighbor of ours, 
whom I worshipped at the time. Around nine or ten, I started to 
be aware 9f men and think of them while masturbating. I had a 
vague idea of what lovemaking was, but it stopped at French 
kissing. My ignorance was set right by a girl friend, also aged ten 
- children mature very early around the Mediterranean - whose 
father was a gynecologist, so she was obviously au courant. I 
remember we were munching grapes by a stream in my parents' 
country place on a sweltering summer day, and constantly, 
obsessively discussing boys, boys, boys, love, love, love, kissing, 
necking, petting. . .Then she said did I know what really happens 
between men and women, and how, and she told me, more than 


lucidly. Immediately I thought: "But that must be like 
masturbation, only instead of rolled sheets, my favorite tool, there 
would be juicy, moist flesh." The prospects seemed heady, and I 
started floating on a lovely haze of possibilities. "And if you'd 
really like to know what it feels like," she continued, "the thing to 
do is to get a kettle, fill it with warm, but not too hot, water, open 
your legs really wide, and slowly pour it in.". There was no time 
to be lost. We both rushed indoors, pinched Mummy's best 
Russian silver, teapot, locked ourselves in the bath, sat at 
opposite ens of the bathtub with legs wide open, and took turns at 
pouring the contents of the teapot all over our clitorises, while 
caressing our bodies with infallible, instinctive verve. I thought of 
myself alternately as Mother Earth, watered by fertility rain, in a 
lovely ritual in Eygpt, or Crete, and an autocratic empress, who 
sampled all the young men of her kingdom at the beginning of 
spring, to renew herself. (All were handsome because I'd 
exterminated the others.) I can't tell you what my friend thought, 
as I was lost in self -absorption. [Written down on request] 


Each of the remaining rooms in the House of Fantasy 
depends upon the presence or embodiment of a specific fantasy 
character or characters in order for the female client to fully enjoy 
her fantasies. I start with the Incest Room because, despite Dr. 
Freud's casual disinterest in the female equivalent of Oedipus, 
for women the first sexual imagery of fathers, brothers, etc., is 
often the most potent and lasting. It was interesting, I think, that 
though Freud at first accepted as fact his female hysterics' tales 
of rape by fathers, stepfathers, or older brothers (and became 
concerned should the Austro-Hungarian, Empire be founded on 


the sick secret saga of daughter-rape), he later came to view these 
tales as the fantasies of women brought up under the paternal 
dictatorship of an age when the image of the Man of the House 
was so strong as to present an almost unconquerable unconscious 
rival for any man who came along later. 

I am not qualified to discuss the psychological significance of 
incest, pro or con, even as fantasy. But I do think - despite the 
relative lack of evidence or interest in literature - that women can 
have as strong an incestuous preoccupation as men. Not all 
Sunday-mornings-in-bed-with-Mom-and-Dad have to end as 
traumatically as Bella's, below, but I can't help wondering how 
many seeds fore later fantasy are sown in this kind of family 
romp; the adults may be satisfying some very grown-up, 
harmless image of their own, may have very clear and controlled 
ideas as to just what is going on with the whole family in their 
marital bed, but what about the children? 


I am a thirty-two-year-old registered nurse working in a 
London hospital. I have one son almost fourteen. I was pregnant 
when I was married. My husband is a doctor. 

My own fantasy is so shocking to me that it has been a lifelong 
secret, and only because it has taken a new twist have I decided 
to write it down to get some of it out of my system. My fantasies 
revolve around incest, almost any kind of incest, and over the 
years I have sought out every: bit of information I could about 
"incest," and know all the Greek m y ths w here it occurs. T o make 
a man sexy to my self I just im agine him a memberofmy family. 

I make friends m ore firm ly if they happen to show interest in 
my subject, and one affair some years ago was almost 
incestuously inspired. It happened in a Midlands hospital. I was 
looking after a\nice young man, a probation officer, who had 
been in a car accident. Among his cases was a father who had 


come out of prison after giving his daughter a baby. The law 
would not allow them to live in the same house, though they had 
recommenced sexual relations. The probation officer was happy 
so long as the girl remained on the pill. I talked to him at night 
and most of our conversation was on my favorite subject. One 
night, when we were both excited, he asked for a bottle. I put 
screens round his bed and put the bottle under the bedclothes. I 
took hold of his penis, which was exceptionally large, and held it 
for a few moments. It became such an erection that it would not 
enter the bottle. I began to masturbate him gently, and when I felt 
him go rigid, I kissed him as I felt his semen spurt along his 
shaft. I caught most of his semen in the bottle and our lips parted. 
He said, "Thank you, Sister." I replied, "Oh, Brother," and a sex- 
ual link was established. As he got better, I had intercourse with 
him many times and we always called each other sister and 

But my principal fantasies have always been about my father. I 
was an only child and had a good home, receiving lots of 
affection from my parents, especially my father. He has, since I 
was about eight years old, been my fantasy lover during 

Dad went to work very early, six days a week, and as a child, 
when I went to my parents' bed in the mornings, it was only on 
Sundays that both parents were in bed. This particular Sunday 
morning, I know I must have been eight, because the Sunday 
papers carried news of a hotel being bombed in Jerusalem, and 
this was in the summer of 1946. I was in bed only a short while 
with my parents when my mother decided to get up and go to a 
nearby farmhouse for some fresh milk. Alone in bed with Dad, I 
had a wrestling match with him. I remember enjoying the 
cuddles and embraces as Dad tried to subdue me and then he 
decided, I suppose, to let me win. He lay on his back, his 
pajamas were undone, my own nightie was up around my waist, 
and when I straddled and sat on my father, my naked pubic area 


came down on my Dad's very large and, I now know, erect penis. 
It was like sitting astride a broom handle. At first it lay flat 
against my Dad's tummy. I rocked my bottom back and forward 
while Dad lay very still. It was at this precise moment I learned 
to masturbate. Eventually Dad reached for a hankie and rolled me 
off him. He got out of bed and dressed in the bathroom. I 
continued to lie in bed and touch myself lovingly with my fingers. 
I then began to do this all the time in bed or when I was alone in 
the house, always thinking of that hard thing Daddy had, and 
how nice it would be to feel it between my legs again. But this 
was not to happen. Every other Sunday morning I went to my 
parents' bed, but Dad was already up and about. As I began to 
learn more about sex from other kids at school, I became more 
adventurous in my fantasies, until they settled into a set pattern 
when I was almost thirteen. 

It was at this age that I was playing around with a slightly 
older girl. She talked a lot about sex and one day told me her big 
secret, that was having sex with a much older married brother. 
She told me what the word "incest" meant; part of the sex she 
explained was fellatio. She said how she loved to do this to her 
brother, and how he sometimes went down on her privates as 

With this new information buzzing in my brain, I was out for a 
walk with my Dad one Sunday afternoon. Deep in the woods he 
decided he wanted to urinate and did so against a tree. But he 
turned toward me before he put his penis back in his trousers, 
and I gazed for a few loving seconds at my Dad's beautiful 
monster. It has remained the main erotic feature of my 
masturbatory fantasies ever since. 

All I have to do is imagine myself walling in a silent woods, 
and I can almost feel that my Dad is somewhere else in that 
woods, and that if I can almost hold my breath long enough, 
we'll meet. The way I meet him is always the same. I turn a 
corner or come around a tree, and there he is, with his back to 


me, peeing against a tree. Then he turns around toward me, his 
penis still out and being held in his hand to guide the stream of 
pee. I find this too exciting to write about even now, and find 
myself thinking about my Dad even in real life. 

Please open up the subject of incest. Is there any cure? Is there 
the same risk of prosecution in this permissive age? I know I 
can't hold out much longer. I'm certain that if I tried this 
experiment, the shame would kill me, but other times what 
frightens me even more is the idea that I would become even 
more deeply involved with him. [Letter] 


I'm in my apartment. I'm not really a call girl, but I am 
certainly someone who is experienced in the sexual arts. The 
doorbell rings and it is this father and his son. The father has 
been a lover of mine and I have given hire what no other woman 
has: I have given him the ultimate in sexual pleasure. (I am a 
giver, I mean, I think of myself as a giver in both real life and 
fantasy; that's what I mean when I say I'm not a call girl in this 
fantasy: I don't get paid for it.) So the father comes in and says, 
"This is my fourteen-year-old son, and I want him to be as adept 
as I am, as I think I am, and I want you to teach him everything 
you know." 

So the son and I begin, the father sitting there watching as I 
undress the boy, caress him, totally initiate him. But it's not the 
boy that excites me in this fantasy, it isn't the idea of having a 
young boy, it's the idea of being watched by the father. I don't 
know if it's voyeurism, or if having the father there, having him 
bring his son to me, is some kind of sexual approval. Or if it's 
having him watch the son, watch me with the son. Part of the 
excitement is that he's brought the son to me. That of all the 
women in the world, he has picked me to initiate the boy. Or 


maybe the real turn-on is incest. Because I also like to 
fantasizefamily orgies. Not my family, but whole families, 
mothers, fathers, daughters, and sons, all come to this flat of 
mine. Yes, my husband is here, too, but a faceless husband. 
Everybody performs on everybody: The mothers show me what 
they've been doing to their daughters, and to their sons; and the 
fathers to the daughters... everybody! And it's a very happy 
scene, very happy, very sensual. The family that fucks together 
stays together. . .1 guess that's the message. [Taped interview] 


I was pregnant when I got married at seventeen. But as I'd 
begn fucking when I was fourteen, I'd had a good', three years of 
fun playing around on my own. ..all of which I owe to my two 
brothers. One was a year older than me and the other a year 
younger. What happened was one day they found me messing 
about quite innocently with some boys at school. They 
blackmailed me, threatening all sorts of things; they said that if I 
didn't go all the way with those boys - and let them watch - 
they'd, tell our parents what I'd been up to. Since what I'd been 
up to was far more innocent than what they wanted me to do, I 
don't know why I gave in to their threats. I suppose because I 
quite simply wanted to be fucked. I remember; my brothers 
standing on the sidelines, instructing the other boys how to "do" 
me (we were all virgins at that point), and I remember to this day 
the combination of fear and: excitement that their presence added 
to what was happening. Although neither of my brothers ever 
entered me themselves, they do in my fantasies, they always 

After that blackmail episode I used to lie awake at nights, 
alone in my bed at home, and imagine that my brothers were 
creeping through the house toward my room. Every sound in the 
quiet house was like their footsteps. Often I would imagine the 


two of them coming fore me together. They would get into the 
bed on either side of me. I remember one night in particular, 
when I was just past fourteen, when I was lying there, thinking of 
my oldest brother's prick - I had, of course, seen it - and 
imagining it going into me and growing in me. Suddenly I could 
not seem to control myself, and I was certain that the noise I was 
making - I was actually whimpering out loudwas bound to wake 
my parents up. But I put my hand over my mouth - imagining it 
was my youngest brother, while I masturbated with the other 
hand - imagining that was my older brother. I seemed to be 
flogging myself almost into a state of unconsciousness. The more 
I thought about how wrong the whole act was that I was 
imagining, the more exciting it became. 

Even to this day when I'm being fucked - and I'm fifty-one - I 
imagine one of my brothers standing over mejust as it really 
happened that time they forced me - while I pretend it is the other 
one fucking me. The one standing has his prick exposed, and I 
play with it (while the other is inside me) until he comes all over 
my face. Then they switch positions and we continue until we are 
all satisfied. 

Sometimes I include my brothers' wives in my fantasies, 
making it a larger family scene, and I imagine the pleasure my 
husband could give those women while I'm having it off with 
their husbands, my darling brothers. But usually it's just me and 
the boys. Are you shocked? You shouldn't be; more of this sort of 
thing goes on in reality than you imagine. I know. And not just in 
poor families, as mine was. Brothers and sisters... well, it 
happens in the best of families. [Conversation] 



Nice friendly doggies are everywhere. Even if you don't 
have one, the neighbors do. And Rover is a more perfect 
gentleman than most: he'll never look surprised at something you 
may ask him to do, never make you feel ashamed, and will never, 
never talk. Is it surprising then that of all animals, dogs star most 
frequently in female sexual fantasies, and that with good old 
Rover around the house all the time, dog fantasies are the ones 
most often acted out in reality? 

Dogs bring a very important, blameless quality to fantasy: it's 
never your fault, or the dog's either, really; doggies have such 
big, naturally inquisitive noses, and before you can do anything 
about it, doggies' big wet tongues automatically dart out and lick 
anything that smells "that way." That's putting it in simple 
primer language, which is just where it all begins - with little 
girls with private parts that no one, possibly not even the little 
girl herself, has ever touched. The nice family bowwow comes 
along, sniffsniff, and presses the buzzer. Zing! The first sexual 
thrill of a lifetime has been touched off by Rover. It doesn't 
matter whether the little girl lets him continue (and more do than 
you'd think, I bet); the memory of that first lick of pleasure can 
stay with a woman for life. Later, hopefully, when she has 
discovered with a loving man or through masturbation the full 
potential of her clitoris, the dog with his remembered, natural 
expertise (if she had let him continue), or with her imaginative 
fantasizing of it (if she had not), can remain an exciting sexual 
variation, laced with all the taboo quality that only the silent 
complicity of an animal can bring. 

As for the other popular family pet, cats, well, my research 
indicates that they just don't make it as sexual fantasy pets. 
Perhaps because they aren't sniffers, or their tongues are too 
small, or they don't have that very male member hanging down 
(oh, so visibly) between their legs - an image, especially with its 


aroused "red tip" that is evocative and exciting to women in 
reality and fantasy. As Libby put it: "My lover has suggested that 
we rub cod liver oil on my clitoris and let our cat lick it off. This 
idea does not appeal to me. A dog, maybe, but not a cat." But 
obvious studs like donkeys and bulls, with their not-to-be missed 
pricks, are another story. 

With the farmyard animals there is no licking, no clitoral 
stimulation either in fantasy or fact. I don't think there are many 
women who have actually been fucked by a bull or a donkey, 
either - though it is supposed to be not entirely unknown at 
"stag" (ah!) dinners. With barnyard studs, imagined or not, it's 
all about the visible turn-on of the prick, the incredible size of it 
more than anything. Imagine something that big - which you 
reacted to with such fascination, at least the first time you saw it, 
even if you almost immediately glanced away with 
embarrassment - imagine that penetrating you! How can a 
woman look at a prick that big and not imagine it going into her? 
It's like looking at a racing car and ignoring the thrill of speed. I 
don't think it's literally a desire to be fucked by these animals, 
simply an attempt to imagine what it would be like to have so 
much prick "filling" you up. In fantasy and reality, women 
repeatedly refer to "being filled"; perhaps it's a woman's way of 
expressing her sexual desire for more. But since everyone knows 
that unless the man is abnormally small, it isn't penis size that 
really matters, I think this female cry only uses size as a kind of 
visible metaphor to express a desire for greater sex, completer 
sex, the essence of sex. Advertisers have found that the public 
responds when they call their product "the coffee-ier coffee" and 
"the chocolate-ier chocolate." Should it be any surprise then that 
women desire sexier sex? 



I often have this fantasy when I'm alone, or with time on my 
hands, or even when I'm making love with my husband. 

I am alone in the house. My husband has left for work. I begin 
my housework downstairs, clearing the dishes from the dining 
room into the kitchen. I take off my nightgown and housecoat 
and work in the nude. While I work, the neighbor's dog follows 
me. He always comes over to visit. I take no notice of him, but 
his wet nose and warm breath move between my legs whenever I 
pause. Briefly I will let my legs part, and his tongue will dart out 
and lick me while I continue my chores as though he weren't 
even there. I keep moving about, not giving him or me too much. 
Slowly, as if not noticing, I let him have more: now two licks, 
increasing to three, four, his nose burrowing into my privates as I 
allow him to get at me for longer and longer periods. Suddenly he 
tires of the game and stops following, just as I have finished 
cleaning all the downstairs rooms. Except the kitchen. I always 
save the kitchen for last. 

Quickly I call him as I go into the kitchen, and when he's in I 
close the door so he can't get out. Now I speed up. I don't want 
him to lose interest. I get down a bowl and a box of Betty 
Crocker chocolate cake, my husband's favorite. I mix up the 
batter quickly, and put half the mixture into a cake tin so we'll 
have at least a one-layer cake for dessert that night. The other half 
I smear across my breasts, and as I bend down to put the cake in 
the oven I let the dog lick the batter from my breasts. With my 
finger I scrape up batter and keep spreading it on my nipples so 
that he lingers on them, lapping at them until they ache, until I 
ache. Now I go to the refrigerator, take out the butter for the 
icing, and from the cupboard I take down the sugar and a small 
bottle of Bovril. I sit on the kitchen chair to blend the sugar and 
butter, right beside the kitchen table with the bowl in my lap. I 
smear my cunt inside and out with the Bovril, and as I stir the 


sugar and butter, the dog nestles between my legs and licks me. I 
hug the bowl to me, working on it, smoother and smoother. I am 
slumped in the chair now, my legs spread far apart, the large 
bowl obscuring the dog. The warm sweet smell of cake baking 
fills the kitchen. Inside the oven, through the glass partition in the 
oven door, I can see the cake slowly rising. My finger dips again 
and again into the Bovril jar, smearing my cunt so that the dog 
licks harder and harder, going from side to side now, excitedly 
working around me as he might worry a bone. The sweet smell of 
cake fills my head as I imagine the bright red thing of the dog's 
slipping in and out of his penis sheath. The cake is getting larger 
and larger in the oven, so that it seems about to fill the oven, to 
push open the door and explode into the room, engulfing us in its 
sweet warmth. I pray that the dog will not stop and that the cake 
will not explode all over my nice clean kitchen before my 
husband gets home, before I am ready, before I have finished, 
before the dog has finished. . . . [Written down on request] 


My first sexual feeling that I can remember was one day, while 
playing with my dog, I suddenly wanted it to lick my cunt. But as 
suddenly as I thought it, I pushed the dog away and felt very 
guilty. Now, years later, I do rather fancy at times having sex 
with a dog, or letting it lick me. But only in my mind that is, the 
idea of it excites me, but I would never actually do anything 
about it. [Letter] 


Once when I was about fifteen, I went downstairs in the 
morning to get breakfast completely naked. It was summer and 
my parents were out, and it just felt good to walk around that big 
empty house naked. The dog was in the kitchen and he woke up 


and began to bark, then he started to nuzzle up and sniff me (he 
was only a young dog, not very well trained and a bit stupid). I 
suddenly realized that the dog had this huge hard-on, and he kept 
trying to climb up me. I think I was fascinated and I kept 
stroking him. Half of me wanted to let him - let him do what? at 
that age I didn't really know what he'd do - and the other half 
was ashamed. But God, it was a strong impulse, to close my eyes 
and let his nose go where it would. I've always wondered what it 
would have been like if I hadn't got on with my breakfast. I've 
elaborated the picture a thousand different ways, complete with 
the dog's prick inside me, and my family walking in on the 
scene. . .you name it. [Letter] 


My fantasy begins with two men breaking into my cottage, 
making me dress, and carrying me off blindfolded. I end up in a 
big farmhouse, and my blindfold is taken off. I find myself in a 
room in which there are three couples, including a man and 
woman who put donkeys to stud. I find out that they are part of a 
group who hold wife-swapping, free-for-all parties every month 
at each house in turn. It is the responsibility of each hostess to 
provide sexual entertainment. 

I am stood up in the middle of the room and they hold a mock 
court. I am accused of being a peeping Tom, of watching the man 
and woman manually mate two donkeys. This is a terrible 
offense, and I am found guilty and sentenced to be fucked by the 
donkey and also to be the slave girl at the party. I must do 
everyone's bidding or be whipped. 

All the couples are high on drugs and drink and they carry me 
off to the stable where the donkey is; it is very well lighted. They 
strip me naked and make me put on long black nylons and a 
suspender belt and lead me over to a low table, where I am made 
to kneel on all fours and open my legs wide. There are straps 


fastened to the table, and they put these around my arms and legs 
so I cannot move. There have obviously been other girls here 
before me. To the cries and catcalls of the couples, the woman 
leads the donkey up behind me. She has pulled into place a 
wooden frame above my backside and lifts the donkey's front 
legs onto this. Then I feel someone spreading grease around my 
cunt and right up the hole. They must have played with the 
donkey's prick to make it stiff, as I feel the hard stiff shaft against 
my ass as they pull it toward me. I feel the long knob end against 
the lips of my cunt. It forces them apart and begins to enter my 
hole as the woman guides it up me. I let out a cry of pain as it 
stretches the walls of my cunt. Inch by inch it slowly goes in and 
begins painfully moving up and back, in and out. The donkey's 
prick has been well greased, and after a few abrasive thrusts the 
fucking rhythm becomes easier. When they have about six inches 
of the donkey's prick up into me, they hold me still while the 
donkey pushes his massive prick up and down my cunt just like a 
piston: I wouldn't have believed it possible, but I am being 
fucked by a donkey! 

Nimble fingers from the crowd feel around my cunt to feel the 
donkey's prick sliding up and down in me. The fingers begin 
massaging my hard clitoris, which is hanging down with 
excitement, and I am really excited now. Hands finger my vagina 
and breasts, squeezing and fondling them, and just as I am 
overcome with excitement and reaching my orgasm, the donkey 
gives a sound. The woman knows what is happening and holds 
the donkey's prick inside my cunt. I feel it throbbing in me as it 
begins tossing off, and she puts her hand around the entrance to 
my cunt. She can feel the donkey's throbbing prick pumping its 
hot spunk into me. The donkey has just beaten me to it, as I was 
just on the point of having my own climax when he did. My cunt 
is on fire as his juices squirt up me. After a while I feel the prick 
getting soft, and immediately the woman pulls the donkey's prick 
out of my cunt. Immediately my cunt is unplugged, the donkey's 


spunk pours out of my cunt in a stream. I look down between my 
open legs and see the juices streaming out just like a waterfall. 
Someone holds a basin between my legs to catch the juices. My 
cunt feels so big after being stretched by the donkey's prick; now 
it feels like my insides are dripping out. It is so sore and I feel the 
dripping will never stop. Then someone kneels down behind me 
and begins to lick my cunt dry of the donkey's spunk and quickly 
to drink all of my own juices which now pour out. [Letter] 


The black man is cut out for sexual fantasy. Everything 
about him, real and imagined, throws fuel on the fire: He's 
forbidden because of his color; his cock has been endowed with 
mythic proportions; and the story's been around for years that his 
expertise at fucking comes close to black magic. 

All black people are promiscuous. ..white people think. 
They're always fucking or they're about to. They reek of 
sexuality. The most loaded question in the contemporary 
bedroom after "What are you thinking about?" is "Have you ever 
made it with a black man/woman?" Most (white) women 
haven't, and for obvious reasons. But in their fantasies they do, 
and everything that worked against it ever happening in reality 
adds mileage to the fantasy. 

The first thing a woman does in the black -man fantasy is to 
remove the guilt by making it a rape. Being raped allows her to 
throw her (helpless) self more wholeheartedly into the act, so that 
every determined thrust can be read as one of struggling protest. 
After that, the black man's rumored skill and size can go to work 
on her. (I can't help wondering how rough all this advance 


billing must be on the black man in reality; it's a great deal to 
live up to, whether or not his desire for the forbidden white 
woman is as strong as the real cases of alleged rape would have 
you believe. Whenever I read of a white woman yelling "Rape!" I 
half suspect her cry was more an accusation of disappointment 
than a protest against her black assailant.) 

Size is the real power of the black -man fantasy. It's never just 
a black man, it's a big black man. Never just a black cock but an 
enormous black cock. Though size is everything, I don't think the 
fantasist wants to really be fucked by a black cock the size of a 
baseball bat. ..unless pain is an added turn-on. As with the 
fantasies of stud animals, I think the idea of more cock, of so 
much cock, is an expression of the wish for more of everything 
sexual; the exaggerated size, the attack by something bigger than 
life, represent the wish to know something bigger than her life. 
She doesn't want to have her cunt enlarged, but to have her 
whole sexuality enlarged; to be filled, yes, but to be sexually 
fulfilled too - to know more, to feel more, to have more novelty 
and experience under her belt, thanks to the life-enhancing 
mythical prick and promise of the sexy black man. 

Someone has defined a puritan as one who is plagued by the 
fear that someone, somewhere, is having a good time. When it 
comes to sex, we secretly think we may be the self-inhibited 
puritans ourselves, after all, and that someone, somewhere, is 
having a better sexual time. In fantasy, the "big" black man 
promises to take us to that final exploration of sex, the most 
absolute orgasmic time it is humanly possible to experience. And 
then, forever after, at least we'll have known what "it" is "all 


Margie is a former model, now married and living in the 
suburbs. Although she loves the creature comforts her husband 


can easily afford to provide, I think she misses her bachelor girl 
days in the city. She does the usual things suburban women do to 
keep themselves from going crazy with boredom, but the last 
time we met she said, "If I had it all to do over again ..." and 

I have this fantasy usually in the bathtub, masturbating either 
under the faucet or using the hand shower. (I can't help having 
the idea that all across suburbia, at about four p.m., all us ladies 
- the smart ones - are lying in our tubs or on our chaise longues, 
playing dreamily with ourselves as we anticipate the imminent 
arrival of our husbands, who will probably be too tired to lay us 
that night anyway.) 

I've never had a black man make love to me. In the days when 
I was single, black wasn't as chic as it is now, our eye wasn't 
attuned to it as a sexual turn-on yet. Now when I see an attractive 
black man, I look at him with as much interest as I would an 
attractive white man. More. But the idea that there is a black man 
in the fantasy probably comes more from the old myth about 
black men being bigger than from the current black-is-beautiful 
fad. Because you see, size is very important in this fantasy. The 
fantasy is really very simple: As I lie in my tub in the warm, 
Estee Lauder perfumed water, with the water from the faucet 
playing over my clitoris, I close my eyes and imagine that a black 
man, a very handsome Harry Belafonte type, is standing over me, 
peeing on me, directing it right on that little spot. His jet is as 
warm and powerful as the real jet of water, and he teases me with 
it, moving it around and around, up and down, just as I tease 
myself with the bathtub jet of water. I lie there, becoming more 
and more excited, and praying that he won't stop, that he won't 
run out of water, which I suppose is why I've made him black, 
because they're so big, or supposed to be, and I need a kind of 
black Gulliver to quench my fires. Finally, I'm begging him not 
to stop, which he loves, and just as I climax, somehow his jet 
turns to warm semen as he comes too, right on me. 


Before I was married I went out with a real crazy guy, not 
black, but very far out. I remember once lying on the beach, there 
was no one else around, and I was lying on my stomach. He 
stood up, and the first thing I knew he was peeing on my bare 
back. I screamed and jumped up, but I was laughing - I was mad 
about him - and our tussle on the beach ended up with him 
inside me, needless to say. I have never wanted to be peed on in 
reality, before or since, but this idea of the very well-endowed 
black man peeing for ages onto my clitoris. . .wow, it's a winner 
every time. [Conversation] 


I masturbate a great deal when my husband is at sea and this 
is the scene I think of most: 

I picture myself making love to a beautiful, large-breasted 
Negress. I strip her and plant kisses all over her beautiful body, 
bringing her to a climax by kissing her vagina. She then proceeds 
to make love to me. Then when we are both relaxing, she asks me 
if I have ever had sex with a dog. When I say no, she calls over 
her large dog and opens her legs and lets the dog lick her vagina. 
She lies back and soon has another climax. She then puts the dog 
between my legs, and as I am getting close to a climax with the 
licking, she puts her hand between the dog's legs and gives him 
an erection. She eases my hips over the edge of the bed and helps 
the dog to mount me, bringing me to another climax. At this 
point I usually reach a real climax. [Letter] 


I have always found sleeping with Negro men very satisfactory 
(even when it isn't satisfactory) because they are so sexy by 
virtue of their forbiddenness...I mean... wow, if your mother 
found out. . .so the whole Negro number is a nice fantasy when I 


haven't got one to sink my teeth into. I am really good at accents 
(this is really going to sound freaky, but I .am trying to be 
honest), so sometimes while I am whiling away an afternoon 
jerking off, I think about some really fantastic black guy I know 
(maybe it's Melvin van Peebles or somebody like that), you 
know, bright and sexy and a little scary, and I talk to myself in 
spade talk. Doesn't that really sound stupid? I don't care. . .you're 
my friend, and if you must know, you must know that's all there 
is to it. 

Let me see again. . .1 really get too hopped up and confused and 
can't think when I try to about these things.: I shall make myself 
a cup of Sanka and think about it . . . 

I think. Just cleaned the house... the vacuum cleaner always 
gives me the fantasies. 

I was talking about Negroes. There's a whole number one can 
do on one's self about them (they are never really so good at it in 
person as they are in my head), which is part of our gross 
national guilt about black/white relations: I kind of like it when I 
imagine some heavenly looking black guy telling me I'm nothing 
but a white bitch. I feel like a perfect idiot saying that, but it's 
true that it's very exciting to me, probably since the black- white 
love affair thing is always more exciting because of the taboos 
connected with it. Dialogue is important anyway in lovemaking, 
and black guys can usually come up with some very exciting talk. 


As there isn't much call for this room in the House of 
Fantasy, I'd put it in the attic at the top of the stairs. So far I 


haven't made any value judgments on these fantasies - a woman 
is entitled to her thoughts, and it's not the content of the fantasy 
that matters anyway, but the emotions it releases - but I do feel a 
certain female smugness at women's seeming lack of sexual 
interest in young boys. Could it mean that women, traditionally 
the sexual passivists, have less need of the sexual reassurance 
men have always sought in young girls? And if so, will all this 
change when women have caught up with men and find 
themselves sharing, along with the opportunities to explore and 
lead, the self-doubts that go with initiating anything, especially 

I don't know why so many men prefer very young girls. 

I could give a dozen easy reasons, of course, but that's a man's 
argument to make, not mine. Mine is that I think most women 
prefer the experience of a knowing lover to the superficial 
pleasures of seducing a younger one. For a woman, even this 
superficial satisfaction is lessened by the fact that it is almost 
embarrassing to see or be an older woman with a conspicuously 
younger man. A woman may occasionally like to take the 
initiative in bed, but sexually she prefers an equal, at least. 

I've been phrasing my ideas on the relative needs of men and 
women as speculation; if the dogmatists now raise the old excuse 
that it's different for men, that they need more sexual bolstering 
up than women because they have their constant and, above all, 
verifiable limp or stiff barometer of their virility, I'll yawn. I 
dismiss them as old fashioned. A woman can feel just as sexually 
inadequate as a man, or just as hot and eager and in need of a 
good fuck as he. But for whatever reasons, it would seem that the 
image of her desire, her fantasy, is seldom a young, i.e., 
inexperienced, boy. However, for some women, like the ones 
whose fantasies follow, I'm wrong, and that's okay too. 



This is the first time I have ever answered an advertisement, 
but I was intrigued by your request. 

You ask about sexual fantasies. I was beginning to think that I 
was "not right in the head," because I must have my own fantasy, 
otherwise sexual intercourse is impossible for me to enjoy. My 
husband is very patient and willing to indulge in any variation we 
can think of, but I very rarely think of him when actually engaged 
in intercourse. I think of my past lovers, of whom there are many, 
mostly under eighteen years of age (I myself am twentynine). I 
wish myself into an erotic situation: what I want mostly is to 
have several young men, about sixteen years old, tied up in a row, 
all naked with their penises flaccid, and walk along the row 
playing with them until their cocks stand high. Then each one has 
to put his fingers inside me when I bend down in front of him. 
When they have done this, I suck each cock until they are nearly 
ready to come off. This thought gets me really wound up. Then I 
see them all playing with their own cocks and shooting their lot 
as far as they can. The one who shoots the furthest gets to fuck 
me first, and so on down the line. I never get a climax until the 
last one puts his tongue on my apex and nib bles it gently. Then I 
come all over him. If this fantasy were offered to me in reality, 
believe me I would not run from it. 

This letter is quite true, and although it was hard to start I'm 
glad I have written it. [Letter] 


I am thirty-two, married, and have three children. I would say I 
am happily married, although my fantasies during sex with my 
husband, or during masturbation, invariably involve young boys, 
who are either masturbating themselves or being helped by me. 


The picture in my mind is of a long line of young boys, as in a 
school. And I am the school matron. I order the boys to unzip 
themselves and take out their cocks. Then I walk down the line, 
stopping at each boy to masturbate him until he is thoroughly 
relieved. I don't know why this gives me so much pleasure. I'm 
sure my husband would never understand; how could he if I 
don't? [Letter] 


If the Young Boys Room goes in the attic due to a general 
lack of interest, then the Fetishists belong in the broken-down 
elevator that doesn't really get anywhere. By fetishists, I'm not 
referring to people who go in for black lingerie or even whips as 
a preamble to fucking. The fantasies of fetishists like Faith 
(below) are what the dream doctors call "aim inhibited," meaning 
the fetish is an end in itself. 

While I intend this book to be an introduction to the idea that 
female sexual fantasies exist and can be talked about, I do not 
pretend that my research can in any way be called complete. 
Nevertheless it is extensive, and so I think some meaningful 
conclusions can be drawn from the fact that Faith's is the only 
fetishist fantasy among all that I've collected. This correlates 
closely with standard psychoanalytic findings that female 
fetishism is rare. 

I do not know why this should be so, except for a notion I've 
talked about earlier: that since women were traditionally put into 
the passive role sexually, they never have had to have doubts 
about their ability. Inhibited or frigid, perhaps - but there is no 
word in the immense English vocabulary which is the exact 


female equivalent of impotent. On the other hand, the sexual 
distortions of society often force men to see every erotic encounter 
as a contest, in which the poor guy has to compete, at least 
physically, with all the woman's previous lovers and those still to 
come - to say nothing of the imagined demands he may feel she 
herself is putting on him; perhaps it is to avoid these pressures 
that the fetishist sighs with relief when he can substitute the 
symbol for the substance, and settle down with a nice pair of 
fluffy, scuffed mules on a cold winter's night. Are they so 
different from Hollywood's favorite image of our soldiers and 
sailors as "regular guys," who randily kiss their dream movie star 
good night, when it is only her photo that is present on the wall 
above the bed, but who would be paralyzed with embarrassment 
if that star should appear in the flesh in that bed? 


I am what is known as a urologenic. Through books and 
materials I have been able to more fully understand my sexual 
feelings, although it's rather difficult for me to explain in words 
just how I feel. I derive pleasure by seeing, thinking, or hearing 
about uncontrollable urination. Every time I think about someone 
(especially a man) trying to "hold back" just a little bit longer and 
then not being able to make it to the bathroom, I get very excited. 

Although I detest violence extremely, I usually center my 
thoughts around "tormenting to the point of urination," but 
because of my dislike for violence and cruelty, I always end the 
scene with the tormentor having pity on the victim just as 
urination begins. I try not to think of things that would really 
hurt, because I get no pleasure out of pain. 

It stimulates me sexually to see men, women, children, or 
animals urinating uncontrollably. Every time I see a child being 
spanked or a person being beaten or tormented, the first thing I 
think of is "I wonder if he's about to urinate?" I guess I got the 


feeling from childhood. I had a very rough father and we children 
were whipped much more than was necessary. I was very afraid 
of him, and it got so that every time he would go to punish me 
my legs would get very weak and I would wet myself. 

I suppose that's why I think of tormenting scenes in my 
fantasies. I feel as though it's a sure way to bring on urination. 


Just as many a difficult truth is told in the guise of a joke, so 
are women more honest and revealing of themselves in their 
sexual fantasies of other women than they are in their real 
dealings with one another. Since most women are so blocked in 
any physical rapport with one another in ordinary life, it's no 
wonder that the natural warmth and tenderness that one woman 
may feel toward another is likely to come out only in fantasy. (For 
instance, take the highly stylized kiss which it is allowed for 
women who like each other to bestow when meeting, kisses 
deliberately ritualized to convey affection without physical 
consequences; very often their lips kiss air alone.) 

I don't believe that most of these erotic thoughts of other 
women are highly charged fantasies of deeply buried desire, or 
that they should necessarily be acted out, any more than I believe 
that idle reveries of a New Yorker about green grass, brooks, and 
trees really "mean" he secretly wants to be a peasant. But the 
erotic imagery of women's fantasies about other women is indeed 
so clearly a projection of how the fantasizer really feels about 
herself, what she really wants from both men and women, that I 
was tempted to give this room an entire chapter of its own. 


Instead, I've saved it for the last inhabited room in the present 
chapter, because if I'd put Other Women fantasies in a chapter by 
itself, it would inevitably have come to be called "The Lesbian 
Chapter," and thus sensationalized beyond any hope of clarity or 
perspective. In my research, women's fantasies of other women 
are revealed as fantasies like any other - no more, no less. 

If women are a mystery to men, they are even more mysterious 
to themselves and to one another. I'm convinced that any closer 
sexual understanding between men and women must begin 
somewhere in an acceptance of the. precise desires women 
express in their sexual thoughts of one another. These thoughts of 
other women are not nee essarily, to my mind, lesbian thoughts, 
nor are all the women who visit this room lesbians. Nor should 
they be cheaply dismissed as "latent lesbians," which is how 
many of them resignedly sum themselves up: "I suppose all this 
means I have a secret desire to be fucked by another woman." 
The defeated tone itself is an indictment of the simpleminded 
effects of universal drugstore psychiatry on our age. Maybe she 
does, maybe she doesn't, maybe she is a lesbian, or a bisexual; 
and maybe not. But in the end, I don't care; that's not the point. 

What interests me is that if the emotional openness women 
show one another in their fantasies could be extended to reality, I 
am sure the result would be, not a soaring increase in lesbianism, 
but the contrary: a broader, more meaningful heterosexuality. 
And yes, when we have that, more real warmth and honest 
affection between women, too. Who knows? In time women may 
come up with a new definition of what it is for a woman to have 
"normal" physical contact with another woman. 

What is repeatedly made clear in what so many of the women 
themselves call their "lesbian-type" fantasies is that they are 
seeking from other women in their fantasies what they aren't 
getting from their lovers in reality. It's not the real lesbian 
relationship that's wanted. (Not to the exclusion of the 
heterosexual one, anyway; as one woman put it, "I wouldn't go 


out of my way to find a lesbian or female bed partner.") What 
they specifically find with other women in fantasy is tenderness, 
and complete and experienced arousal of their essentially female 
parts, their breasts and their clitorises. When reality is lacking, 
who knows more about tenderness, breasts, and clitorises than 
women, being women themselves? And what safer area to satisfy 
this need than in fantasy? 

It's the most natural thing in the world that, for the same 
reason men do, women should turn to women for tenderness. 
That they should, for the most part, have to resort to fantasy to do 
so is life. Woman, the great giver of tenderness, has always been 
on the short end of the tit. Take the great Cocksman's Guide for 
Real Men: Playboy. Where in those seductive pages are men 
taught the values of tenderness toward women, and reassured 
that giving a woman this instead of a constantly hard prick 
makes him no less a man? One might as well impugn Hugh 
Hefner's heterosexuality! 

The female breast, symbol of tenderness, is there for men to 
cry on, suck on, lie on for life. But how about women? We all 
begin on the breast, but little girls are soon turned from their 
mother's breasts into their mothers' "little sisters," and sent into a 
comfortless world in motherdaughter, look-alike dresses. Dad's 
not much help; not only has he not got a breast, but even his 
warm lap and hugging arms all too soon are out of bounds. No 
wonder young girls like Bee, whose fantasy follows, develop 
schoolgirl crushes on older girls and teachers. And later, when a 
young man becomes the acceptable outlet for these sexual needs, 
who then can she turn to for tenderness? Most young men are too 
preoccupied filling their own sexual requirements for manhood, 
which don't allow much room for tenderness, not necessarily 
virility's best friend. So, a young woman may logically come to 
fantasize about another woman (usually with big breasts) who 
holds her, perhaps lets her suck on her breasts, and may even 


stimulate her sexually, but always, as Tania (below) says, "with a 
special gentleness." 

Bisexuality is in vogue these days. The best thing about it is 
you don't have to do it, you just have to believe it; the pressure 
isn't on whether you are or aren't, but on whether you put down 
someone who is. The popular idea is that we all have a bit of it in 
us. I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised. And although I 
wouldn't call a man or a woman a liar who said he/she had never 
had a homosexual thought in his/her life, I would wonder how 
they managed to get around these recent years blindfolded and 
with cotton in their ears. 

One last comment on bisexuality, inside and outside of 
fantasies. Some women, like Alix, introduce a man into their 
fantasies of other women; the bisexuality makes it more 
acceptable. For the same reason, as with Celia, the other woman 
is sometimes made anonymous. Or the fantasist emphasizes that 
she is totally passive with the other woman. Or simply is 
watching other women and not involved herself. However they 
handle this "other" side of their sexual nature, in fantasy or in 
relating it to reality, I have found women to be remarkably candid 
in discussing their erotic imaginings of other women. 

Conversely, as straightforward with me as women have been 
in discussing their sexual thoughts of other women, and as 
accepting of themselves for having them, their men have been 
just the opposite in regard to their own homosexual thoughts. 
Women say that their descriptions of their own erotic fantasies of 
other women may even bring a fond smile to their lover's lips; 
homoeroticism between women seems to be acceptable to men, 
and indeed is often a sexual turn-on. But any suggestion that the 
man might have these same feelings about other men is treated as 
an insult or a threat. It's one thing for women to have this kind of 
thoughts, but quite another (ugly, dirty) for a man. 



I've had this fantasy many times, as often when I'm with a 
man as when I'm alone, masturbating. I think the first time I had 
it I really was in a steam bath; afterward, I couldn't wait to get 
home to Ted, I was that heated up and ravenous for him. I've 
never told him about it. Not because I'm ashamed of it or 
anything; I have no real desire for another woman, would 
probably jump a mile if one approached me "that way." No, I 
simply don't tell him about it because thinking it gives me such 
immense pleasure when we're screwing. . .and I'd hate to take the 
chance of losing that by breaking the secrecy. This is it: 

The steam bath is empty. I don't know this when I first enter, 
wrapped in my towel that the gym supplies. The steam is so thick 
I can barely find my way to one of the tiled seats, where I sit, 
with my feet up, hugging my knees. As my body begins to sweat, 
and my eyes become accustomed to the steam, I realize that I am 
alone. I begin to fondle myself, to gently stroke myself with my 
finger, reaching inside myself for the warm syrup that always 
begins when I, or anyone touches me there. But I don't need the 
wetness from inside my body because the sweat and the steam 
run down my legs and my pubic hairs, that whole area is 
drenched. I have not heard the door to the steambath open. My 
eyes have been closed, my mind enveloped in the growing 
excitement, and I only realize there is someone else with me 
when I hear a noise, quickly look up and see another body on the 
tiled slab opposite. I am petrified. Christ, did she see what I was 
doing to myself? I am too frightened to move and I pretend that I 
am drowsing, closing my eyes again. I lie down full length on the 
slab, pulling the towel up so high that it almost covers my face. I 
am asleep, or so I pretend. The next thing I know, a hand is on 
my thigh, slowly moving up it. I gasp, hidden beneath my towel. 
The hairs on my legs bristle with excitement, part fear. . .should I 


run? But the towel protects me, hides me, and I remain passive. I 
leave the problem of another person entering and finding us to 
her; she will watch. Her hands are on both my thighs now, slowly 
massaging them, her fingers reaching up higher, higher, until 
they gently part my legs. I wait for her mouth and she leaves me 
thus for endless seconds. My lips beneath the towel now plead 
silently - please, please, don't stop, kiss me, kiss it! Her fingers 
have parted me, exposing my clitoris to the warm heat, and it 
seems to grow, to expand toward her, reaching for her 
mouth... and then suddenly, softly, tenderly her lips are on me, 
her tongue warm against me, moving. Half of my mind can't help 
but wonder what will happen now if we are discovered, but I 
have no choice. I am hers. I cannot leave those fingers, that 
mouth. The sweat pours over my face, the steam swirls all around 
me, I feel, have felt nothing of her but her hands and her mouth. 
Otherwise she is formless. I can feel the syrup pouring from me 
now, and she drinks it, her saliva, her sweat, my sweat all 
mingling in my cunt. Her lips are so full, and her tongue so 
warm, slowly licking me, all the way from my ass up to my 
clitoris, but stopping on it, lingering on it, then her tongue 
moving in small circles all around it, teasing it, but always 
returning, and when the tongue returns, the lips too, the full kiss 
again and again. The heat is so intense, and my own excitement, 
I am afraid I will faint, that I will scream out. I bite hard on the 
towel, raising my buttocks suddenly so that her whole tongue is 
in my cunt when I come. [Written down on request] 


I have never had a homosexual experience, but I do have many 
lesbian fantasies. While my boy friend is making love to me I 
often fantasize about my best friend. We are not lesbians but we 
are extremely close (she is twenty six, I am nineteen). Anyway, 
the fantasizing begins when my boy friend starts kissing me. I 


pretend it is her. She kisses me. deeply and passionately. Then 
she gets on top of me and begins kissing my breasts and gently 
biting my nipples. Then I kiss her nipples and start sucking them, 
all the while in her arms. She tells me how much she loves me 
and how she wants me to love her as much. I tell her I do. Then 
she kisses me again. Slowly she licks my breasts all over and 
then, still slowly, with much help from me, she spreads my legs 
apart. She licks my inner thighs and then she finds my clitoris. 
She knows that is my extra sensitive part and she takes great care 
as she licks it. Her tongue is very soft. Then she spreads my legs 
and places her buttocks between my legs. Both our clits are 
protruding now from the licking and she gently rubs hers on mine 
until we both reach orgasm. All the while I'm imagining this, my 
boy friend is making love to me and I reach one orgasm after 

At other times I fantasize that my boy friend is having 
intercourse with me while I lie in her arms and she kisses my 
breasts. With the two of them working on me, I soon come. 

As you can see, lesbian fantasies play a great part in my 
lovemaking. Although I have never had any lesbian tendencies, 
perhaps deep down I'm bisexual. Who knows? It's the only 
answer I've been able to come up with as to why I have such 

But not all my fantasies are of the lesbian type. I masturbate 
fairly frequently, and when I do I fantasize. I picture a very 
good-looking man with a beautiful body. He is standing about six 
feet away from me and he has a huge throbbing penis. I am 
strapped to my bed and I plead with him to make love to me - 
but he refuses. He just stands there with his huge erection. I can't 
get at him because all my limbs are strapped. Gradually he comes 
closer to me until he is right beside me. Then he stands on the 
bed above my face - one leg on either side of meand slowly 
squats until "it" can be touched with the tip of my tongue. But he 
will not let me take it in my mouth. Still squatting, he slowly 


backs up and rubs his penis on my huge breasts and my nipples 
continue to rise, hard and proud. Then he rubs his penis on my 
inner thighs and finally on my clitoris. Finally we have 
intercourse. By that time I have reached an orgasm. 

Another one of my favorite fantasies is to imagine myself 
being the focal point in group sex. While men take their turns 
having intercourse with me, the women are kissing me and 
playing with my breasts. Everyone is telling me how much they 
love me and I am brimming with love for them. [Letter] 


I do not now have lesbian fantasies, but for a period of time 
when I was a teen-age girl, I did. I had a young, pretty female 
teacher on whom I guess I had a crush. She was very kind and 
nice to me, and we had many long talks after school. When she 
found out from me that my parents thought sex was bad and that 
they told me nothing about the "facts of life," she got me a little 
pamphlet that gave the basic information. She also answered a 
few of my questions about what I learned from that pamphlet. I 
did not learn any of the details about sex, but at least I learned 
where babies came from. Anyway, as I said, I had a crush on this 
teacher, and I would sometimes fantasize about her. I dreamed 
that we would undress each other, and she would hold me in her 
arms. Then I would kiss her breasts and suck on her nipples as 
though I were a baby. Other times, I would fantasize about taking 
a bath or a shower with her, and I would have thoughts about 
washing and drying her entire body. When she got married, my 
crush was broken, and these dreams stopped. [Letter] 


I have had an occasional lesbian fantasy, but only about a girl 
friend feeling my breasts; nothing more than that. [Conversation] 



I don't think you would call my lesbian fantasies "suppressed 
wish fulfillment." I have often wondered what it would be like to 
be aroused by a woman, to be engaged in foreplay with her, with 
her kissing my breasts and sucking on my nipples, and also to 
have her play with my clitoris. I wouldn't want her to suck or 
kiss it, just play with it - and not gently. [Conversation] 


I must be very selfish, but I believe it would take quite a lot to 
get me involved in "swinging" or group sex. I can't stand the 
thought of my fiance making love to someone else. I have, 
however, imagined watching another woman perform fellatio on 
him and later joining the two of them. However, even this 
culminates in him and me having intercourse. [Letter] 

Mary Beth 

I enjoy a full sex life with my husband. Sometimes, however, I 
do have lesbian fantasies, but it is difficult to describe them. I 
think of best friends (past girl friends) and being in bed with 
them, just touching and caressing. That is as far as the fantasies 
ever go, although I would like to meet a lesbian and experiment. 


I have thought about experimenting, finding a woman to make 
love with, to see if I really feel that way or not. My fantasies are 
rather muddled. Sometimes I think of an older attractive woman 
(feminine looking, not butch) seducing me. And then other times 


I think of a girl of my own age group, and in this case neither of 
us is seducing. I suppose you would call it mutual exploration. I 
told my boy friend about this (I can discuss everything openly 
and frankly with him). He said he thought it quite natural, but 
when I asked him if he had ever wanted to sleep with another 
man, he said, no, lesbian love seemed more acceptable than 
homosexual love. [Letter] 


In my lesbian fantasies, I can never put an identity to my 
partner. She is no one I know and has no face or personality. In 
my dreams she is just a female body who takes most of the 
initiative, while I am merely passive and just lie there as she 
makes love to me. I fantasize that she plays with my breasts and 
sucks them while masturbating herself. Then she performs 
cunnilingus on me. We do not kiss, and I do not touch her 
genitals in these fantasies; however, I do play with her breasts. I 
often engage in this fantasy while making it with my husband, 
particularly when he performs cunnilingus on me. [Letter] 


Once I had a lesbian fantasy. I hardly remember it, but it was 
with my very closest friend. I was the aggressor. It was a 
beautiful experience. [Conversation] 


I am not lesbian in any way - I enjoy men too much but when 
it is necessary for me to masturbate, I visualize any girl with big 
breasts and proud nipples standing over my face so that I can see 
into her cunt. My hands play with her buttocks and while I do 
this she is sucking the cock of the man. This makes her cunt wet 


and she drips on my face. Another girl is opening my knees and 
putting a cold bottle in my cunt while gently pushing her finger 
in my behind. When the girl standing over me brings the man off, 
she sits down on my face and I stick my tongue up into her cunt 
and lick it, while she writhes in ecstasy. Meanwhile, the man lifts 
my backside up and pushes his rockhard prick right up my 
backside, and the other girl works the bottle in my cunt faster and 
faster, backward and forward, while I put my finger up her cunt 
and play with her apex until she shoots her beautiful juice out of 
her marvelous cunt. [Letter] 


I have occasionally fantasized about two of my friends, both of 
whom have very womanly figures. I do not mean "womanly" in 
the Raquel Welch sense. That sort of body doesn't appeal to me. 
Rather, they are soft-looking, buxom women. I would imagine 
myself as a man making love to one of these women. The breasts 
were very important for excitation. I should add that I've had no 
real experience with women, am married and prefer it this way. 


I am nineteen, a secretary, and am due to be married this year. 
My fiance and I do not have sexual intercourse. We have been 
going out for just three years. We do, however, frequently have 
oral sex and are looking forward to an extremely happy and 
varied sex life together. 

In sex, I often think of someone else (no one I know), 
especially if I am not finding it easy to reach orgasm. I find it 
particularly exciting to think of another woman and generally this 
"does the trick." Generally, I make up situations - strip clubs 
(watching or performing); slave girl (!) ; anything where I am 


forced to take off my clothes and make love. Sometimes I 
imagine there is just one other woman, other times that there are 
two women and a man. 

I get quite turned on by female nudity or pictures (I always 
read erotic literature before masturbating, to give myself ideas!), 
and it automatically shows up in fantasies. The women in my 
fantasies are not friends; I just picture a faceless woman's body. I 
don't think I actually imagine touching her. I just enjoy the 
thought of the naked body. I prefer to imagine she is touching 

When I was a little girl, about eight, I remember always 
bullying my best friend into playing games where we had to 
pretend to take off our clothes and the "wicked man" would make 
us walk in the street, or the inevitable school situations where we 
would force each other to do things. I remember when I was 
about ten, wanting to be a stripper. ..and there may have been 
some kind of intimate contact with my girl friend, but I really 
can't remember. I did have quite sexy ideas... like wanting 
another girl to dry me down after showering, or being forced in 
various ways to take my clothes off. 

I would be interested to know how many women (what 
percentage) are bisexual, as opposed to men. I can imagine 
myself to be, but I suspect that my apparent interest in women, 
having read through my letter, is just objective and a form of 
extra stimulation. 

I have told my fiance about my lesbian fantasies and he is 
neither jealous nor angry. We discuss them regularly. He does not 
fantasize himself, but quite understands why I do. He considers it 
quite natural, in fact. We have great sexual compatibility and 
understanding, and I only wish every couple in the world felt the 
way we do about each other. [Letter] 



Although photos of male homosexuals always excited me, the 
thought of lesbianism did not, and was indeed repulsive to me. 
However, lately I have watched myself do a complete turnabout 
after reading some of the recent permissive literature. I was and 
probably still am very naive. I had never condemned 
homosexuality; I simply never concerned myself with it. Then an 
attraction to another woman developed this year. We have so far 
only talked, but I feel more will come of it. My husband is a very 
forceful and brutal man. I find her gentleness refreshing and feel 
as if my relationship with her would be very satisfying. So now 
she is in my fantasies. Just the thought of touching or holding her 
excites me. No lovemaking, just closeness and gentleness. 

I must have been a strange child, because the first time I 
remember being aroused was when reading a marriage manual 
just before being married at eighteen. I married the only man I 
had ever dated. I have come to believe that I must be dull. It is 
my husband, not me, who thinks up different things to vary our 
sex life. Often he likes to talk dirty to me. I rather like this and 
wouldn't really mind being treated like a whore... an expensive 
one. But he enjoys brutality almost to the point of rape. I hate 
rough treatment. I like to be oh, so gentle, and won by kindness 
and consideration. Although he is rough, he is very controlled, 
and I often think how much I'd like to tease him to the point 
where he'd blow his cool and just do what he really wanted, 
instead of all the deliberate rough stuff. He is a very hard person 
to bring to climax. 

I used to think I was strange, unlike other women. Now I am 
beginning to believe I'm not as bad as I thought all these years. 



I am curious to know if I have any latent homosexual 
tendencies; perhaps I'm just bisexual. 

Most often, during sex, my thoughts drift to other women. I 
either imagine myself being made love to by a woman, or 
watching my mate made love to by another woman, or a 
combination of the two. He and I have discussed this and he 
confesses that this is often the case with him too. He encourages 
my fantasies by acting out his own. He very often talks to me as 
though he were raping me, which encourages another type of 
fantasy within me. I begin to fantasize that I'm tied, helpless, and 
at the mercy of this very aggressive man. As a result of this I 
begin to imagine that a woman enters the scene, dismisses my 
mate, and begins to make love to me in an equally aggressive 
manner, but with a special gentleness. 

The first fantasy I can remember was about a group of people 
(four or six) in a large bed, all naked and caressing one another. I 
was never able to develop it much beyond this, but being quite 
young at the time it didn't seem necessary. The mere idea was 
quite stimulating. [Letter] 


I have been married five years, and until now have never 
discussed my sexual, fantasies with anyone. 

I don't think of someone other than the man I am with during 
sex unless he is performing inadequately, at which times I think 
of someone who does perform adequately. This invariably gives 
me enough pleasure to achieve orgasm. I think fantasies are very 
useful for this specific reason. Every time we have sex, it can't be 
perfect; the other person (and oneself) is not always in top form. 

The most frequent idea that pops up in my fantasies is "being 
on exhibition." My fantasies vary a great deal, but this idea is 


usually present. People watching, not necessarily saying anything 
or doing anything, but just watching. . . that really turns me on. 

What is interesting is that although I've never had any desire 
for another woman, or even looked at another woman "that way" 
in reality, I do often have lesbian fantasies when with a man. I 
don't know where this idea comes from. In my fantasies, these 
women and I never actually touch, no bodily contact, I simply 
think about them, other women, usually naked, usually 
large-breasted. What they seem to be doing is trying to seduce me 
by their erotic movements. I allow myself to get excited just 
watching them, but then when I have built to a pitch and have my 
real orgasm, the women simply smile, pleased for me, and 
disappear. Maybe some day I will join them in sex within my 
fantasy, but I don't think that is what they are building toward. I 
would never tell a man about these lesbian fantasies because I 
don't think a man would understand. [Letter] 


Often when my husband and I are making love, I think of 
another man (or two) and sometimes, not often, of a woman. The 
man I usually think of was my dentist (I say was because he 
moved to another state). I never had sex with him, but I would 
have liked to. To me, he resembles my husband. He is soft 
spoken, but not one to be bossed by a woman (which I like a 
man to be: A Man). In my fantasies we have sex in every 
imaginable position within reason. We even masturbate each 
other. However, most of the time I think of my husband during 
sex; he is my ideal sexual partner. He even smells sexy. 

When I fantasize about the other m en I find attractive, tow ard 
the point of clim ax, I settle on one man (or woman). So you see, I 
have lesbian fantasies. Usually I think of a woman who is 
physically similar to a. man, mean in g that she is heavily builtbut 
still feminine, tender, loving (motherly sometimes), 


compassionate. Very often she is in military uniform. She isn't 
beautiful, just attractive. She is assertive but open-minded, fun to 
be with, likes music, sports, clothes, and animals. She is well off 
but not rich, thrifty but not miserly. We usually masturbate, kiss 
(on the mouth), sleep in each other's arms (she holds me mostly). 
I feel secure with her. We suck each other's breasts (me hers 
mostly). Sometimes she and I go 69. My husband knows I have 
lesbian tendencies and that I could possibly be ambisexual. 
However, I don't go out of my way to find a lesbian or female 
bed partner. 

I don't know what it's an indication of, but I love to think 
about my husband and another man having sex with me. 
Although my husband doesn't encourage my fantasies, he 
doesn't discourage them either. When I ask him if watching 
another man fuck me would excite him, he says probably. He 
knows I would like him to be with me if I am fucked by another 
man. We both like to watch our own fucking. Another idea that 
turns me on is that of watching two homosexuals making love; 
also, I wish women got a chance to watch some of the blue films 
men see. 

Please excuse my sloppy writing; I am usually neat, but I 
wanted to put this down quickly so that I wouldn't change 
anything. [Letter] 


I have just read your advertisement and feel compelled to help 
you in your research. I will attempt to write as honestly as I can. 

I am twenty-nine years old, have been married for eleven years 
to a merchant seaman, and have two children. My husband is at 
sea for almost six months of every year, and during one of his 
trips about three years ago I was introduced to lesbianism by two 
young girls. My first experience with these girls was so 
completely satisfying and wonderfully exciting that I now relive 


the scene almost every time I make love with my husband when 
he is at home. 

The scene I picture is as follows: My husband is at sea and the 
children are at my mother's for the weekend, because I am 
having a night out with the girls at the office to celebrate one of 
the girls' coming wedding. I have invited two of the girls to 
spend the night at my place, as they live in the next town and 
they would have had to leave the party early to make the last train 
home. We arrive at my place, late and tired after the party. I flop 
down on the chair and say that I wish that I had a maid who 
would undress me and get me ready for bed. The girls say they 
will be my maids and proceed to undress me. When they take off 
my bra and panties they are obviously very excited by what they 
see, and both say they have never seen breasts as large and 
beautiful as mine before. They ask if they could touch them. I say 
they may do anything they want with them, and soon my nipples 
become very large and firm with their caresses. Then they take a 
breast each and kiss and suck my large but very sensitive nipples, 
and at the same time they begin to caress my tummy and thighs, 
and soon I am squirming all over the chair. When I start moving 
they release my breasts, and one of the girls sits on the arm of the 
chair and starts to kiss me very tenderly and lovingly and then 
more demandingly. Soon our tongues are deep into each other's 
mouths. While this is going on, the other girl is kneeling on the 
carpet between my legs caressing my thighs and tummy until I 
am about frantic with desire. I am moving all over the place 
trying to direct her fingers into my vagina, but she ignores my 
attempts. Suddenly I almost go crazy when I feel her head go 
between my legs and her tongue enter my vagina. I have an 
orgasm almost immediately, and nearly scream the house down 
in the process. While I am regaining my breath, the girls strip off 
and make love on the carpet while I watch. We then have a 
shower together and all three go to bed and make love all night. 



This room is empty. 

When I began collecting fantasies for this book, and would 
talk about it to psychologists, writers, and other people who I 
thought had some information about the subject, they'd often 
smile with amusement, and tell me that of course one of women's 
most popular fantasies was that of being a prostitute. And from 
everything I've read and heard, I thought this was so myself. (For 
instance, who hasn't heard that old tag line again and again, that 
at every costume party, half the women come dressed as call 

But in the hundreds of fantasies I've collected, there is not one 
prostitution fantasy gone into at length; the subject is only 
mentioned fleetingly, glanced over en passant, by people 
hurrying to the Anonymity, Humiliation, or Masochism Rooms. 
This grand old theme, so beloved of Victorian women, is 
apparently dead. And if I'm right, and Sadie Thompson is indeed 
finished, it is ironically our permissive age that killed her; 
contrary to what her mother said, the old girl died from lack of 

In explaining what I mean, let's consider the difference 
between shame and guilt. Guilt concerns something about which 
you feel badly whether anyone knows it or not, and guilty love is 
still a very big fantasy of our time. It is an internalized judgment. 
But shame concerns something other people may or may not 


approve of; you yourself may feel neutral about it, or even like it; 
the shame only comes in when some outside observer catches you 
doing it. The woman who cheats at solitaire, for instance, will 
blithely go along taking cards out of turn - until someone catches 
her doing it, when she'll grow irritable and testy. 

Shame therefore enters when your personal code of morals or 
behavior is felt by you to be at variance with what is generally 
accepted and you feel at least a hypocritical need to pretend to go 
along with the majority rules. Therefore, we can see that the 
reason our mothers delighted so much in prostitution fantasies 
was their feeling that The Girls were beyond shame; they gave 
the fantasizer a kind of nothing-to-lose, gutter freedom. But 
today, why bother to be hypocritical? From every corner we are 
told there's nothing in sex to be ashamed about. 

Goodbye, Sadie. We'll keep a candle in the window of your 
room in case the wheel of repression takes another turn, and 
backlash brings you back. 







People invariably ask me whether a woman's sexual fan- 
tasies reflect her background. Doesn't her education or economic 
class determine the nature of her fantasy? Haven't I found that 
my material just naturally varied and fell into these categories? 
By the way the question was asked - especially during my 
researches in England - the "Yes" answer was always implied: a 
woman's background will out. 

But my answer is "No." Wealthy women don't necessarily 
fantasize about masked dukes, any more than the uneducated 
wife of a miner fantasizes in rough four-letter words. Nor is the 
reverse true. It is meaningless to discuss the class or background 
of the real woman behind the fantasy, except to deny that it is the 
primary influence on what or how she is thinking. You can never 
predict what is going to turn anyone on. 

If you were to shuffle all the written replies to letters and 
advertisements requesting contributions that I've placed in 
various publications in the United States and England, plus all 
the interviews I've conducted in person in the same countries, it 
would be impossible to match the lady to the fantasy... except 
perhaps by nationality. 


So no, Mrs. Jones, don't expect that by ""birth," or by virtue of 
her happy marriage to Jack Princeton, that your Abigail would be 
found in the relatively acceptable Earth Mother Room. With all 
her Foxcroft training, she is just as likely to be rolling in the mud 
with an Airedale, along with all the other fantasizers of sexual 
humiliation. She will merely talk about it more grammatically. 

I suppose the language and imagery of sexual fantasy is 
shocking, and perhaps it has put some readers off when they first 
read this book. But once it is agreed that the subject is worth 
serious discussion, no other course is open. To try to convey the 
emotion, meaning, and experience of sexual fantasy through 
euphemism would be like giving a thirsty man a piece of paper 
with the word "water" written on it. It's either the real thing, or 

I've had a few moments of revelation myself. I haven't gone 
passively and unruffled through all this material, sympathetic to 
fantasy as I am. I used to open my fantasy mail - the replies to 
letters and advertisements - in the morning, and more than one 
gulp of coffee went down the wrong way. Wow! Not so much at 
the language, or the situations... although they're potent stuff for 
nine A.M. But it was the amount of imaginative detail that 
amazed me, the intuitive understanding that to prettify fantasy is 
to take the life out of it, and above all the evocative creativity in 
the fantasies of women whose lives, as described in their letters, 
were otherwise as routine and predictable as sending the kids off 
to school in the morning. 

Sexual fantasies are a great leveler among women. It's a 
shame women can't speak to one another as directly or be as 
honest about themselves in reality as they are in their fantasies. In 
fantasy, everyone speaks the same language because everyone 
wants the same thing. I sometimes think that's what men 
essentially get out of their sessions in the clubhouse locker room: 
there, stripped of everything, they can talk of everything without 
pretense or bullshit, slipping each other a little sexual 


identification they find nowhere else. Who knows? Through this 
book women may also lose some of their feelings of sexual 
isolation, may find some mutual identification, perhaps even a 
sense of female camaraderie. Sure they're "dirty" thoughts, but 
we all have them, men and women, and what makes them "dirty" 
anyway, except possibly their secretiveness? This secretiveness is 
one thing women do share, and it's nowhere more apparent than 
in their fantasies. Deprived of any real feeling of sexual 
identification with other women, they resort to solitary 
exploration within their individual fantasy worlds. 

Having looked to literature for insights and answers to their 
own deepest desires and sexual reactions, women have found that 
most of literature's insightful revelations have been directed at 
men by men, and when the same men try to tell how it is for 
women, no one knows more quickly than a woman how far off 
the mark they are. Even the new women-for-women's books talk 
around it but not of it - as if the necessary vocabulary didn't 
exist; meanwhile, women continue to sigh and say, "No one has 
ever really described "it.' " Is it so surprising that in exploring the 
mysterious "it" in fantasy, that they employ the strongest, crudest, 
most "pornographic" terms and imagery to make real, 
emotionally, something they've never had defined and which they 
know to be just as potent and earthshaking as every pornographic 
description they've ever heard or read of the male "it"? The 
gutsiness of female imagery may belie the beautifully turned 
brims on their Adolfo hats, or the pencil pleats in their Villager 
calico dirndls, but the images and the words are universal and 
classless - only incidental grammar and place names give any 
identity away. 

But where in the world, Pretty Lady, sitting in your high rise 
fiat surrounded by diapers, or behind the tinted glass of your 
trolls Royce, did you get an idea like that? Those lips that never 
swore an oath, much less caressed a man's cock, and that neat 
little mind that "seems" to dwell on the children's education, the 


new job, or an even newer summer outfit, where oh where did 
you get the idea? And as often as not, should the lady deign to 
answer, the reply would be, "Why, from when I was a little girl 
and just happened to see..." 

From such tiny seeds - a blink in childhood - springs a 
full-blown sexual fantasy, embellished and altered over the years 
perhaps, but all begun with a glance, a child's quick 
flash-in-the-pan peek into the secret garden. The fact that the 
seed grew - and to such proportions - just shows what secrecy 
and prohibition can do; what growth potential there is in "don't." 

For instance: A young girl for the first time happens on a 
grown man peeing behind a tree... sees a bright red tip suddenly 
shoot from a woolly dog's prick. . .is provocatively' bullied by an 
older boy on the way home from school. . .or forced to undergo the 
sexual trauma of a sadomasochistic experience at school (read 
Mona's letter below and weep)... what is she to do with this 
mysterious and often unsettling new information? No one wants 
to know, to hear, or to talk to her about it - she's "not old 
enough," the subject's "not nice," and she knows that hearing 
about it would make Mummy "nervous" - that much she does 
know. All this only makes the forbidden bits of knowledge more 
provocative. And so these thoughts join the other odds and ends 
of exciting, sometimes disturbing sensations, daydreams, the 
other secrets she's been accumulating - or repressing - while 
growing up. By the time she's stopped playing with dolls, during 
that long lull before she begins any meaningful contact with boys 
(I don't necessarily mean sex), she's got enough powerful 
imagery packed away in her head to stagger the horniest writer of 
the most exotic porn she ever found in her older brother's room. 
Not specific knowledge that she can put together with any 
understanding, but exciting pieces to elaborately embroider, all 
on her own, and all the more imaginatively for her ignorance 
(which the vulgar often call "innocence"). Forbidden things, 
locked away in tight, dark places, grow out of all proportion. 


And so, in time, that tiny seed, the glimpse or idea that 
instantly sparked her imagination, emerges as a fantasy, clothed 
in more outrageous gear and language than books, TV, films, or 
dirty jokes can offer. 

By the time you or I hear the fantasy - ten years or even twenty 
after the seed (women are incredibly faithful to their first fantasy, 
and often return to it after new and less potent ones have 
strangely lost their zap) - by the time she tells us, it is usually 
impossible to recognize the original seed. But she knows. 
Women remember important firsts. 


The first sexual fantasy I had was on viewing a teacher's very 
rotund posterior. I would have been not more than seven or eight. 
He wore a very short coat, was fat, and his bum filled his 
trousers, sharply outlining his cheeks. I remember it giving me a 
definite sexual feeling even at that age, also of finding an excuse 
for going to bed early in order to have the privacy for being able 
to dwell upon those inspiring orbs. This was before I 
masturbated, but the infantile urge to slide my hand down his 
bum cheeks and round to "the front" compelled me even then. 

After being introduced to masturbation, my main problem was 
obtaining the privacy in which to indulge. I had to sleep with a 
younger sister who was aware of the slightest movement. The 
movement of my hand had to be extremely surreptitious and slow 
and the fingering of the clitoris would be prolonged to exquisite 
lengths. This would inevitably invite sexual fantasy, based on 
what I'd heard from other girls... my age could not have been 
more than fourteen. . . who had seen their brothers' cocks. One girl 
in particular, Monica, was a great source of fantasy. She allowed 
boys to feel her while she undid their flies and "tossed them off." 
The phrase still excites me, and on endless occasions I have 
mentally substituted myself for Monica. Monica's mother took in 


a lodger, and after I had been sworn to the greatest secrecy, 
Monica told me how she had witnessed him masturbating, and 
the size of his genitalia. The idea of his orgasm in truth 
enraptured me, and was the basis for more than fantasy: It 
became an ambition. I still masturbate fantasizing myself as the 
voyeur of this lodger's solitary pleasures. [Letter] 


My fascination with men and the whole idea of sex began 
when I was about ten. I had never seen a penis before one day 
when I was in the woods near our home and saw a man piss. I 
was absolutely fascinated by his penis, but he saw me looking 
and whisked it out of sight. I hung around those woods every 
spare moment I had, hoping to see another one. If a man even 
stood still for any reason at all I'd think, This is it! and saunter 
over hoping for a glimpse. I spent hours trying to visualize just 
what it had looked like and thinking up words to describe a 
penis-proud, dominant, pulsating. I could go on. For years I 
would lie in my little virgin bed and think about that glimpse of 
my first penis. All those hours spent in the woods, hoping for 
another chance, it's a wonder I was never raped or murdered. 


When I was young, I played the usual "doctor" and "house" 
games, exposing my genitals and exploring my little friends. I 
know now that the strange, warm kind of quivery feelings I had 
were of a sexual nature. At that time I associated urination with 
these feelings, and often fantasized that I was sitting on the toilet 
with my legs spread far apart, while one of my little boy friends 
urinated into the toilet between my legs. [Letter] 



The earliest fantasies I can remember involve my parents, or 
my father and my older sister (which made me very jealous). I 
cannot remember actually fantasizing about my father and 
myself, but I do remember that I had a strong sexual attraction to 

I also fantasized about my parents and our boxer bitch. I 
suspect that some experimentation actually did take place, as they 
were very open-minded and at times had our dog shut in the 
bedroom with them when she was in heat. We also had a stud 
dog who would mount anything that moved when our bitch dog 
was in heat. Our parents never knew it, but one of my sisters and 
my brother and myself used to get on all fours and let him mount 
us for a few seconds - and then we'd turn chicken. I have since 
fantasized about going through with the act and being penetrated 
by a male dog. My husband and I had a magazine with pictures 
of a woman and a male German Shepherd having intercourse. 
When looking at these pictures I would become excited and 
would have my husband mount me from the rear, simulating the 
actions of a dog. [Letter] 


When I was about eleven or twelve I used to sit in the back 
seat of the car on trips and cross my legs very tightly. Our car 
made a very bumpy ride, and by sitting clear to one side each 
little bump and vibration would sexually stimulate me. The first 
time I experienced this I looked out of the car window and saw a 
horse in a field with his penis dropped way down. Every time 
after that I imagined the horse was entering me. I didn't have an 
orgasm then from this fantasy, just stimulation. But now when I 
masturbate and think of being penetrated by a horse, it brings on 
a terrific orgasm. [Letter] 



When my husband fucks me, I often think of a former 
employer who gave me my first view of an erect penis when I 
was a virgin, then sixteen. It made such an impression on me that 
I have always remembered it, and like to picture the scene as it 
happened. He opened his trousers and took out his cock and I 
was amazed to see it standing up, so broad and stiff. He did not 
fuck me, but in my fantasies I see his big prick and try to imagine 
what it would have felt like if he had pushed it into me. 

I always fantasize when I masturbate, which is usually when 
my husband is at work. I picture a scene at school when I was 
caned. The cane made me smart so much that I pissed in my 
knickers, which made me feel sexually excited afterward. In my 
fantasies I can see the headmistress with her cane, and when I 
picture how she gave me those smart strokes, I soon reach a 

I have not discussed my fantasies with my husband, but we 
both use four-letter words freely during fucking, as we find that 
the use of such words comes naturally to us and increases our 
excitement. Please excuse me if my tendency to use such words 
has caused me to use them too much in writing to you. 

I think my first sexual fantasy was on seeing a man peeing 
when I was about eleven years of age. I did not actually see his 
penis (hence my surprise when I saw one for the first time, as I 
said), but I could plainly see his stream of urine as he stood to 
urinate against a tree when I passed close by. Seeing one of the 
opposite sex standing to urinate instead of squatting like I did 
made me so excited that I have always remembered it. I take my 
fantasy further in imagining him deliberately exposing his prick 
to me and rubbing it to the point of ejaculation. [Letter] 



I am twenty-four and have been married five and a half years. I 
usually fantasize when my husband is making love to me, always 
have, and I believe he does, too. It has nothing to do with any 
inadequacies on either of our parts; I have always found him 
exciting in bed and he can never seem to get enough of me. It's 
just that when you're married, and always with the same man, no 
matter how great he is in bed, it varies the routine to think of 
other men. With me it used to be a guy who worked in my office; 
I was seducing him. Or I'm making it with a handsome black 
guy on TV, again with me as the seducer. Whoever it is - I've 
even seduced priests in my fantasies - I like to imagine that it is 
someone who has not had sex for a long time and is therefore 

The most important detail in my fantasies, even when I 
masturbate, is my breasts. As young as five or six I was 
fascinated by breasts and used to try to imagine what it felt like to 
have them. I would stare for hours at photos of film stars. Not 
naked breasts. My images were always of breasts with material 
stretched tightly across them. They strained and pushed against 
the fabric as if trying to burst through it. My own breasts, in 
reality, are fine; no one's ever complained. But in my fantasies 
my figure is truly fantastic; my breasts are enormous and they are 
my greatest weapon in my seduction scenes. I just have to close 
my eyes, turn on this picture of my bigger-than-Raquel-Welch 
breasts, and no man can resist me. [Letter] 


I was a bit of a tomboy at age ten and I remember dressing up 
as a pirate, pulling the trousers up very tight against my crotch, 
and putting one of my father's old leather belts very tightly 
around me. I didn't know what the reason was, all I knew was 


that it felt good "down there," and that I ended up playing pirate a 
lot. When I was eleven or so, I used to get distinctly excited by 
"strapping" myself very tightly around my genitals and 
immersing myself in a cold bath more or less fully clothed. 
Around this age and later I had dreams about wrestling people in 
a pit of slushy mud, completely encased in a wet suit, and being 
completely buried in the mud. While thinking this I'd rub myself 
against the scam of my pajama trousers. [Conversation] 


Only now as I'm writing do I remember that my sister and I 
used to pretend that we were making it with our dog. He 
cooperated quite nicely. My fantasies about dogs still continue, so 
that when my husband is entering me from the back, I think of 
dogs humping, something I remember seeing frequently since I 
was three or four years old. [Letter] 


I hope you will keep my name confidential, as I have never 
told anybody this before. From what I've read, I think that I am a 
sadist. I may be a masochist as well, as I very often daydream 
about being tortured. 

I developed sexually at about twelve, and as I was very wild 
and disobedient growing up, my parents decided to send me to a 
strict convent school. Corporal punishment was allowed in this 
school. A strap was always used. The head nun, Sister Rosario, 
would take an offender - which was very often me - up to the 
front of the class, tell her to bend down and touch her toes, and 
then, having lifted up her tunic, she would hit her across the 

During a holiday break I met a lovely boy whom I fell in love 
with. I made him promise not to write to me while I was in the 


convent because I could get expelled for it. One evening after P.T. 
class, Sister Rosario said she wanted to see me in her room. She 
told me that she had intercepted a letter from a boy written to me 
and that she had no alternative but to expel me. I pleaded on my 
knees to her not to expel me, and eventually she said she would 
not but that she would have to deal severely with me and that I 
was to tell nobody. I gladly agreed to this, but I can tell you that 
if I had my choice again I would not. She told me to take off all 
my clothes, which I very embarrassingly did. I was nearly 
thirteen at this stage and I was fairly well developed. I had to 
kneel down in front of her while she asked numerous questions 
which shocked and embarrassed me, for instance: 

"What is your bust measurement?" 

"Do you masturbate?" 

"What color is the hair between your legs?" 

"What do you call it?" 

She wanted to know exactly what I did with the boy and what 
he did. She then made me lie across a chair and gave me about 
twenty lashes with the leather across the buttocks. I then had to 
lie on my back and open my legs. She gave me six in between the 

After this I had to come to her room regularly and she would 
make me strip and would beat me with the leather each time. She 
would always ask me about masturbating. I tell you all this 
because after two weeks I definitely got a certain pleasurable 
sensation from the beating. It was during this time that I first 
started to masturbate. I still do it regularly. 

Now I am a teacher and I get my pleasure from administering 
the punishment. The boys I teach are between ten and fourteen. I 
regularly take one to my room where I administer the whip and 
cane, having ordered him to strip naked. I enjoy punishing him 
but I enjoy it most when I see him getting an erection. I wear 
provocative clothes and I enjoy embarrassing him when he gets 
the erection. 


I have never punished a girl, mainly because I never had the 
opportunity to do so. But I often daydream about it. I imagine her 
being strapped to a bed with only panties and a bra on. I then 
order one of my boy pupils to strip her and to torture her. The 
tortures I normally dream about are pulling the hairs from her 
pubic region one at a time, inserting needles into her breasts, 
burning her with hot candle grease, whipping her, caning her, 
while at the same time making her admit filthy thoughts, 
masturbation, etc. 

I also dream about having intercourse with one of my pupils. 
Some of my thoughts and indeed my actions are very diverse and 
queer, and I find it hard to put on paper. I have never before told 
anyone about these things. Sometimes I feel frustrated and I 
would like to know if my practices are very unusual. I would be 
elated if you could give me some information on what other girls 
think. It would make me feel easier to know that others like me 

P.S. I find it difficult to get the type of whips that I would like 
here in Ireland, so I would be grateful if you could help me. 


My sexual fantasy goes back to an actual event that happened 
to me when I was about eleven. On the way home from school a 
group of girls and boys began picking on me. At one point the 
leader, who was very good looking, grabbed me by the arm and 
told me I would have to do whatever he ordered me to do. He told 
me that from that day on whenever he ordered me to follow him I 
would do so, and that he would then tell me what his wishes 
were. Then he let me go. Afterward, whenever I saw him my 
heart would leap into my mouth, but he never seemed to notice 
me again, never ordered me to follow him or to do any of the 
things I thought I would dread, doing. 


During my early teen-age years I used to dream about what he 
might have asked me to do to him. I imagined all sorts of things, 
and still do. This is what all my fantasies go back to, that I am 
forced by this good looking man to perform all sorts of sexual 
acts, incredible things that no man has ever asked me to do, but 
which would give me a great deal of pleasure - if I were forced. 
This is my fantasy, even when I am with my lover. 

I only began to masturbate eight months ago, although I am 
twentyfour. My fantasies are different during masturbation, either 
imagining that I am using a dildo, which I don't have the nerve 
to buy, or that one or two women and I are making love with a 

Oddly enough, the only other thing that turns me on is if I see 
a very nice male posterior. I can't help imagining how it would 
be uncovered. [Letter] 


This is as good a place as any to make a parenthetic 
comment on noise during sex, on what it does for women. I'm 
not talking about Frank Sinatra in the background; I refer 
specifically to those words and noises and phrases that come 
straight from the groin and have to do with fucking. Words and 
noises that - if you are indeed fucking - are a more natural part 
of it than a gentlemanly "I love you, Helen," or no noise at all. 
Being fucked in silence, with the lights out, inhibits an act that's 
supposed to be the most liberating one in our lives. Some women, 
like June (below), can't even make it in silence; Nina (also 
below) says what dozens of other contributors have mentioned in 
passing. . .and would have dwelled on longer, I'm sure now, if I'd 
asked them directly how they felt about it: "Our lovemaking is 
always heightened by the use of words like 'fuck,' 'cunt,' etc., 
which we normally don't use... only in bed." Both these women 


trace the source of their fantasies back to their childhood, which 
is where most adults think these "dirty," "low," "vulgar" noises 
should be relegated, instead of including them naturally in the 
most adult act of all. Who said "ladies" don't use words like 
"fuck" and "cunt," or that one doesn't use them around "ladies"? 
Maybe not when you're having lunch with a lady, but when a 
lady's fucking, she's not having lunch. 


What I can't stand is quiet sex. It seems unnatural to me for 
two people to be fucking away and all you can hear, if you're 
lucky, is some heavy breathing. Give me a good moaner, a 
groaner, a real yeller any time. If I'm with a guy and he won't say 
anything, just breathes, and I'm too timid to start up all the heavy 
moaning that really turns me on, I fantasize. I remember the first 
time I ever heard people fucking, and remembering it, well, it 
releases me. 

I was only about eleven when this happened. We were living 
in San Francisco, in a big apartment house with a center 
courtyard. All the bedroom windows in the building opened onto 
this court, and sometimes in the middle of the night in that 
building it sounded like a mass orgy. I may have been only 
eleven, but no one had to tell me what all that moaning and 
yelling was about. I'd lie there mesmerized - that's when I began 
masturbating, I think - listening to the first couple. Invariably, 
they'd wake up other couples, and like some kind of chain 
reaction within minutes the whole building was fucking. I mean, 
have you ever heard other people fucking, really enjoying it? It's 
a marvelous sound... not like in the movies... but when it's real. 
It's such a happy, exciting sound. 

So if I'm with some silent type, just lying there noiseless with 
him thrusting away, I remember those noisy nights as a kid in 
San Francisco, and within seconds I'm. moaning and groaning 


like crazy myself, and sure enough, the old silent type picks up on 
it, too. . .and we're off on a great loud fuck! [Conversation] 


I am thirty-three years old, a lesbian, and have been happily, 
"married" for the past five years. My fantasies during sex are very 
much a reflection of what is actually happening. Very often we 
will "act out" our roles as Mum and Baby, as she sucks my 
nipples and I sing her nursery songs. At other times she acts the 
male role and I describe out loud what her "cock" is like and how 
it is affecting me while we masturbate each other. Our 
lovemaking pleasure is always heightened by the use of words 
like "cunt ," "fuck," etc., which we normally don't use... only in 
bed. I should add that my fantasies are always about my lover, 
never about some other lesbian. If I did have ideas about another 
woman, I would never tell her, as she is terribly jealous natured. 

When I discovered the delights of masturbation, at the age of 
seven, even then I used to imagine it was my girl friend who was 
rubbing between my legs. I suppose I've always been a lesbian 
and it was just a matter of time before I made these early 
fantasies come true. Sometimes, while masturbating as a child, I 
would imagine her dog was licking my cunt (which it sometimes 
did and which excited me greatly). 

However, I never fantasize about animals now. My thoughts 
are totally given, over to my love for other women. Often, I will 
imagine a kind of religious orgy - lesbian, but watched by men 
robed as priests. There are always lots of lighted candles, vestal 
virgins, and a certain amount of sex on the altar with my partner. 
There is invariably glorious music and brilliant colors as in 
church. (I am a vicar's offspring and attend church regularly, but 
have no guilt about being homosexual.) 

Every (frequent) session with my beloved partner is exciting 
and satisfying, all the more so because of my thoughts and our 


words. However, I would never talk about my fantasies to 
anyone. [Letter] 


When I am with my husband, I often think of my former lover 
and of the time we were on a secluded, bushy beach together and 
he pinned me to the ground with his: legs after I'd already had 
one climax; he just steam-rollered me and moaned and groaned 
when he came. That's something else I miss - my former lover's 
lovemaking' noises and talk - my husband doesn't "talk dirty" 
during; the act to the extent my lover used to, and he's pretty well 
noiseless at climax. [Taped interview] 


My husband knows how much certain talk excites me, like his 
telling me how much he enjoys oral sex, how much he loves my 
big breasts; I like him to describe quite literally what we are 
doing when we are making love. Except then, I like him to call it 
"fucking." [Letter] 


Evie is in her late twenties, divorced, and now lives in Los 
Angeles with her two daughters. Her frank comments about talk 
during sex could be an inspiration to a lot of silent fuckers who 
want to be remembered. It's difficult to remember movements, to 
reconstruct all by yourself what happened last night or last month 
in bed, but a few heated groin-words can have total, orgasmic 
recall. Remembering just those words, a woman can keep a man 
erect in her mind for life. Women are the great collectors... love 
letters, roses, souvenirs, words; in a sense, women hang on to 


everything, almost live in the past, because we're never quite sure 
if "it" will ever happen again. 

About talking. ..that's another whole realm and I don't know 
if it interests you, but I think it might to know that men who talk 
to me can really make me cream in my jeans (just an expression) 
over them. ..things like "You can do it"; "You can make it"; 
"Come on"; etc. I won't bore you, but they really seem to make a 
difference in my orgasm quotient. Sometimes when I am in bed 
with a man and he talks to me... even if he just asks me what 
time it is while he's making love to me. . .1 freak. And when I am 
alone with myself I often reiterate what certain men have said, or 
very often I allow myself the luxury of embroidering on it and 
inventing things that men might say to me. 

You wanted some of my girl friends' fantasies, and I asked a 
few of them but they don't seem very imaginative. They 
apparently speak little in bed and they are not interested in 
imagining, or else they won't come clean with me, which is 
probable. One girl did tell me that a fellow used to send her 
polaroid pictures of his erected cock and she would masturbate to 
them while he was on business trips. [Letter] 


But it's too easy to say that all sexual fantasy, like dreams, 
was born of some inchoate spark in childhood. Pop psychiatry, 
determined to reduce the most complete aspects of life to fast, 
fast, FAST understanding, begins and ends with that premise. 

All the foregoing reinforces the idea that much of our most 
potent sexual imagery does go back to that time in our lives when 
we didn't even know what it - the stimulus - was all about. Born 
of the innocence and ignorance of our childhood, fantasies retain 
their mysterious powers into our adult years of sexual exploration 
(even satiety). They never lose their glamour. Bluebeard's wives 


had all the beautiful rooms of his house to roam in, but they never 
could resist the one locked door. 

But don't despair if you're over twelve and think you haven't 
had a fantasy. The most erotic fantasies I know of are ones that 
first came to grown women on hearing just the right word, seeing 
the wrong face. Sexual fantasy material is everywhere and 
anything, but the spark that makes it a fantasy is inside, not 
outside the fantasist. It's not a matter of deciding "Okay, now I'm 
going to make up, a great sexual fantasy," and then concentrating 
on the two young men delivering the new TV set, on the 
neighbor's Great Dane, or even on your husband's best friend. 
There are no universal fantasy symbols; what works for one 
woman may do nothing for another. Just as one woman may go 
for the classic tall, dark, and handsome type, so may another like 
cute blond cheerleaders. Flash a black man on the screen of one 
woman's mind and it will begin clicking its own rear projection, 
while another woman's inner voice may say "So what?" You 
don't will a sexual fantasy to take form and turn you on. 
Nevertheless, I do think a lot of women are likely to begin 
fantasizing after reading this book. Or rather, become aware that 
they have, been fantasizing all along, and that those sudden odd 
ideas or notions they have up to now forgotten, or repressed, are 
indeed fantasies. 

Much of the material in this book came through this kind of 
setting up of associations, giving a woman not a direct request for 
a fantasy, but giving her an idea to get her started. For example, 
if I simply said to a woman, "Do you have sexual fantasies?" she 
would usually reply "I don't know," or "What is a sexual 
fantasy?" or "No." But if I said, "I've found that most women's 
sexual fantasies have this element of anonymity, that when she's 
thinking about being fucked by another man, or men, that they're 
faceless, or strangers ..." then the dialogue is on between me and 
the woman, between her and her own imagery. She has a 
recognizable starting point from which to take off. I don't know 


whether this freedom of the imagination takes place because 
mentioning other women's fantasies has set up a kind of 
competition, or because that mention freed my interviewee from 
isolation and guilt, or whether it was only because her up to now 
dormant sexual imagination simply needed that association as a 
springboard. I think all three contribute. 

But I bring it up now, this power that association has in 
getting women to reveal their fantasies, because in using it as a 
method of collecting material, I gathered more information than I 
expected, in particular on the subject of where women get the 
ideas for their fantasies. And what especially interested me was 
how often these ideas had a visual basis. 

I had sent a letter to several magazines describing my research 
and inviting contributions. Knowing how much more responsive 
women were if the subject was discussed as normal rather than 
extraordinary, and given a little personal background, I described 
sexual fantasies as images that could occur anywhere - during 
sex, while driving to work, or just walking down the street, 
parenthetically adding that in my own strolls, I was an inveterate 
crotch watcher. Not only did I look at men's provocative fronts - 
as automatically as men look at mine - but I also imagined, en 
passant, the arrangement, the shape of what lay beneath. All very 
natural, I made it sound. . .as I think it is. No matter what else the 
women who replied to that article said about themselves and their 
fantasies, they almost all remarked on the crotch-watching: They 
all look. Maybe not at men's flies (though most do), maybe not 
even at men, but they admitted with conspiratorial glee - 
whatever it was they looked at, it didn't stop there. The looking 
was only the beginning of the wondering, the imagining and, yes 
"now that you mention it" - the fantasy. 

My own feelings about women's sexuality have changed since 
I began researching this book. I always expected that women 
were far more adventurous in sex than men gave them credit for; 
that with the right man a woman would be game for anything. 


Now I've come to believe that women aren't just willing 
followers in sex, but given just a word, the right "starting off" 
association, women can be sexually original, can be an 
as-yet-untapped source of new sexual ideas and fun. I think 
women are sexually stimulated by many things; they simply 
aren't used to responding outwardly. But give them 3 clue they 
can relate to without guilt, get them started with an encouraging 
word and, as I said earlier, I think women are ready and willing 
to write a whole new chapter in a book that's been accepted as 
closed. Think about it: it usually takes two sexes for sex, but after 
all these years of going at it we've still only beard from one. Ever 
since Adam, men have rolled over onto their side of the bed, lit a 
cigarette, and asked, "What were you thinking about?" And the 
woman has answered, "Nothing." Or the more outspoken, "You." 
How can men have really believed them all this time? 

For instance, men (and their tailors) may think women look at 
them admiringly because of the cut of their suits, much as they 
would look at a fashion photo on the men's page, or that sane suit 
on a coat hanger. And if a girl is asked directly, she will often 
reply something like, "I was just thinking how nice you look in 
gray." But in actuality, the stories women have told me indicate 
that when a woman looks at a man, she's seeing and wondering 
many things. 


When I walk down the street I constantly watch crotches. I try 
to imagine what the penises are like. I am especially turned on 
when a man's balls bulge through hiss pants. Often I am tempted 
to walk up to him, right there on the street, unzip his fly and feel 
his balls. [Letter] 



Looking at men, front and back, is a favorite pastime. I like to 
study the shapes of their asses and wonder how they use them 
when thrusting into a woman, or I wonder what it would be like 
to penetrate their anuses with a dildo. [Letter] 


My husband has sort of turned me into a fly-watcher, too. He 
has been insisting for so long that his penis is too small (he is 
always measuring it when it is erect) that he has made me 
curious about other men's dimensions. He has even made me a 
little curious about his suggestion that I might be able to have 
more orgasms if I had sex with a man who had a larger penis 
than he does. So I find myself watching for crotches that indicate 
there might be something fairly large hidden within. [Letter] 


My mind doesn't even rest when I'm outside the bedroom, as I 
am continually stealing looks at men, at their private areas. With 
trousers as tight as they are nowadays, it's not difficult to 
determine just what lies under those promising bulges. At least 
one can dream about it and try to imagine what sort of lover a 
man would make, what size he really is, etc. What I mean is, I 
think so many men arrange themselves down there in such a way 
that it's hard to tell whether everything's been sort of piled on top 
of itself, giving a vast pyramid effect, or whether he's for real. I 
think it's nice that men have entered the "Hey, look at me" arena 
where women have been parading for years. Now, while men 
continue to look at braless breasts under sweaters, or big bottoms 
under tight skirts, we women have something to look at as well. I 
often wonder why men stayed in those big, old-fashioned, 


shapeless trousers for so long. Don't they want us to look? 


I'm amused to see that your habit of being an "incurable 
fly-watcher" applies to me, also. Sometimes it can even be a little 
fun when you suddenly realize that the guy is watching youl Of 
course this all depends on who it is. I think it excites a man for 
him to think that you're interested in what he looks like under his 
clothes. [Letter] 


I, too, am a "crotch-watcher." I can't help imagining the exact 
shape and size of a man "there" when I look at him, and I 
invariably compare him to my fiance. [Letter] 


I myself am so unconscious of looking at men, of glancing at 
their crotches as they approach me on the street, that I can be 
thinking of what to buy for dinner while my mind is speculating 
on just what a guy has done to himself to achieve a particularly 
interesting arrangement of his genitalia. They can get the most 
remarkable effects! In fact, my husband says that I notice on 
which side a man dresses before I've even shaken hands. 

A funny thing happened to me one day as I was hurrying home 
from work, thinking about God knows what, but also checking 
out the oncoming stream of men hurrying home. I suppose I 
wasn't even aware of how intently I stared at one particular 
man's well-fitting trousers until just as we passed - tweak! - he 
reached out and tweaked my nipple! Just like that, on Fifth 
Avenue! I was stunned. I stopped, turned around with my mouth 


gaping open, watching him disappear. . .and then I laughed. What 
else could I do? [Letter] 


I love seeing the bulge beneath a boy's tight jeans and 
imagining what is underneath. I long to know whether he might 
or might not be circumcised. I have always preferred 
uncircumcised boys. [Letter] 


I am also an incurable fly-watcher, and also a bottomwatcher, 
imagining the reality beneath the clothing. I also have an almost 
irresistible urge to run my fingers through a man's hair when it is 
well cut, reasonably long, and looks clean and soft. 

I find men's naked bodies very exciting (and often wish there 
was the equivalent of "girlie" magazines for us women). [Letter] 


Sometimes when I have been on a train or a bus I have found 
myself looking at men's trousers to see if I can trace the shape 
and size of the penis. Sometimes I have noticed a penis stiffen 
when the man has looked at my breasts or when he tries to get a 
glimpse of my thighs and then it excites me to think that I am the 
cause of his erection. [Letter] 


I do daydream a bit; if I have heard that a boy is particularly 
large, or good in bed, or something, then when I see him I 


undress him mentally, wondering what he locks like naked. 


I really do enjoy just looking at men. Any time I can catch a 
glimpse of a man's crotch I do; why shouldn't a girl like to see a 
crotch that's filled well and shows its shape through the trousers? 
It turns me on, just as watching my husband turns me on. [Letter] 


Although my husband knows I've always been faithful to him, 
I don't think he realizes how much I enjoy looking at other men. I 
do it all the time; most of the time I am almost unaware that I am 
looking at a man's crotch. If I see a man with a large bulge in his 
crotch, I just tend to stare. It is an eye-catcher. [Letter] 

Franc ine 

Of course I Look at men. We're supposed to, aren't we? Why 
else would they squeeze themselves into tight trousers that stretch 
so smoothly across the front. ..except where they don't? But it's 
certainly a young man's game. I mean, what girl looks at an old 
guy in a pair of baggy trousers full of pleats and folds, just a lot 
of gathers hanging from the waist? It's as though they were 
ashamed, like women who wear dresses one size too large. 
You'd think they'd catch on, wouldn't you? After all, we all want 
to be noticed, right? [Letter] 



I wasn't aware I looked until you asked. Sure I do, but as I've 
never talked to anyone about it, I guess I just wasn't aware, 
consciously, of how I checked a man out. . .down below. I sort of 
do it like a CIA agent: The eye goes blink, the man's vital 
statistics are recorded on my inner brain, and then the 
information is just stashed away. What a waste! I'll have to stop 
being so secretive with myself about all this now that we no 
longer live in the Dark Ages. [Letter] 


Naturally I look. Doesn't everyone? But I'm very canny about 
it. You see, I have this wandering eye - an eye that really 
wanders due to poor muscular control. What I do is focus my 
good eye on something or someone legit, then I half-mast my 
eyes in this seductive, lowered-lidded manner I've developed, 
and then my wandering eye "looks." I really dig looking at men. 
Even when I was in school I was very aware of how a guy's 
pants fitted him, the way they'd hang low on his hips, the tight fit 
across the ass. I've always felt very sorry for guys who don't have 
an ass, just the way I guess guys feel sorry about poor 
flat-chested girls. [Letter] 


When I see an attractive guy, I find myself imagining what his 
penis is like. I see it in my mind as I'm sitting there talking to 
him, or when I think about him I see his penis erect. I imagine 
my hand on it, I imagine it touching me, I see every little groove 
and detail of it enlarged in great erection. I can even feel the heat 
of it in my hand or in me. [Letter] 


J eanie 

I have developed an unusual fascination about men's buttocks. 
When I see an attractive man from the back, and he is wearing 
close-fitting pants, I often try to imagine what his buttocks would 
look like with his pants off. Sometimes, I even try to imagine 
what it would be like if he were bent over my lap and I were 
spanking his bare buttocks. To a much lesser degree, if I see an 
attractive man from the front, and he is wearing closefitting 
pants, I try to guess whether his penis is larger, smaller, or the 
same size as my husband's. [Letter] 


I know popular theory has it that women are not as sexually 
aroused by what they see and read as men. Men are supposed to 
have this trigger response to the sight of a . breast or a bottom; 
whole segments of our economy depend on it. Whereas women, 
they say, feel nothing at the sight of a cock, except perhaps a 
sense of embarrassed amusement, or even distaste. Several years 
ago, the essential humor of a successful Broadway play (You 
Know I Can't Hear You When the Water's Running) depended 
on this idea. On the other hand, some people will concede that 
the erect cock does arouse some women... but even there the 
debate goes on. 

Certainly if it were reduced to a contest of who responds 
quickest to what, men would have the edge on women. Their 
minds have been freer since childhood to respond to just the 
outline of a breast, the mention of a word, the scent of a woman; 
they were even encouraged, in this way, to be "little men." But 
women. ..In the girl's school where I went, there was a pale gay 
fig leaf even on the dark bronze reproduction of Michelangelo's 
David (thought to have been added by the spinster librarian). It 


was years before I got my first really good look at a really good 
picture of a cock. And let no male expert tell me I wasn't 
stimulated. Even if I'd still not seen an erect one, my child's 
imagination graphically made up for what was missing, raising 
that cock to uneasily exciting (if anatomically incorrect) erect 
proportions. By the time I'd grown up, there still wasn't (and 
isn't) a garden of sexual stimuli for women in the world around 
us; but to go so far as to say that a grown woman - a woman 
who's not only seen but caused a few erections - requires the 
already erect cock, the male sex symbol in full totality before she 
can feel any thing... it's ludicrous. Who more than a woman 
should feel aroused at the sight of a limp cock, at the provocative 
thought of what she might do to it? 

It's exactly because a woman has been taught not to look, and 
has been deprived of real outlets for what real visual and verbal 
stimuli there are, that she's more talented than anyone at" making 
pictures do for the real thing in short, it's why she's so good at 

Of course, there's less to make up nowadays: men's trousers _ 
have never been tighter, their shirts more bodyhugging, their own 
awareness of their visual sexuality keener. Are we all playing 
"The Emperor's New Clothes"? I'm not surprised that so many 
women say they're sometimes (secretly) tempted to "just reach 
out and touch it." Who's it meant for anyway? The new visual 
turn-ons have done worlds for fantasy, and now that we're all 
having a good look at it, fantasy can get on with the story 

With all this happening, I find it baffling that sexually 
informed writers and psychologists as generous and liberating as 
Robert Chartham - whose book The Sensuous Couple begins by 
saying that no couple is sensuous unless both parties are equal, 
equal to initiate, lead or follow that even such a man as this 
argues that women are not as readily aroused sexually as men. 
Given a pornographic book, Chartham told me, a man would be 


more fully and quickly aroused than a woman. "A man would 
have an erection in seconds," he said, as if it is only man's 
outward barometer that is to be considered, the cock's signal 
readiness for use the only measure of a person's depth and 
quality of sexuality. When I staunchly replied that I, too, could be 
aroused very quickly by just the right printed page, he looked at 
me kindly, paused and said, "Then you are unusual. Women take 
much longer." 

What makes this entire argument difficult to discuss sensibly 
is that buried within it - and usually given as proof of the male's 
more immediate sexuality - is the undeniable fact that he comes 
more quickly. But what has that to do with how quickly and to 
what depth either sex is aroused? While a man can come quicker 
than a woman, she can continue to have one orgasm after another 
in immediate, rapid-fire succession. Really, it's all a silly 
argument. We're not in a race, and even if we were, supposedly 
we're in it together, men and women, running after the same 

The closest I can come - especially after this book - to 
agreeing with Dr. Chartham and others who say that women do 
not respond quickly, or even respond at all, to reading or seeing 
sexual stimuli is to say that if they respond more slowly than men 
do, this is not nature's decree; it is the way they've been trained 
to respond. Women do respond immediately at times, but the 
response is not the male's socially accepted smile, come-on, and 
erection. With the woman, it will more often mean the retreat into 
a secret fantasy, with or without deliberately chosen stimuli. Here 
are a few examples. 

Mary Jane 

I am a little hesitant to respond because I do not think I have 
as many sexual fantasies as many other women. I will try to tell 
you about those I do have, anyway. 


I feel ashamed to admit it, but my mind sometimes does 
wander when I am having intercourse with my husband. Usually 
I think about other men I find sexually exciting. Sometimes I 
think about Paul Newman, the actor, because I think he is the 
most attractive man I have ever seen. I close my eyes and 
imagine that he is making love to me rather than my husband. 
Also, I feel guilty about it. 

I once dreamed I was making love to my father-in-law while I 
was having sexual intercourse with my husband. My husband's 
father is one of the most handsome and attractive men that I 
know personally, and I have often wished that my husband were 
more like his father. 

Several times, a really strange idea has come into my head for 
no reason at all. In my mind, I will see myself kneeling in front of 
Paul Newman, and I am sucking on his penis. I put those kind of 
thoughts out of my head very quickly, though, because I have 
never done that to any man, not even my husband. 

A little while before I was married, I started to have fantasies 
about statues of nude men that I had seen. Some had such 
beautiful bodies that I could not resist thinking about making 
love to them. My favorite was a statue of Hermes, the Greek god. 
In particular, I was fascinated by its small, delicate-looking 
penis. I have an aversion to large or gross looking penises, 
although I have only seen my husband's and those on nudes in 
paintings or on statues. Even now, I sometimes fantasize about 
making love to 'that statue of Hermes, since it has become 
something of an ideal of male beauty to me (especially after I 
discovered on my wedding night that my husband's penis is as 
small as the one on that statue). [Letter] 



During sex I occasionally think of a man other than the man I 
am with. He is never someone known to me. Physically he is an 
image of the "ideal" man. If I am in reality with someone young, 
who has a beautiful and exciting body, I may change him in my 
imagination into someone unknown that I have just met on the 

If I told my lover, he would be jealous and would think it was 
something lacking in his sexual performance that caused 
fantasies such as this. (Not true; I think of things like the above 
just as the mood takes me.) 

The thought of two men having sex together really excites me 
and I would love to see this. (Recently, the man I have been 
living with for three years was "felt up" by a homosexual when 
we were at a party where everyone had had a lot to drink. He was 
horrified and felt "disgusted," to quote him, but I found it made 
me immensely excited.) 

Sometimes I imagine an audience watching me have sex with 
my boss; sometimes young boys being given an intimate anatomy 
lesson with me as the model. (Ridiculous, really, because I have 
done art school modeling in the nude and merely felt bored.) 

I also get pleasure imagining I am an empress who has 
unlimited supplies of men and who lines them up to choose. I 
imagine giving banquets where the servants are naked men, and 
afterward accommodating the women guests with any male they 
desire, all having been tested as to performance by myself 
previously. This and variations of this theme I particularly like, as 
the men can be erotically clothed or decorated if necessary. 

I have many erotic dreams, often of transparently clothed men, 
or Greek gad types, usually nude. Sometimes at night I dream I 
am having sex, but in my dreams it is always with someone 
familiar, never a stranger. My fantasy men are always beautiful 
and blond and unknown. 


One of my favorite fantasies is being invisible among crowds 
of naked men and being fascinated by the way they move. In 
reality and fantasy I simply love to look at men, their bodies, and 
have had such imaginings, of which these are an example, since I 
was about twelve. [Letter] 


I am twenty-six, unmarried, and living in the country by 
myself. I have never written to a magazine before. I was 
determined, however, to reply to this letter. 

Some years ago I was about to become a nun. I was at a 
convent for a year and began to hate the environment, for I was 
convinced that a vast number of the novices were indeed 
sex -repressed. I certainly was from the outset and just had to give 
it up. I had slight lesbian tendencies prior to going to the convent, 
but they then enlarged. I masturbated frequently before I went 
there, but this increased enormously. I just had to get relief 
somehow. Fortunately, I grew fond of a novice older than myself 
and secretly we masturbated together quite often. Then it was that 
I started having fantasies. I would grow fond of a nun, and while 
playing with myself I would think of her. I would imagine that it 
was her fingers that titillated my clitoris. I would try hard to 
imagine her standing by the bedside stark naked with hairs on 
her pubic region. I also tried to think of her being played with by 
another nun. This brought me to a climax speedily. 

When I left the convent, I went in for teaching at a girls' 
school. I would enjoy being present when the girls went for 
showers each morning en masse. My thoughts would always veer 
toward a particular girl whose body was fairly well developed. 
Then, in the seclusion of my own room, I would strip, lie on the 
bed, and think of the girl as I had seen her in the showers. 

Then I met a man who seemed exciting. I have met three of his 
male friends, and I might add that we are broad-minded and at 


times have a small sex party at which we are all nude. Here again 
I have fantasies. I am not in love with any of them, but enjoy 
being fucked by them while the others watch. While I am 
actually being penetrated, I think of one of the other men present. 
One is dark-skinned, as he is Italian, and has a large penis. When 
another man is inside me I pretend it is the Italian. I seldom come 
when I am fucked. I come when I play with myself or use a 
vibrator alone in my apartment. Yet I simulate a climax just to 
make the man feel happy and often use obscene language. I buy 
many sex books, and I even have an album of girlie pictures. 
When I want to feel naughty I place this on a bedside table and 
with my vibrator and tape recorder I actually speak out loud and 
think of some man or maybe some girl whose body I long to play 
with. I am not crackers. I am very normal but sex interests me 
enormously. I will never marry. I would be faithless, I know. I 
like my own body far too much and like other people playing 
with it! [Letter] 


I am seventeen and have had one intimate affair with a man. 
Once, when we were making love in the car, we had stopped in 
front of the public school that I attended as a child. I remember 
now that I secretly laughed at the thought of how ironic it was. I 
tried to imagine myself as a child looking upon this situation. 
Perhaps because I was now doing something forbidden as a 
child, it excited me. 

My first masturbating experience was after I had read Candy. I 
still remember because I pretended that I was the girl in that book 
and for the first time I had an orgasm. I didn't know what it was 
then, but I soon found out. For a while there I was reaching an 
orgasm at least once a day. I would read a "dirty" book and then 
reread the lines in my head as I masturbated. After reading an 


uncounted number of books, I began putting together my own 
stories, or fantasies. 

Off the cuff, I'll describe some situations that used to turn me 
on: being picked up on the corner while hitchhiking at night and 
being raped by three guys; same situation, only intercourse 
willingly with all three; call girl with a good reputation; being 
seduced while under the influence of drugs; subject of sexual 
experiments such as in the Nazi war camps; intercourse with a 
dog with a friend looking on; intercourse with my brothers; sex 
play with my father, sisters (in the fantasies involving a mother or 
father, they were not my own parents; likewise the faces of 
siblings were changed - a point which I find interesting because I 
do it unconsciously); intercourse with my favorite teacher. ..the 
list goes on. 

Many of my early fantasies involved some sort of sadism or 
masochism, but after I experienced the emotional side of 
lovemaking these fantasies very quickly wore off. I found them 
really distasteful. Now I have just as many "favorite" fantasies to 
choose from, but they all involve emotion, whether it be love or 
hate. Usually gentleness surrounds the feelings of my fantasies 
now: being accepted in a coven of witches through their love 
ritual (I read that somewhere); making love with someone I've 
just met, with whom I've instantly gotten along really well; 
having an affair with my high-school teacher, which I'm sure 
would not be a fantasy if I gave him a little encouragement. All 
these fantasies are very close to reality. 

I've also had occasional lesbian fantasies. In them I am never 
a part of the action, but an onlooker. In the past I also had 
fantasies of orgies, and again I was always the passive partner. 
But I don't use those anymore. Now I'm into emotion. [Letter] 



When first thinking about your request for sexual fantasies, I 
said to myself, "But this doesn't apply to me, as far as I can 
remember I have never fantasized." But upon reflection, I realized 
that I had disciplined myself to forget them. Upon wracking my 
brains, I realize I have fantasized but never realized I was getting 
a sensual thrill from it until now. 

After reading a book about Roman orgies, I imagined. I was 
having intercourse with a donkey, having read an account of just 
such a happening. But it quickly grew distasteful. Another 
fantasy I've had several times, and usually when I'm afraid of 
having sexual intercourse, say after having a baby or during times 
of stress (am I rationalizing?), is this: I imagine myself in the 
jungle with a primitive tribe. I am forced to watch punishments 
being inflicted upon same of their tribe members far various 
sexual misdemeanors. I go into great detail over the tortures. The 
men have their penises or scrotum cut off, or red-hot liquid forced 
up their urethra. The women hake red-hot pokers thrust up them 
slowly. As the only civilized person there I am duly horrified by 
these events. 

Just now in recounting this fantasy to you, another upon 
similar lines has entered my consciousness. In this one we are in 
a Nazi camp. There is a fiendish woman torturing the men. She 
makes them hold their urine until they burst. She has a machine 
into which she inserts their penises. This machine keeps on 
stimulating them so that they have constant orgasms. I remember 
trying to conclude that particular torture, and couldn't think of 
anything except that their organs became flaccid and so another 
torture had to be devised to follow that one - which I can't 
remember. The women in the camp were all very young girls and 
were being raped by a mad professor. 

Their sexual apparatus was very immature and he always 
managed to kill them. He adopted all sorts of techniques, but I 


only remember this ward full of girls, each tied into a position 
whereby he could examine their sexual apparatus and choose 
which one was going to be his that day. By the way, most of 
these fantasies are things I have read about and very little is 
invented. Other events take place in theses fantasies, but all along 
those same sadistic lines. 

I told my husband of the jungle one and I think he was a little 
taken aback, but it made me laugh when bringing it out into the 
open. I certainly didn't feel guilty about it, for although I might 
be a perverted sadist somewhere down deep, it doesn't seem to 
show in my daily life; in fact, I am a gentle person, so I could 
afford to laugh, feeling secure in the fact that I have disciplined 
this part of myself. 

As I say, I had difficulty remembering these fantasies, mainly 
because I felt them to be a threat, and so I only indulged in them 
two or three times and quickly suppressed, them. Never because I 
felt guilty about them, but because I feel it a lack of 
self-discipline to overindulge oneself in anything. [Letter] 


Things women see turn them on. It's a simple proposition, 
but I've spent a lot of time on it because it is so often denied. 
Even a magazine as comparatively uninhibited as Cosmopolitan, 
when it recently published its female reply to Playboy's naked 
"Playmate of the Month," went along with the myth that women 
think the sight of the male body ugly or frightening; the male 
model was nude all right but his oh-so-casually-placed hand and 
wrist masked what one would have assumed was the very point 
of the proceedings. This simple denial of the sources of women's 
fantasies is almost as endless as the fantasies themselves, even 
though these sources are so obvious that just to name them is to 
recognize how easily they can serve as the start of a fantasy. 


Women fantasize about their former lovers, their first orgasm, 
their first "different" sexual scene, say, with another woman or 
several people. There are the fantasies that are continuations of a 
real or remembered sexual moment - a stolen kiss, the pressed 
hand, last night's first dinner in an as-yet-unconsummated but 
sure-fire affair - sexual sparks that haven't yet, or never will get 
off the ground, but do in fantasy. There's the totally fictional 
fantasy sprung from the fantasizer's imagination inspired by an 
attractive face at a dinner party, or the hero of a TV play, or a pop 
music or film star. If this last possibility for fantasy hasn't struck 
you as endless, just think of the millions of women - perhaps one 
sitting next to you right now - whose eyes glaze, palms moisten, 
and lips part in half-smiles of anticipation at the sight of Tom 
Jones or Paul Newman. Do you really think their minds are blank 
or that they turn off when the TV does? 

Less obvious are those fantasies that spring from a woman's 
effort to deal with emotions and desires too frightening or 
destructive to be played out in reality. In much the same way that 
dreams act as a healthy outlet for the violent emotions we would 
not want to experience in reality, so sexual fantasy can give a 
woman a chance to explore and thus lessen the anxiety of 
jealousy and the conflict she feels when she has desires for other 
men. That's why I've included Gelda's fantasy here; if her 
fantasy, touched off by her jealousy of her lover's former girl 
friend, takes the form of a lesbian relationship with that other 
woman, at least she doesn't take her destructive feelings of 
jealousy out on her lover during the day. 


I have been married for over three years and last year finished 
a yearlong affair with a fellow executive civil servant (G.), who is 
twice my age. Frequently, when my husband makes love to me, I 
imagine it is G. on top of me again (difficult, as G. is heavier, 


taller, and much hairierchested than my husband) and find my 
own climax is intensified if I am thinking of my lover. Sometimes 
when I come I even call his name out, but stifle it a bit. 
(Fortunately in this respect, my husband is deaf in one ear!) I had 
a much more passionate relationship with my lover, than with my 
husband, even while we were engaged. G. and I only had to look 
at one another and he would have an erection and I would 
become wet. It even helps me to think that the bedclothes my 
husband and I sleep under are the same ones G. and I lay under 
while my husband was away in another city on business. 

Since my affair, I have tried to rebuild my husband's shattered 
ego by telling him what a good lover he is. (It helps now that I 
have regular orgasms with my husband, whereas before my affair 
I only came in the "superior" position.) Sometimes I have to keep 
my husband convinced with a few white lies. I think he'd walk 
out of the house if he knew what I was really thinking about. 

When my husband fucks me I dream about G.'s favorite game: 
for me to be dressed all in black with garter belt and stockings 
under a long black skirt that buttons up the side. After stripping 
down to his trousers, he would kiss me, then bend down and 
stroke my leg where the skirt was split and bring his hand up 
under my skirt until he felt my stocking tops and garters, which 
would make him catch his breath. Then he would undo the skirt 
buttons from the bottom. By this time we would both be pretty 
worked up and I would "climb" him, swishing my nylons against 
his trousers. Sometimes at this stage of my fantasy, having taken 
my top off and unzipped his fly, we would start intercourse 
standing up, with my legs around his waist and G. holding me 
under my back, but more usually he insisted on sucking my left 
breast and then we would undress each other completely. Then 
we would admire each other in the dressing table mirror and 
tease each other, and I would admire his erect organ and very 
frequently go down on him, which he loved. (No other woman 
had ever done that. . .at first he thought it was perverted!) 


My fantasies, as you can see are all mixed up with what 
actually happened. In the morning G. would pick me up in his car 
and fantasize on what positions he was going to take me in that 
night, often petting and kissing me to such an extent that once or 
twice I ended up impaled on his prick at 8:15 A.M. in the front 
seat, while his bosses wondered what had happened to old 
reliable G! His particular ritual was to tease me so that I would 
plead with him to enter and "quench my fire." This was okay so 
long as he could control himself but very often he couldn't, 
especially in front of the mirror, and we would fuck ourselves 
silly all over the floor. One night in particular he waltzed me 
around the front room carpet on my back while I was having 
multiple orgasms, and it wasn't until half an hour later that we 
saw that the skin had come off my back in about five places. I 
told my husband I'd been doing floor gymnastics. All this, the 
real and the imagined, gets confused in my mind during fantasy. 

Also G. and I used to share a fantasy of what it would be like 
when we were making love in his car in a secluded spot on a 
promontory with bushes all around if the two hundred men on his 
staff would suddenly appear from behind the bushes and see us at 
it. In fact I think I would have really enjoyed it, and have since 
wondered about seeing all that lot masturbating when they saw 
that their boss was pretty good at things apart from work. I would 
have liked to watch their reactions when I toyed with my lover's 
penis in my mouth - that would shock a good many of them, old 
women that a lot of them are, especially when they saw me bring 
him to climax that way and swallow his seed, or when I made G. 
come simply by flexing my vaginal muscles (tricks my mother 
taught me - ha! - I can't do that with my husband though: he's 
not sensitive enough). 

My husband never seems to really take the initiative in bed, 
and a climax for him seems to be more of a relief than a release. 
(Incidentally, we've been married three years and he's 


twenty-four.) What I miss most is my lover's manipulation of me 
during intercourse, and his more or less mastery of the situation. 
Most of all I remember when I'm with my husband how G., 
when his climax came, used to grunt and groan with the pleasure 
and kiss me fiercely, making me feel a complete woman, 
completely possessed. I haven't really felt like that for months 

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to get something off 
my chest which has been weighing me down for almost two 
years. Very often I've longed to tell my husband the details of my 
adultery - it would heighten my opinion of my husband if he 
could take joy in what my lover has experienced. But I know it's 
just not possible. After all, my fantasies are based on the real 
thing. [Letter] 


Adrienne is one of those lively, gregarious types who are 
easy to get to know. I met her on the QE2 trip from New York to 
Southampton. Although the voyage is only, five days, a ship has 
a way of bringing people together in terms of intimacy so quickly 
that it seems incredible when remembered back on shore. 

This was the case with Adrienne and me. We were introduced 
at the Captain's cocktail party. (The two of us being practically 
the only unattached women under sixty on board, we were 
naturally asked.) Nicknames, very quickly invented and 
bestowed, are another part of shipboard life; and there was a man 
on board whom Adrienne almost immediately named "The 
Gambler." She had already met him by the time I got to know 
her, and the three of us would often have a drink together before 
dinner. The Gambler was one of those men who like to talk about 
sex a great deal, and with, astonishing perseverance would want 
to know more about the slightest detail ever mentioned. It was 


after the Gambler had gone off on his own one night that 
Adrienne and I had our talk. 

Adrienne is a plump, almost professionally social thirtytwo or 
thirtythree; as I said, I doubt if we'd ever have exchanged more 
than first names on land, we had so little in common. But she 
loved to talk and I listened. 

When you asked me the other day if I ever had sexual 
fantasies, my first reaction was that I really didn't think I ever 
had. What had I been missing? Maybe the Gambler has 
something to do with my "secondthinking." What I mean is, he 
reminds me of this guy I used to know. Now, on reflection, I 
realize that on more than one occasion my thoughts have run wild 
and that I do have a vivid imagination. It's just that I wasn't used 
to calling these ideas and images "fantasies." 

Several years ago, I was going out with a man called Ted. He 
was tall (like the Gambler), handsome, and I found him very 
attractive but elusive. When I first met him we were at a dinner 
party, which was held outdoors on a lovely terrace overgrown 
with pink and white petunias. It was a warm night and we were 
sipping buck fizzes - a drink which always makes me feel very 
romantic and rather sexy. We had really only just been 
introduced, but there we were, off alone on that terrace, and I 
found myself telling him that I had a giant teddy bear back home 
at my apartment, and he immediately replied that now I could 
have another "Teddy, bare" that night. He said it so easily, and 
with such a spirit of fun, that I thought to myself, "Well, why 

He was a wonderful lover. You know how some people always 
have to have a record player going when they make love? With 
me, all I have to do to get into a sexy mood is remember the 
conversation that first night. Time and time again I would 
imagine him as a large teddy bear and me as a honey pot. He was 
a very hungry bear and would suck and scrape as much as he 
could out of that pot and I kept wishing and wishing that my pot 


could always be full. Just thinking of it right now... I can feel 
myself getting all excited. ..Hey! Where did the Gambler go? 


"Here was this experience that was supposed to be the 
dim ax of a girl's life, and it w as like a form of calisthenics," says 
Doris, talking about her sexual initiation with lim , then her 
fiance. "My reactions were always the same. I'd find myself 
heated up by the preliminaries, but then just waiting for what's 
called 'the real thing' to be over." 

D oris felt obscurely cheated, and resentful of lim . In the end, it 
ended their engagement. But before it did, Dons told Jim of her 
feelings. His response was to buy "something special." "It was 
like a little fat rubber band," says Doris, "maybe an inch wide, 
but on one side it had this funny little upward thing. I remember 
thinking it looked like some kind of shark's- fin , sticking up from 
the middle of the rubber band." lim slipped the rubber band 
around the shaft of his erect penis, and with every thrust "the 
little fin rubbed my clitoris both going in and coming out in a 
way thatJim's shaft never could. I never had felt any thing like it. 
I never had an orgasm like it in m y life." 

A year after the engagement was over, Doris married someone 
else. Her husband refuses to buy "one of those little upward 
things" like Jim used to have, but has learned to bring her to 
orgasm w ith his finger. 

It's dark - maybe that's because I have my eyes closed so I 
can see the picture better. I just think of that big shaft of Jim's, 
going in and out of me, like a great pink shark. I rarely imagine 
that the man is my husband. Usually, it's my old boy friend, or 
sometimes some other man I've recently met. I picture it very 
clearly, the man's big shaft parting the hair, parting the lips, 
sinking into me, with that little tip riding toward the clitoris as if 


it's hungry to touch it. I concentrate on that little rubber shark's 
fin, just touching me in the right place with each stroke. Rubbing 
as it goes in, rubbing as it goes out. I've never mentioned it to my 
husband again ever since he refused to buy one. But it's one of 
the nicest wedding presents my old boy friend could have given 
us. . .this picture of it I have in my mind. 

I like to imagine that we're making love in some tropical sea 
or a warm swimming pool. And I can just see this pink shark 
swimming toward me, and I open my legs wider and wider. The 
shark knows me, and he likes the warm feeling inside. He likes 
to wriggle around just at the lips. Sometimes even when my 
husband's not inside me, I only have to think about that shark's 
fin and I start climbing the walls. I can see the picture in my 
mind's eye. That's all I ever have to think about. Just the pink fin 
rubbing me. [Taped interview] 


Any lesbian fantasies I have go back to the time my husband 
and I experimented in bed with another girl. It was the only time 
this had ever happened - not for my husband, but for me. I must 
admit I enjoyed it. It was my husband's idea, and although he 
asked me to make the advances toward the girl, I didn't really 
mind. Since that time I have sometimes wondered what it would 
be like to pick up a girl all on my own somewhere and seduce 
her, or to be completely seduced by a dominant woman, 
especially as my own experience so far has been as the initiator. 
When I am in bed with my husband I'll go over this scene again 
and again, imagining how that first girl really was with me, the 
things I might have tried had I only known. If I like I can even 
imagine that my finger is her tongue, as I remember it. That's a 
lot of memory from just one experience, don't you think? 



I've been having sexy fantasies ever since I got married three 
years ago. I imagine that I am walking down the street when 
suddenly a fantastic car screeches up beside me and sitting at the 
wheel is Robert Redford. Beside him, of course, is Paul Newman. 
They take me to an elegant dress shop where mannequins model 
the most incredible clothes (just like in the old films from the 
forties on TV). They buy me the most elegant, sexy clothes 
imaginable. Then they take me to a ball. 

Everyone is there, film stars and the most divine-looking men 
any woman could want to meet. Naturally, everyone wants to 
dance with me: Tom Jones, for one, whom I refuse, just to see his 
face... Engelbert. ..Franco Nero is incredibly jealous... The one 
and only Elvis asks to take me home, but I refuse them all and 
end my fantastic night by going home and making passionate 
love to Marc Bolan of T. Rex. [Letter] 


I am a happily married woman of thirty-five, and often think 
about other men and imagine how they would make love to me. 
My most vivid imagery is of Tom Jones. Just the other day, as we 
were driving along, my mind drifted off. Suddenly my husband 
looked at me and said, "What are you smiling about?" I replied, 
"I was in bed with Tom Jones." "What happened?" he asked. 
"Everything!" I said. "And it was smashing!" We both had a good 
laugh. [Letter] 


I'm a James Bond fan, and often imagine ordinary tradesmen 
have done fantastic things to me before sweeping me off to bed. I 
was picturing the milkman that way recently when he asked how 


many pints I wanted. "Oh, oh seven," I whispered dreamily! 


I used to imagine in bed that my husband was Mick Jagger, 
until the night when at the height of our sexual crescendo I 
moaned, "Oh, Mick!" I still haven't convinced him that Mick 
isn't the mailman, or the man who reads the gas meter, or a brush 
salesman! [Letter] 


I wonder what making love would be like with the 
couldn't-care-less Tony Curtis, or the sexy Roger Moore. I'm a 
great-grandmother of sixty 36" 29" 38" - which I'm afraid is not 
terribly sexy. When I see my fantasy lovers, I'm practically in the 
TV scene with them; then the program is over and I have to go to 
bed with my husband. [Letter] 


It has always been my fantasy just to tell someone that I dream 
of very young men. My favorite of the moment is Richard 
Benjamin. I do feel so ashamed, as I am going to be fifty next 
May. I also admit to having sexual fantasies whenever I see 
well-dressed men with no tummies! I can't tell you how exciting 
I find a flat stomach. [Letter] 


Thank goodness for your article. I was beginning to think I 
was the only one with certain fantasies when indulging in sex. 


I've never dared discuss my thoughts with anyone bepause of 
being considered indecent. Even now I feel rather shy in writing 
to you. 

My first fantasy, I remember, was on the occasion when, as is 
normal on most evenings, our love play started in front of the fire 
with me between my husband's legs fellatiating him. But on this 
occasion the television was on with the sound turned down, and I 
suddenly imagined myself doing it to the man on the screen 
instead of my husband. The thrill I got was trying to imagine 
whether the man I was watching had a penis to compare with my 
husband's. This certainly heightened my eagerness to please 
hubby, and although he had no idea what I was thinking, he 
certainly enjoyed my increased intensity because in no time at all 
he arrived at a delightful climax. 

The other occasion was inspired by the first: again, with the 
television on, I was on my knees watching a play when he 
mounted me from the rear, and while he was thrusting home I 
was imagining that it was not him but the handsome brute in the 
play. The effect on me was indescribable and I was putting up 
such a performance that my husband did, I am sure, suspect 
something, because he reached over and turned the set off, much 
to my annoyance. 

On other occasions, when he sometimes performs cunnilingus 
on me, I lie back and imagine him to be a young fresh teen-age 
girl (I've longed for that to happen). But alas, I never get the 
chance to meet one, as I cannot get out on my own. He is far too 
possessive to allow me out. [Letter] 


Until I knew Sam, my current lover, I'd never had a fantasy 
like this, that is, one that involved me with another woman. Lots 
of fantasies, but nothing like this. And I've never even thought of 
a woman that way in real life, just wouldn't ever want a woman 


sexually. It's just that ever since Sam told me about her, the girl 
he used to live with, I can't help thinking about it; about them 
together. I know how she changed Sam's life sexually, made him 
a better lover. I also know he's through with her, that he loves 
me; I am as convinced of it as one could rationally be. But 
jealousy isn't rational, is it? And I hate it, jealousy; I hate what it 
does to people, and I'm not going to let it ruin, things for me and 
Sam. Sometimes I feel that if I ever met that girl I'd scratch her 
eyes out, at least I'd want to. But in my fantasies it's all different. 
This is more or less how they go: 

The bed is one of those wrought-iron antique beds you see in 
Italy. The Italians hang religious medals and ornaments on them, 
and they make a chiming noise with the up and back motion of 
fucking. The bed is painted red and there are gold balls all along 
the spikes at the head and foot. The bed is in this girl's room, in 
her apartment. I can see the apartment just from Sam's 
description of it, complete with the little dog, small, with long 
gray and brown hair. The dog is on the bed with us, licking the 
asshole of the girl, who is between my legs. I can't see the dog 
but I know it's there, that the girl has trained the dog to do this. I 
feel the girl's long hair on my thighs and against my lower 
stomach, as she slowly kisses me, parting my lips with her 
fingers, her tongue going straight to that delicate spot, touching it 
gently, and then her lips, full and lingering against me, pressing 
warm against me, and then the tongue, slowly, very slowly at 
first - and not just the tip of the tongue, which would be too hard, 
but the whole length and breadth of it, soft, warm, licking me in 
slow, great, warm, repeated kisses. The blunt feel of her teeth as 
her mouth presses against me. Sam is there, standing across the 
room, watching us, watching me, my face. He is leaning against 
the wall, cool, detached, interested, knowing how I am. He is 
wearing his old khakis, the red Banlon shirt, the old blue 
sneakers. His eyes never leave my face, he is fascinated, he waits 
for the flush to start in my cheeks, as he knows it will, as I know 


his cool look of detachment will change. My lips part, and as my 
breathing becomes heavier, faster, so does his. I can see the bulge 
in his trousers growing larger and larger and his hand moves to 
it. Something in me fights letting this girl give me pleasure, any 
pleasure, but she is so good at it, she knows every little trick, just 
the rhythm, the right rhythm, slowly at first, with the full tongue 
spread warm and lingering against me. Now the idea of her hair, 
of all that long silky hair - the idea that she is a girl, the idea that 
she is Rosie, Sam's old girl friend, excites me. I watch Sam 
unzip his fly, still standing there, still watching my face, but 
needing my excitement now for his own. He takes out his cock 
and his long thin hand begins to stroke it, the foreskin slipping, 
slipping slowly up and down over the pink smooth end. His 
rhythm is slow at first, like the girl with me. I watch his cock, I 
know it so well, I watch it, the veins in it strained like the veins 
in his hand, and I gear myself, pace myself to him. My hands feel 
for the girl's hair, the beautiful soft feel of it - Christ! is it another 
woman doing this to me? - and with the slightest pressure I keep 
her head,, the movement of her tongue, paced to Sam and me. I 
don't have to guide her though, she knows; she has always 
wanted me. We don't need Sam. Now Sam needs us. I relax; I 
give myself to her. Push myself against her mouth so that her lips 
are pressed against her teeth and her tongue slips into me. 
wanting me. My face is hot, my cunt aches with wanting her. I 
watch Sam's hand moving faster, faster, he is bent over his body 
barely able to hold him up, his mouth open, his hand moving up 
and down, up and down the way he has taught me to jerk him off, 
his eyes glued to mine pleading, begging me not to stop. The girl 
moans, her tongue moves faster and faster. She is ready to come, 
but she holds it back, waiting for me. The scream is in Sam's 
throat. I am almost there, but I poise at the height, not wanting it 
to end, wait Sam, wait, not yet, not just yet? The little dog is on 
his back now, under the girl, so that he can lick her cunt which 


drips, but still she waits, her sucking lips pleading, her tongue 
never stopping, until now! [Written down on request] 





Do women dress for men or women? I've always won dered 
why that eternally provocative question is put in terms of 
approval - as if the heart of the matter, the answer, were indeed a 
question of approval by either sex. But the question is never 
satisfactorily answered because it is incorrectly posed. It's 
disapproval, the fear of it, that motivates most women, and with 
disapproval it doesn't matter where it comes from. 

It's no different with sexual fantasy; the question is not for 
whom do women select their sexual imagery, but out. of fear of 
whose disapproval do they suppress it? And the answer's the 
same as above. Nor is the parallel especially contrived between 
what a woman chooses to put on her body and what sexual 
imagery it is that goes into her head. 

In the marvelous climactic scene of an early Bette Davis film, 
Jezebel, when she appears at the traditionally all white-dress 
cotillion in a flaming red torch of a dress, whose hearts stop 
(along with the music) in shocked disapproval and anxiety at 
what she's dared to 'wear? Absolutely everyone's, both men and 
women. Everyone, that is, except handsome gambler George 
Brent, who suddenly sees that his own private fantasy of a 
woman is also Bette' s. And ours in the audience, too, of course. 
For an instant there, we share the fantasy of being the most 


daringly beautiful woman at the ball, who, rather than being 
rejected for her daring, is chosen because of it by the manliest 
man, the Hero. 

Then the lights go up; we sigh and go home to reality, where 
we would no more think of actually buying a dress like that than 
we would think of responding to the next "George Brent" who 
comes along. Not because a red sheath doesn't suit us; there's an 
equivalent on the market for what that dress does, for every 
woman, just as there's an equivalent George Brent somewhere 
who could do for every woman what George did for Bette. But 
we don't dress "out of character" (and in to fantasy) for the same 
reason we don't act unpredictably; it would arouse too much 
anxiety. Anxiety in other women, in our men, and in ourselves. 

What happens, instead, is that the guilt we feel in advance at 
what we might have done - in our wildest fantasies - doesn't 
merely restrain us from doing it, it suppresses the fantasy as well. 
That is guilt in its most repressive sense. You've seen what the 
end result is: Women walking past shop windows of clothes 
("Oh, that's just not me") with the kind of indulgent smiles that 
convince you they haven't even seen the clothes; any more than 
they really sexually look at "other" men. Having turned off their 
fantasy like a light, they become blind to reality as well; it's safer 
that way. Repression is a defense line that is ever moving 
forward, ever seeing threats further and further afield, and in the 
end, even the fantasy itself, no matter how far removed it is from 
being acted out, has become so sexually loaded that most women 
who would not dream of "experimenting" in reality, won't 
experiment in their conscious dreams either. 

To be fair, women have had little training for thinking about 
sex (except in their almost unconscious reveries). Doing it 
maybe, but not thinking about it. It's why men's burning 
bedroom question, "Tell me what you are thinking about," 
usually goes unanswered, or he gets an honest, but right off the 
top of the head "I wasn't thinking about anything." Women's 


conscious minds, like the bodies of virgins, just don't 
spontaneously progress from the most obvious sexual possibility 
to the next. It's a matter of exercise, or lack of it, like learning the 
scales. When the occasional sexual reverie does occur, it's 
generally on a straight line and short-lived. It's like thinking in a 
foreign language. It has nothing to do with intelligence or even 
"liberation." Interested and unabashed as we all are getting to be 
in this age where one can no longer be shocked, when it's all 
been written and filmed and become so socially accepted that the 
only rule left is "let the sun shine in," women I know still grow 
tongue-tied when the topic of sexual fantasy comes up. 

While I was putting this book together, I met women who 
were instantly in tune to what I was doing, who so intuitively 
knew what it was all about that they were saying my words 
before I could get them out of my mouth. They were encouraging 
and enthusiastic and fantasizers, tooexcept suddenly, as they 
were talking all over the subject, they couldn't remember the 
heart of it, their own specific fantasies. "But that's ridiculous," 
one would say, perplexed. "I know I fantasize, I just can't 
remember ..." Then, as often as not, after a lapse of days - during 
which they would adjust to the idea, or perhaps have the fantasy 
again but this time remember it - they would triumphantly tell it 
to me. 

I expect most women to say they don't have sexual fantasies. 
(Contributors to this book, aware of their fantasies, are the 
exception, not the rule.) I even expect the same women who say 
they don't fantasize to be the ones who most want to discuss the 
topic, to be interested and eager to pursue the idea. But what I'm 
not prepared for (or at least wasn't when I began) is the 
inarticulate stumbling for words, the sometimes near-hysterical 
half giggle, half groping for sentences, and the almost universal 
disclaimer which tries to deny everything by admitting all: "There 
must be something wrong with me; I never have fantasies at all." 
Listening to an intelligent woman trying to put one word in front 


of another in an effort to describe what sexual fantasy means to 
her is like watching a healthy normal child who has suddenly 
developed dystrophy trying to put one large block on top of 

I mentioned in an earlier chapter that I think a woman's 
divorce from sex begins with her childhood exclusion from 
adventure and exploration, both physical and mental, and those 
limited, limiting toys and games allowed her. It's as if it were a 
crime for a young female body to get knocked about and bruised 
in play, as if the crime were in the contact of anyone or anything 
with her body. And the feeling that it's a crime to be touched, 
even by herself, increases in her teens, so that if she stumbles 
upon it by accident, the ground for guilt has already been 

If her own hands are hesitant to touch what's obviously and 
tangibly hers, how much chance does her mind have of exploring 
the possibilities of that body? And where would she get the 
rudimentary material her imagination needs to build with? What 
books or magazines offer any more than her childhood toys, 
incentive or ideas for sexual fantasy concerning this body that's 
so out of bounds? By the time she's twelve they've got her senses 
all tied up: Nice Little Girls don't do "those things"; Nice Little 
Girls also don't look - thus the fig leaf, just in case they do. And 
as Nice Little Girls don't even think about "those things," even 
the fig leaf become a mystery. 

Later, when the mystery is solved and the fig leaf removed, 
women look (at least some do), but they still don't speak. The 
conspiracy of silence that began with her mother, and which 
makes each woman her own jailer, keeps women verbally 
tongue-tied and as securely blocked off from their minds as their 
minds are from their bodies. To me, the saddest part of this is not 
that a woman feels guilty in her fantasy about what she's doing 
(that guilt is usually as buried and unconscious as the fantasy 
itself), but the guilt a woman feels for having a fantasy at all. To 


feel guilt, not for something you've done, but for something 
you've only been thinking about - that is sad. 


I suppose my sex life is as normal as any twenty-eight year-old 
woman's. It's happy, it exists, and I've never felt frustrated. Ted 
and I've been going together for two years now and we'll 
probably get married, when and if we feel like it... and if it 
doesn't mean I'll have to give up my job, which I love. I have to 
travel a lot for the company, and Ted knows I probably sleep with 
another guy now and then. But jealousy's not one of our 
problems. We don't really have any sexual problems. We hardly 
ever go to sleep without making love first. It's just natural. The 
only thing that isn't natural is this recurring thought of mine, 
what you would probably call a fantasy. If this is a fantasy it's 
the only one I've ever had, and I have it almost every time I make 
love. It's the only unnatural thing about me. Invariably, when a 
man is on top of me, inside me, I have this desire, this image that 
he is having me from behind. He's not really, but it's what I want 
- yes, to be fucked from behind, again and again. It's what I 
always dream of. Perhaps if it happened, just once, I wouldn't 
feel so guilty thinking of it. [Letter] 


Are you going to publish the results of this work? I really hope 
so. I used to feel so guilty about my sexual thoughts, my 
fantasies, about everything to do with sex, I guess, including 
masturbation. But I didn't stop, not the sex or the fantasies... I 
couldn't in a way, it all seemed so natural. But the guilt, that 
seemed natural too, until I met my husband. He's helped me out 
so much. 


First, let me say that I'm a married woman of three and a half 
years. I am twenty years old. And though I say that my husband 
has done a great deal to lessen my feelings of guilt about sex, I 
must admit that I've never told him about my fantasies. I've 
never told anyone. I've just had them and then felt awful about it. 
I'm telling you now because deep down inside I believe it's the 
guilt that's wrong and not the fantasy. Here's how some of my 
thoughts go. 

It gives me an extra thrill to imagine that one of our friends, 
another man, is making love to me while my husband is actually 
doing it. I don't really have any desire to have any relations with 
another person, but I get this added excitement just thinking 
about it. Is that so wrong? I'd never dream of telling my husband. 
We are very liberal about our sex practices, but I wouldn't hurt 
his masculine ego for the world, and telling him these things 

Sometimes when my husband, is going down on me I imagine 
that this woman, whom I knew long ago but had no physical 
relationship with, begs me to let her eat me. I imagine she does it 
whenever I wish, which is often. This increases my ability to 
have giant orgasms. Then, after orgasm my fantasy completely 
dissolves until next time. It's not that my husband doesn't 
perform well he's great but thinking of her makes it even greater. 
Except later. I sometimes feel like I'm cheating him. 

Now I remember an even earlier fantasy. . .I'd almost forgotten 
about it. When I was six or seven I can remember masturbating 
and imagining my father inserting the handle of a large 
screwdriver inside me and masturbating me. There never was any 
other contact but this. It's strange because I'd never experienced 
being penetrated yet, and my father and I have never gotten along 
at all. I had that one for a couple of years. 

I think you're going to find that all men are really going to get 
upset about this book of yours. So many of them still think that 
women are for their enjoyment only. Some won't admit that 


women (if handled properly) have strong sexual desires and 
feelings, just as they do. Most men that I ran into before marriage 
didn't even know what foreplay was. If it becomes more open 
and publicly known that foreplay is usually necessary to get the 
ball rolling for the woman, I'll bet there'll be a lot more sexually 
satisfied women than there are right now. I had sex with thirty or 
so men before my husband and never had an orgasm; I always 
got the ones who jumped on, then jumped right off and took me 
home, and of course I told them they were fantastic lovers and all, 
but I felt nothing but frustration. 

I told you that my husband has done a great deal to make me 
feel less guilty about sex, about what we really do, which is 
anything that gives us pleasure. I don't know why I feel so 
hesitant to tell him about my fantasies; I don't know why I feel so 
guilty about having them. I don't always fantasize while we are 
having sex. Just as often my husband is enough. But other times, 
even when he has his fingers as well as his penis in me and you'd 
think there was nothing else he could do to stimulate me, still I 
fantasize that I am being fucked by many different penises, that I 
am a nymphomaniac who can't get enough of different men. I 
would like to feel easier about my thoughts. I already do just 
writing them down and hearing that I am not the only one in the 
world with these ideas. I sometimes think many women would be 
ashamed to admit they have any sexual feelings. 

I don't pretend to know what makes people work, but I'd be 
willing to bet that if more people were more open and let 
themselves go during sex, their brains as well as their bodies, the 
world would be a better place. I doubt that so many people would 
be so aggressive and powercrazy if they found a suitable sex 
partner who would accept all of them. If people could free 
themselves of deeprooted sex guilts they'd spend more time 
becoming good lovers and wouldn't have so much time for 
revenge and wars. Good sex makes my husband and me very 
mellow. Who would think of hating and fighting and plotting to 


get someone else if they'd just been very sexually satisfied. ..no 
matter what means they employed to reach that happy goal? Not 
many, I'll bet. So I'm ending up defending my "dirty" thoughts! 
Believing in them, I guess is what I mean. [Letter] 


I only fantasize when I masturbate, and I suppose what I think 
about is typical. I imagine it is a man making love to me, that he 
kisses me passionately all over my body, concentrating most of 
his ardor on my cunt, teasing the outer lips, loving me totally and 
expertly. I simply lie there in ecstasy, which makes me feel a 
little guilty later at having such a selfish fantasy, since I never 
even imagine touching him. [Letter] 


When I was fourteen, I had the usual relationship with a close 
girl friend (I think most girls have them). In my bedroom she 
would pretend to be the madam of a house and I would be a 
virgin girl. She would dress me in a sort of sexy bikini made of 
chiffon scarves. She would then be the customer, a rowdy seaman 
who would take me against my will. She would lie on me and 
rub her vagina against mine. I experienced very intense orgasms 
(more intense than from any man). After she moved away I never 
had the chance of another relationship like ours. Now when I 
masturbate I usually think that I am being seduced by a pretty 
female. However, if it ever should occur again in reality, I would 
need to be seduced by the woman in order to control my 

I have spoken to my lover about my lesbian fantasies. He 
knows I feel guilty about them. He has tried to enter into them by 
talking to me during sex, telling me that he is a woman, and so 
on. This does excite me to an extent, but I'm not sure if he does it 


for me or for homosexual feelings of his own, although he says he 
has none. He does like me to lie on top of him (my back to his 
chest) so that he can feel my breasts. From things he says, I think 
he wishes they were his. It's an exciting thought to me and I 
don't understand why he won't admit to the slightest interest in 
homosexuality - after all, I have. As he sees no shame in my 
lesbian fantasies, why should he feel shame at his homosexual 

Not all my fantasies are in the lesbian category. The man I live 
with has a good-looking cousin, a man; I used to fantasize that he 
would come to the house and find me naked, and I would make 
love to him, or sometimes he would arrive with friends and they 
would all touch me, trying to arouse me; I would then make love 
with the one I fancied most. I rarely have this fantasy now. The 
men in my fantasies nowadays always take me by force and are 
older than I am (usually about thirty-five). Sometimes my lover 
will encourage me to think that lots of men are making love to 
me; he will paw me, touching me all over very quickly, as though 
his hands were many hands. This excites me very much at the 
time, but later I can't help feeling ashamed. I sometimes think he 
enjoys my fantasies, that they excite him when we are making 
love, but that later he looks down on me because of them, that he 
blames me for them. 

Am I a suppressed lesbian? I just don't know. Perhaps I could 
be less two-faced about my fantasies if my lover were. [Letter] 


I am trying very hard to free myself of sexual guilts and 
frustrations. Thanks to my husband, I'm hoping to soon be totally 
sexually free - but I must admit I'm afraid to take the chance of 
telling him about my fantasies. When we first met, he was 
jealous of other men. (I never flirted, I just liked to look at men, 
just as men like to look over a woman.) However, we are now 


more broadminded, and he may not be jealous at all of my 
fantasies. I suppose it's not really that I want to tell him, I would 
just like to feel that it's all right that I think these things, that he 
thinks it's all right. 

I don't think that he would like to know that sometimes during 
intercourse with him I think of someone else. It is usually of 
another man whom I have just met, who was extremely 
attractive, and who I would like to make love with. I love my 
husband completely - he's the greatest - but I think we're 
capable of loving others sexually, also. I wouldn't tell him this, I 
just wish he knew and could accept it without my telling him. 

I do however think be might be ready to her about my fantasies 
during masturbation. Most of the time I imagine someone very 
slowly approaching me and moving closer to me to kiss my 
genitals. As I imagine the person getting nearer, I become more 
excited, and as I imagine the kiss I have an orgasm. Sometimes 
this imaginary person is female - which makes me feel guilty. 
These lesbian feelings do worry me, and I want to be open with 
my husband about it, but I am afraid. Also, when I see the 
excitement my husband gets from performing cunnilingus on me, 
I sometimes wonder if my doing the same to another woman 
would excite me also. All my lesbian feelings are imaginary; I 
would probably be disgusted if I were approached by a lesbian in 

My other sexual fantasies involve a certain amount of 
voyeurism or exhibitionism. One particular one concerns 
someone - no particular person - who walks into the room and 
watches me masturbate, then possibly joins me. At other times, 
while masturbating, just as I reach an orgasm I imagine I am 
licked by a huge dog. During lovemaking I even fantasize that 
people are watching us, and that possibly the man with me is 


Even during the day my mind wanders. If I am extremely 
attracted to a man, I can fantasize an entire affair, just as if I am 
writing a book or a play about the relationship. 

I think my husband might encourage these fantasies, 
especially as our relationship has changed so for the better. I have 
told him that as a child my earliest sexual thoughts were not of 
intercourse, but more of nudity, naked people, many people 
walking around naked at a pool or in a park. I, of course, was one 
of the nudists, and being nude and seeing others nude would turn 
me on. 

We have only been married three years. For a while there 
things were quite boring during our lovemaking. But we've 
overcome that by falling more deeply in love and by throwing off 
our many sexual hangups. 

Thanks for wanting to know. [Letter] 


I wanted to contribute to your work, even though my sexual 
life is probably lacking and will add very little to your research. 
But even that fact alone will tell you something, and I do want to 
feel more in touch with the world, with other women. I say my 
own sexual life is lacking even though I don't know what is 
normal or average. I am sure there is something more to sex than 
what I've felt. 

We've been married seven years, and our sexual life is no 
different now than it was when we were first married, except that 
there's less of it. You would think, or hope, that as people lived 
together longer they would discover new and interesting things 
about one another that would help them to give one another more 
happiness in sex. But it's only when I imagine that someone is 
performing cunnilingus on me, which my husband will not do, 
that sex becomes exciting, and I've always felt too guilty to 
discuss this with anyone. [Letter] 



Women waste so much time and emotion on guilt, 
meaningless guilt; fingers of shame imagined in isolation and 
ignorance. I sometimes think each woman goes through life 
secretly pursued by her own particular demon, representing her 
own particular brand of shame; a frenzy after her, not for 
anything real, but everything imagined. Shame and 
self-incrimination grow like mad in the dark. If nothing else, I 
hope this book helps women who fantasize to feel less guilty by 
letting them know that they aren't alone... they aren't the only 
people in the world with these odd, often unbidden thoughts or 
ideas; that thinking something "awful" doesn't mean you are 
awful or really want something awful; and in the end you 
shouldn't be found guilty for what you think. (No Virginia, 
thought police didn't go out with the Nazis; they're very much 
with us still.) 

But not all the guilt that surrounds the subject of female 
fantasy is imagined. The tension and anxiety the topic arouses in 
men is very real indeed, and a woman can't help but pick up on 
it; if he feels the anxiety, she's guilty. 

I can understand a man not wanting to hear about other men in 
his woman's life - especially hearing that they are in her mind 
while he's making love to her. I also understand why some 
women feel they want to tell their men everything - but can't 
understand why they do. Telling all isn't necessarily the way to 
overcome guilt feelings; sometimes it only spreads the anxiety. 
(Though I don't think one, can make a hard-and-fast rule about 
this; only you yourself, knowing the man, can decide how much 
you feel he really wants to know.) But more about sharing your 
fantasies - is it a good idea or not? - in another chapter. 

I mentioned earlier that I gave up talking about their fantasies 
with women when their men were present because, despite the 
initial interest the topic aroused in everyone, a more detailed 


discussion always clearly brought on tension in the men. Exactly 
why they feel threatened by the subject is no mystery. 

A woman's fantasy brings up in him the spectre of the 
unconquerable rival, with magical abilities and unimaginable 
proportions, and, above all, a rival over whom he has no control. 
Some men don't react with anger or panic, but with simple 
denial. I was discussing this subject over drinks one evening with 
a man friend, when he said, "You really have to talk to my friend 
Harry. He'll be here in a minute. Harry will be fascinated with 
what you're doing. Why, that man's the original beast in the 
jungle. There's not a sexual experience he hasn't had, and the 
number of women he's been to bed with is like a telephone 
book." Fair enough, I thought, I'll meet a man of such vast expe- 
rience, who'll be so expansive and broadminded, that at last I'll 
be able to discuss women's fantasies with a man without making 
him feel nervous. And so I smiled warmly at the Beast in the 
Jungle when he arrived, and he smiled right back, until my friend 
started telling him of my work. The Beast's expression toward 
me changed as he drew himself up to his full psychological 
attack position and lit a cigar. "No woman I've ever fucked," he 
said, "has needed sexual fantasies." 

This book isn't about men or their fantasies, but I do want to 
print just this one letter from a man who not only tells me what 
his wife thinks, but also writes the letter for her, even signing her 

Tina's husband 

My modest wife has asked me to write for her. So I am telling 
you herewith that I don't think she has any peculiar fantasies. 

Her fantasy, if any, and she expresses it to me (we have been 
married thirty-five years), is that she gets a great loving feeling 
whenever we have sex. She has a right like anyone to her secret 
feelings or desires, which we discuss frankly. She is offended to 


read of women who might fantasize about other women or 
animals. She doesn't have to tell me this, as I know. 

She has told me that she could - as would I - be aroused to 
see large animals like horses or elephants having sex. We would 
very much like to visit a stud farm and see this sort of sexual 
activity. But I am sure this is not in her mind when we have sex. 

As for myself, I have no fantasies during sex. I enjoy thinking 
of my wife as a healthy, clean-woman, and her one 
preoccupation, or fantasy, is of herself wearing nice clean clothes, 
which she knows pleases me. She has never masturbated, and 
although she used to share a bedroom with her sister, I am sure 
she has never had a lesbian thought. 

Her fantasy, I repeat, is the feeling of love for me she gets 
when we have sex and she is giving me all the enjoyment she 

I would, however, like to see more written on fantasies, 
although I do not think the average woman has the sexual desires 
and fantasies that many men apparently have. 

Thank you for letting me write to you for my wife. [He signs 
her name.] 




Some women feel no guilt at all about their sexual fantasies. 
They accept them, act them out, share them with their lovers, 
even live them on a day-to-day basis, as does Sophie (below). A 
few have gotten this far on their own; more of them have needed 
the encouragement of an accepting lover. And a very few, I think, 
are just lucky; they were born guilt-free. 

As you've read, most of the women who contributed to this 
book did so with a feeling of anxiety, almost in a tone of 
self-reproach or even disgust though many ended on the relieved 
note of, "Well, thank God, I've finally told someone who 
understands; I thought I was the only freak with these 

This relief from the anxiety of being alone with their thoughts, 
and the greater reality which sharing them can bring, was 
sometimes such a powerful sexual stimulus in itself that it 
excited several of my correspondents to interrupt themselves in 
midletter to masturbate. Carried along on the euphoria of the 
release, they even told me about this - so, more therapeutic relief 
from guilt. For example: 

Please excuse me if this is rather disjointed, but I am sure you 
will understand that I could not write this without masturbating, 
which I am doing at this moment. . . , 

The only fantasies that I speak out loud are the ones I make up 
to please my husband. I always keep my real fantasies locked up 
in my mind. I have found it a little exciting to tell you about my 
fantasies, and a few times I have stopped and manipulated my 
nipples with my fingertips while I was typing this letter. (The 


more I did that, the better I felt about telling you these things.) In 
fact, while I am typing this sentence with one hand, I am 
manipulating my nipples with my thumb and first finger on the 
other hand. 

Excuse me, I have got myself quite carried away, and so I 
must go and bring myself off if I can . . . 

After reading through this letter I am wet through to my 
panties . . . 

This has been a difficult letter to write. My recollections have 
been so arousing that I have had to stop twice to masturbate with 
a "phallocrypt" made by my houseboy. This is rather like a dildo 
and is used by some native women when their men are away to 
satisfy themselves. My particular one is made exactly to the size 
of my husband in erection. My thoughts when I use it are that the 
native boy who made it is standing in for my husband. But this 
does not matter when I close my eyes and cannot see the boy, just 
feel the delightful weapon working exactly as my husband does. 
If only it could spurt semen or cream into me. . .right now. [From 
a correspondent in the Pacific] 


A guiltless minority never seem to have any hesitations at 
all about the subject. They contribute as readily as if I'd invited 
them to a party where they know they'll have a good time 
because they already know the guests. "Fantasies? Of course I 
have fantasies, doesn't everyone?" In fact, Gloria (below) was 


convinced that no fantasy anthology could be complete without 
hers, which, she uses daily in her work as a model. For women 
like her, there's no wall between fantasy and reality; what you 
think and what you do needn't be the same, but they don't have 
to be separated as though they were at war with one another. A 
woman who lives this close to her fantasy isn't dragging out the 
dirty laundry from the bottom of the pit when she talks to you; the 
material is easily available to her. What's significant isn't 
whether her real and fantasy lives coexist, or even whether she 
acts out her fantasies, but that each does exist and is accepted. 
Her fantasies are part of her self-awareness; there is no threat, no 
anxiety. That's how she is. 

For women like Hannah, there are no secrets or shame in 
fantasy: she keeps a photo of her fantasy lover in her mirror as 
she would that of a real lover, and enjoys slipping into her 
fantasy routine any night she happens to be alone and in the 
mood. To Sophie, her fantasy is barely a fantasy at all - just a 
desirable way to live, and she proceeds with no hesitation at all to 
put her desire to live with two different, equally exciting men 
immediately into practice. As I said, some people live so close to 
their fantasies that they live inside them. 

I don't know how significant it is that the four women in the 
fantasies that follow are young, but I suspect it is. I've included 
my youngest contributor here - fifteen years old and technically 
still a virgin - because of her simple candor and self -acceptance. 
Maybe it says something for fantasy's future. 


I really don't think any anthology of sex fantasies would be 
complete without mine. It's got to be the greatest one there is. 

I should tell you I use it professionally, when I model. Let's 
say I'm in a studio, standing there waiting for the photographer 
to finish fussing with the lights and everything. I look bored, 


because I am bored. Then, when he's ready and we begin, I 
deliberately "go to market" -that's how I think of it, and as I get 
more and more into my fantasy, even though I'm following his 
directions (I am a genuine professional at this) I become more 
and more interesting to look at. Every photographer I've ever 
worked with has remarked on it. I don't tell them how I do it 
(that's my business), but I have enjoyed great commercial 
success with it. Of course I amplify it and change it all the time, 
but this is what it is basically: 

I am strolling with my flunkies through a market, an enormous 
place with high vaulted glass ceilings, up one aisle and down 
another, looking at the merchandise to decide what I want. All 
the merchandise on display in all the booths is simply naked 
young men, all sorts but all strong looking. I am the only 
customer in the whole place, and dancing attendance on me are 
all sorts of salesmen or hawkers or press agents, all trying to sell 
me on one or another of these studs. Sometimes, if I feel like it, I 
listen to them as they tell me fantastic stories of what these men 
are capable of, and this is in itself exciting; at other times I brush 
them off and stroll on. At some point my attention is caught by 
one particular young man, then another two or three, or more, 
depending on how I feel. When I've a few candidates, the 
flunkies assemble them on one platform, while other flunkies get 
the screen ready. The screen is gigantic, filling one whole side of 
the hall, fifty times the size of the usual movie screen. All the 
others in the market, except my own people, are now sent away 
temporarily, and then the film begins. The film is of me, in 
glorious Technicolor, stripped and reclining, with the camera at 
my level at the foot of the bed. As my knees, which are together 
at the start, move apart, I start writhing on the bed and the 
camera moves in. The head in the distance thrashes on the pillow, 
the breasts in the middle distance roll from side to side as the 
hips churn, and the zoom shot - but slow - gets to the slit, which 
becomes more and more gigantic as the thighs widen completely 


and the feet go in the air. As all this goes on on-screen, the studs 
are watching it and I'm watching them. I walk around to see each 
of them from all angles, up on the platform above me, and as 
their erections grow and grow I make my choice. 

So I motion to the crew that this one will do, and as they get 
cameras set for the next filming, I conduct this by now wildly 
horny stud to a giant bed which is set-up in a curtained studio in 
a corner of the market, all arranged for this. I get my clothes off, 
which weren't much anyway, and get the stud on his back on the 
bed, and I get on top. With my knees one on each side of his 
waist, more or less, I raise my ass high in the air and get poised 
right at the top of his cock, and tease it a little. The poor bastard 
is panting and heaving at this, but we have to get the cameras an- 
gled just right: one camera is behind me, one above, others all 
around. When everything is right, and with all my teasing his 
erection has become even more gigantic and hard, we begin. First 
I ease down on his shaft slowly, then up again, down again, up 
again, now with a little swiveling, then it gets faster and rougher 
until I'm riding him like a cowboy and he's bucking and we're 
really fucking up a storm. As we do, up on the giant screen is the 
multiple-image, split-screen picture of what we're doing, or what 
we were doing a second or two before, and everybody in the 
market is back now, all watching the giant screen, and we see it, 
too, out of the corners of our eyes, and that contributes to the 
climax, too, when it comes, and when it does the audience 
applauds. Sometimes we draw it out for a long time, sometimes 
we come once and then go down on each other to get started 
again. But in any case it builds up and up, with variations, until, 
as we race each other to a fantastic finish, the applause builds up 
and at the end the whole hall is roaring even louder than I am. 
[Written down on request] 



My introduction to Hannah was a letter in which she 
described what she felt were the most important facts about 
herself. "I am twenty-three, married (separated), have a baby 
daughter, and am bisexual - love both men and girls!" 

When we met, I learned the rest: She is from Wales, as is her 
husband; both their fathers were coal miners. But they met in 
London and decided to marry when they learned Hannah was 
pregnant. She had half wanted to have an abortion, but Harry had 
strong feelings against it. "He never knew I was bisexual before 
we were married," says Hannah. "In fact, I never knew it myself, 
except that I knew I had these kinky thoughts now and then. 
About other girls." After they were married, Harry and Hannah 
fell in with a group of young London people who regularly went 
to parties where sexual partners were exchanged. 
("Wife-swapping" would be a provincial description of these 
parties, since most of the participants, living together or not, were 
not married.) 

"It was at one of these parties that I discovered I was 
bisexual," Hannah said. "While Harry would only get excited 
when we'd get home and he'd make me tell him about what other 
men were like, when he opened a bedroom door once and found 
me with another girl, he blew up. The idea of other men never 
made him jealous, only excited. But the idea of competing with a 
woman drove him up the wall." She left him, and they've been 
separated for several months. 

I mostly have these daydreams when I'm alone. It puts me off 
even to have the baby in the room with me. I discovered this 
when I used to leave her with my mum when I wanted to go 
away for a week-end. When I got back home, suddenly my whole 
little flat was different. Just being alone in it made it all so sexy. 
It's strange, isn't it? After all, what can an infant only a few 
months old know or see? They don't understand anything yet. 


But there it was. When I'm alone in the flat is almost my favorite 
time in the world. I sometimes think I like it so much that I never 
want to live with a man again. With anyone. 

What I like to do is when I come home at night from work, I 
pull the curtains so that I feel really alone. I turn the radio on to 
Radio One - the pop station - and I imagine it's a man in the 
other room, talking to me while he's putting different records on 
my machine. When I found photos of the best-looking disc jockey 
in magazines, I'd cut them out and put them in the edge of my 
mirror. This helps me imagine the man in the next room. 

Then I begin taking my clothes off. I even talk back to the man 
in the other room. I put on a G-string, suspender belt, black 
stockings, fluffy garters (no bra), a frilly, or see-through, blouse 
or transparent negligee, no skirt, and a blond wig. First of all, I 
like to put a Tampax in. Putting in a Tampax is thrilling at any 
time, but I get an especial thrill when I don't really need it. 

I like to walk around the bedroom while I'm getting dressed 
this way, and imagine the man in the other room. Ire sounds very 
cool, just putting these records on and chatting me up as he does 
through the half -open door, talking away as if he had nothing on 
his mind but the Beatles or Blood, Sweat and Tears, but all the 
time I know that he's there, having a fantasy about me in here 
getting ready for him. I like the idea of his voice sounding so cool 
and friendly, so relaxed, while all the time I know he's growing 
an erection like a battleship underneath his trousers, for me. I like 
to imagine his face - that's when I like to look at the photo - as 
he walks about the other room, trying to control himself. I like to 
think that little beads of sweat are breaking out on his face and 
rolling down his cheeks - he's so impatient, you see, but he 
knows that if he lets me know how hot he's getting waiting for 
me, that I'll enjoy it so much I'll just let him wait even longer. I 
just reach down and give the Tampax a little shove further up 
when I think of his sweating face. 


What gives me another kind of satisfaction is practicing a 
certain kind of walk when I'm alone and dressed like that. It 
makes me laugh when I go to the films and see the way they 
make the girls walk in one of those sexy movies. Girls don't walk 
like that. But it excites me to see it, even in films - I suppose 
that's why they do it. So when I'm alone, I practice it. Do you 
know the way that Maurice Chevalier used to walk - with his 
arse jutting out just that little bit? I practice that. I imagine that 
I'm a teen-age girl walking like that - I peer at myself in the 
mirror; that's when I most like to see myself in a frilly blouse, as 
if I were in the street, not at home. I think that I'm a young girl, 
walking past myself, just to turn me on. And I imagine taking 
this girl home with me. The first thing I do is take off her 
G-string. (I act this out, while I think about it.) And I find that 
she's clean-shaven there. (That's how I like to be - white all 
over.) It makes me very excited, and I imagine myself kissing her 
on her tiny little white triangle. The girl in this dream is always 
younger than me, and she half doesn't know what she's doing. 
She just likes to walk around with her arse stuck out like that 
because she knows it excites other people, and excites herself. 
But she doesn't know what to do with the excitement, you 
understand, until I teach her: So her little white thing is so fragile 
looking, so vulnerable. I'm dark, you see, and I can imagine my 
dark hand on that white piece of skin... my dark fingers slowly 
disappearing into all that white flesh... just disappearing inside 
her as if into a white cream jelly. It gives me goose bumps to 
think about it. 

My husband left some of his clothes behind when he was last 
here, and the other thing I like to do is dress up in them. I 
especially like to put on his underwear. The fly front just 
fascinates me. That's when I like to put another Tampax in, 
through the slit opening, and I try to get it so that it hangs 
out. . .not all the way in, you know? But the angle is wrong, isn't 
it? I mean, men have it coming out in front, but the Tampax just 


points down, and you can't sit down naturally. But it's very 
exciting, and I imagine that I'm Harry, just dressed in these 
slit-front shorts, and there's a black man with me. I like the idea 
of the contrast of color. The black man is really black, and he's 
covered with sweat, so that he almost shines. It makes my own 
skin even whiter. I like to imagine that the black man has an 
enormous prick, and that he's secretly waiting for me to tire of 
walking around in this special way. He's having a fantasy of his 
own, you see, of putting that giant prick up my little white arse, 
but I feel him, and come up behind him while I'm walking 
around and shove my Tampax right up him, and grab him around 
the waist, by the balls, so that he can't move without me doing 
him an injury. Every time he tries to wiggle away, I just give his 
balls a twist, and finally, he has to give in, and in goes this giant 
white prick I have, and in the middle, he begins to love it, and he 
drops down on his hands and knees so that I can get in easier. 
"Shake it!" I yell at him, and he begins to wiggle his arse in little 
circular motions to feel it better. 

I always enjoy these little games the most because I know that 
I still have the whole evening and night ahead of me. I don't 
really have an orgasm when I have these thoughts, but I get very 
excited and my breathing changes. So I usually have a bath and 
turn on the telly. It makes me feel so peaceful. I'll tell you 
something - all this business about orgasms must be a lot of 
twaddle. I've had orgasms with men and with girls. But they 
always leave me feeling a bit on edge, anyway. Exhausted 
perhaps, but still ready to have another go. But when I have my 
fantasies, and I take a bath after they're over, I can just drift off 
into the most peaceful sleep of my life. So somehow they must be 
more satisfying than the real thing. At least, that's how it seems 
to me sometimes. [Taped interview] 



Sophie is eighteen but already has a full and varied sex life. 
When she was sixteen her parents found out about it and she left 
home after the subsequent quarrel. She took a bus to Chicago and 
lives there now on the Near North Side, which is the Chicago 
equivalent, more or less, of New York's Greenwich Village. She 
holds no steady job but finds various things to do when she - or 
the friends with whom she lives - are out of money. Her job at 
the moment is shampooing in one of the fashionable new barber 
shops where both young men and women come to have their hair 
trimmed and shaped, where loud music plays, coffee is served, 
and waiting customers may even be dancing. She likes this job 
and says she has no plans for leaving it at the moment. 

Sophie lives communally, as she puts it. An older generation 
would call it living with two men. It is also typical, I think, of 
Sophie's generation that she is very aware of her fantasies, and is 
not only unembarrassed to admit having them or talking about 
them, but indeed tries to live them out in her life. 

I never had any hang-ups about sex; it was something people 
did when they felt like it, and so I didn't like it when my family 
came down on me so heavy about it. I told them they had their 
scene, I had mine, we didn't have to quarrel. But they insisted 
that I only make their scene - two-by-two, married - so I split. 

It wasn't sex that was my hang -up, but the kind of man I 
wanted it with. What chick wants to be alone? But all my life, 
I've always dug two different kinds of guys. The first was always 
tall and dark and' I was never sure that he really liked me. Or 
anybody else, if you stop to think about it. A hard kind of guy 
who never took crap from anybody. Naturally, a guy like that, all 
the girls were after him. Which was all right with him. I 
remember one. Practically any chick who wasn't a horror could 
ball him for a night or two, but after that it was all over, and if 


she cried or told him she loved him, that was tough titty, he just 
laughed and took a walk. 

My other type, Type B, is just the opposite. He's mostly small, 
and maybe with kind of washed-out blond hair. But good-looking 
and sad, as if he had TB and wasn't going to live very long. Type 
A, the rough one, was a school dropout, but Type B was very 
hipped on books and reading and had all sorts of theories about 
philosophy... about the way the world really is. He has this kind 
of appeal, you see, he could talk to you, and explain why certain 
things were happening. He made you feel calm. But his main 
appeal, of course, was that you wanted to take care of him. 

So ever since I started going out with guys, I'm like a 
grandfather clock, tick tock swinging between these two opposite 
types, thinking about the one type when I was with the other. But 
it wasn't ever that clear to me. Until some movie house had a 
Clark Gable festival and I dug right away that this chick in the 
picture, Gone With the Wind, she was hung-up between Type A 
and Type B, too. Clark Gable and Leslie Howard. Leslie Howard, 
Jesus, what a Type B he was, perfect. So when you ask about 
fantasy, I knew right away that my fantasy wasn't some story I 
made up myself to get it off better with some guy. Some of the 
guys I know, they're always reading to you from these books, 
about lesbians, and eight people going down on each other. But 
that's all in the mind, it doesn't affect me much. Anyway, it 
doesn't get me all turned on the way it turns on the men. I don't 
know what you'd call my own story. It's just the way I live and 
that's what I think is so exciting for me in the bed scenes. 

And the scenes we have! Like, when I'm in the sack with Type 
A, he'll order B to bring our big portable mirror closer so we can 
see ourselves better. Or else he tells him to roll some joints for us 
while we finish, and then the three of us light up and have a 
friendly smoke afterwards. But all the time I'm making it with A, 
I know B is there in the room, too, and he's thinking about me, 


watching out for me, digging that I'm enjoying it, and I'm 
digging that B is enjoying it, too. 

A lot of times I make it with B, too, of course, but it's always 
different with him. He's not so freaky as A. He likes it when I 
take the lead. Sometimes, with him, I get the feeling that it's 
almost like having a baby in bed with me. Once A got mad at 
something I'd done, and slapped me across the face so hard that I 
fell down. Then A took whatever loot we had in the house at the 
moment and split. But B stayed with me, and he was so tender, 
even trying to explain A's psychology to me, so that I wouldn't 
hate him so much. He's so cool that he dug it that down beneath, 
I really liked A so much it would be bad for me to hate him. 

Sometimes I get the feeling that B is in love with A. Maybe A 
thinks so, too. He often calls him "sweetie" or "dearie" or some 
other faggoty name. In fact, I think the reason B gets so excited 
when I'm screwing A is because he doesn't know which of us 
he'd rather be fucking himself, A or me. Or both. In fact, we've 
tried that, too, a few times. Talk about a chick living in a dream, 
having the two of them in me at the same time and groping each 
other, too, all at once. But we don't do it often, because after one 
of those scenes A gets mad and disappears for a day or two, and I 
hear that he's balling some other chick somewhere. 

So you see, I don't have to make up any stories to turn myself 
on. I'm really living in one. I don't like the word "fantasy." It 
sounds like some neurotic thing you're into, and the next thing 
they're coming for you with the psycho nets. So I wouldn't say I 
have a fantasy about sex. Or if I do, it's my whole life. [Letter] 


I am only fifteen years old, so I don't want to tell you my 
name, so that I can be sure that my parents won't find out any of 
this. I saw your questionnaire in one of my big brother's 
magazines, and I just felt like replying to it because I guess I 


think about sex quite a bit of the time. I pet with boys a lot, but 
the only guy I ever tried to go all the way with came before he 
was able to get his penis into me. I thought you ought to know 
that so it would help you understand my answers better. 

Most of the guys that I have had sex with wouldn't get uptight 
about knowing that I was thinking about someone else when I 
was having sex with them. I'm sure that sexy girls who turn them 
on come into their thoughts, too. Besides, a guy has no right to 
get angry about what I'm thinking about as long as I'm giving 
him what he wants. 

I masturbate almost every day, and I almost always fantasize 
when I do. One of my favorites is to think about having a boy 
who turns me on tied up. He is helpless, and I take down his 
pants and play with his penis. When he is almost ready to come I 
stop and just watch him suffer. Then I make him do what I guess 
is called cunnilingus to me before I finally play with his penis 
until he comes. 

When I pet with boys I like to have them do cunnilingus (I 
usually just call it eating my pie) to me, and when I masturbate I 
like to think about guys doing that to me. 

Sometimes when I masturbate I play with my nipples and then 
I like to imagine that a boy is sucking on them. 

Lots of the time, I just imagine that a guy is fucking me and 
that my finger is his penis going in and out of me. I keep doing it 
until I'm worn out from coming. 

One of my weirdest fantasies is about being spanked. I 
imagine that some guy who really turns me on grabs me, lifts my 
skirt, takes down my panties, and spanks my bottom until it 
really hurts. Then when I cry he kisses my bottom all over and 
does cunnilingus to me. 

I have sucked some guys' penises when I've petted with them, 
and every once in a while I'll think about that when I masturbate. 
I sometimes suck on my thumb when I try to imagine that. 


I guess that the most common thing in all of my fantasies is to 
think about having the boy under my control and being able to 
make him do whatever I want him to do to please me. I think 
about myself sitting on a big chair like a throne with my skirt 
pulled up and my panties off and the boy is kneeling between my 
legs doing cunnilingus to me. Sometimes if I really feel devilish I 
imagine that I pee in his mouth and he has to swallow it. In the 
fantasies like this the boy's hands are tied so that he cannot touch 
me except with his mouth. Usually he is naked and sometimes I 
imagine that I am whipping him when he is kneeling in front of 
me like that. I usually add to these fantasies in whatever way I 
feel like at the time. 

I have other fantasies, but these are my favorites right now. 

A couple of years ago, an older girl and I did mess around 
together some. Mostly we masturbated each other and I sucked 
on her nipples some. She was the one who first taught me about 
cunnilingus, too. When I masturbated myself then I would think 
about the things she and I did, and I still think about them once 
in a while now when I masturbate. Mostly I think about the way 
she used to get so turned on and come so much when I played 
around with her. Sometimes I like to imagine what it would be 
like if I did those same things with a younger girl. Also, I like to 
imagine what it would be like to have a penis like a guy and have 
sex with a girl. 

When I see a guy who turns me on I like to try to imagine in 
my mind what he would look like standing there naked with his 
penis erect. It is the thought of his erect penis that stands out in 
my mind. If a guy like that is looking at me, I imagine that he can 
see me naked, too. Once in a while, I have the same thoughts 
about a girl. Sometimes at school when I pass by the boys' rest 
room I imagine the boys in there with their penises hanging out 
of their pants. That makes me laugh to myself instead of feeling 


The guys I have sex with don't know my fantasies, but 
sometimes without them knowing about it I get them to do things 
that I have fantasized about before then. I enjoy making them 
kneel in front of me and do cunnilingus to me before I will do 
anything to them. 

I like to imagine myself going all the way with some guy who 
really turns me on with all my girl friends watching us. I imagine 
that they get so turned on that they start masturbating themselves 
and plead for him to have sex with them, but he stays with me. I 
also like to masturbate while I am listening to rock music. I 
sometimes imagine that one of the singers is having sex with me 
in front of a big audience. 

I like horses and I sometimes imagine that I am naked and 
riding bareback on a beautiful thoroughbred horse. I feel bad 
about thinking such a thing, but I once tried to imagine what it 
would be like to try to get a horse's big penis into me. That was 
more like devilish curiosity though. 

The only time that I've spoken any of my fantasies out loud 
was a few times with that older girl that I told you about. Then it 
got us more turned on. 

I am sure that there are other things that I could have told you 
about if I had remembered them, but I hope that this much will 
be some help to you. 

Peace. [Letter] 


Paula is a lovely, black Haitian, whom I met in Rome. Her 
current lover, Tony, is a white Englishman. I would say she's in 
her early twenties. I've left my dialogue with her unedited to 
illustrate how these interviews generally developed and took 
form. Paula, as you can see, is no sexual shrinking violet, but she 
originally refused to contribute to the book, saying she didn't 
have any sexual fantasies. It was only when I gave her several to 


read that she exclaimed, "Oh, that's a sexual fantasy! Something 
that makes you feel good." 

It's interesting, too, and typical of women when they begin to 
talk of their fantasies, that they find they have much more to say 
than they thought. As Paula warms to the subject, she begins to 
release information, new even to herself, as if she is verbally 
getting in touch for the first time with up-till-now untapped 
realms of her self. I don't mean she deliberately withheld 
information at the start of the interview - having decided to talk, 
she was genuinely eager to tell all and, in fact, insisted that I use 
her real name - but I think the depth of her fantasies and their 
involvement with her real life only became more conscious as she 
discussed them. As for myself, it wasn't until I was halfway 
through the interview and beginning to get confused as to what 
was fantasy and what was fact, that I realized how much Paula's 
fantasy and real worlds overlapped; that she, in fact, totally and 
happily accepted and lived her fantasies. 
Q: Have you thought some more about your fantasies since we 

last talked? 
A: Can I read some other people's fantasies, just to see what 

they're like? What I'm thinking of may not even be a fantasy. 
Q: Remember the one you read about the girl fantasizing that a 

guy is going down on her in a restaurant? 
A: When I'm making love I love to think that the guy is fucking 

another chick, not me. 
Q: Where are you, are you in the fantasy, too? 
A: I'm in my mind, I mean I know I'm being fucked but I like to 

think the guy is fucking somebody else. 
Q: Anyone in particular, a girl friend . . . ? 
A: No. Sometimes girls I used to go to school with, they're the 

other girls, and I love it so much, what's happening, I know 

they'd love it too. 
Q: They're fucking the guy you're really with? That excites you? 


A: That's amazing, you know? To think, when you're making 
love, that somebody else is getting it, not you. I like 
sometimes to have another girl in bed with me, I like to get it 
together, with me and my boy friend, and to have him make 
love to her, and make love to me. I get extremely jealous, but 
it turns me on like crazy. The jealousy turns me on ... how 
it's being done, just to look at it is fantastic, to look at him 
fucking someone else. 

Q: In your imagination, or in reality? 

A: No, in my imagination. I really love it. I think about it when 
I'm making love. What happens is I get the kinky feeling that 
I know what she's getting. I get really excited, thinking about 
all the things that she may be thinking about as well . . . like, 
oh, what a great fuck he is ... even if she isn't having a great 
fuck, I think, Oh wow, that's really ... strong. 

Q: Do you see yourself in your imagination watching them? 

A: Oh, yes. When I'm making love my eyes have to be open, 
even if I'm not really looking at anything. My imagination is 
so strong, I have to be looking, I have to have my eyes really 
open. If my eyes are closed, it's no good. 

Q: Most people do fuck with their eyes closed. 

A: Not me. My eyes have to be open, staring at that object there. 
It's really real, it's amazing. 

Q: Do you ever feel any jealousy in reality? 

A: I get jealous if I think I would be there and just looking . . . 
but no, I am not jealous, basically. Because I know I'm really 
getting what she's getting in my mind, and that's such an 
enjoyment that it helps to stop the big jealous thing. I'm 
jealous but happily so, because it's so exciting for me to 
know that she's being fucked, and going crazy; that it's so 

Q: What's nice is that you have your eyes open. It shows how 
close you are to the whole thing. 


A: And I actually can see it. The woman can be anyone. 
Everyone I know comes into my mind. They come and then 
disappear. I imagine everyone being fucked, everyone I know 
. . . acquaintances, friends . . . 

Q: How about men ... do you sometimes think of Tony with 
other men? 

A: Yes. When I'm making love I love to see another guy making 
love to him. 

Q: Does that bother Tony? 

A: It doesn't bother him, no. I hate a guy to say they don't like 
me thinking that. I know most guys say they wouldn't really 
go with another guy. But to say they hate the idea of it, 
thinking of it ... I hate a guy to be that way. "Oh," a guy 
should say, "that's a wild idea, that turns me on like crazy." A 
guy shouldn't put you down for what you think. 

Q: I think many guys feel threatened if you talk about their 
making it with another guy; they say, "It's one thing for a 
woman, but quite different for a man" to get into some 
homosexual number. 

A: I know. But if you say it to someone who's really groovy - 
that you're thinking about him with another guy - he'll like 
it, he won't put it down. Which is nice. I love saying it to a 
guy I really dig, "Oh baby, I'd love to see you with another 
guy." I always say it if I'm really enjoying myself when we're 
making love. Even if it never happens, him and the other guy, 
still it's nice to say it, and if it does happen . . . 

Q: Thinking it doesn't mean you want it to happen, or, that it has 
to happen. It's just the thought that it could happen. . . 

A: Right. Whenever we make love I like to think that everything 
can happen, it doesn't matter how dirty or how nasty. It just 
blows my mind to think that it's possible to do anything. For 
instance, I wouldn't mind being fucked on a horse. I like to 
think that it could happen . . . that I was in the front, and 
someone I really fancied was behind me, and he could just 


slip it in as we rode off, slip it in and out. It's something I'd 
love to try. I know it sounds ridiculous. 

Q: Nothing sounds ridiculous. 

A: But these things do go through my mind. When I go to the 
polo grounds to watch Tony play, I think, Oh boy, I'd really 
dig being taken right now, right there on that horse. 

Q: Guys on horses, they're a very sexy sight. 

A: Very. I asked him once, do you come sometimes when you're 
riding? And he said, "Nearly." 

Q: Do you ever get into any group scenes in your fantasies ... I 
mean more than, say, just three of you? 

A: Not really. I usually have this major thing about the other girl, 
the girl in my fantasy, and when she's going to come. This 
picture's always in my head when I'm making love. It 
doesn't matter which guy it is, it's not necessarily Tony, but I 
just like to think that this other girl is feeling what I'm 
feeling, is getting what I'm getting. 

Q: Why do you think this makes you feel more excited? 

A: Because the excitement is something I want to share, because 
I know that some girls would love that kind of excitement, 
and I like to think that they're having it at the same time. 
Even if I'm really tired, I just have to open my eyes to watch 
what's going on in my head. It's like looking at your own 

Q: When you meet an attractive guy, does your mind start to 

A: Oh, yes. But I would think that's the most natural thing, to 
think: I wonder if he's a good lay. Even if it doesn't happen, 
or couldn't, I think it. Later, maybe that night when I'm with 
Tony, I'll think about that guy, think that it's him I'm 
fucking. But that's natural. I'm sure guys do it all the time, 
fantasize about other chicks when they're making it with their 

Q: Are the girls you think about always people you know? 


A: It's much more exciting if I know the chick. Say, I haven't 
seen her for a few days, then when I think about her, wow, it 
all comes back, the performance. It goes on for days in my 


You remember the scene with this girl, a real scene 


A: Right. 

Q: I suppose these fantasies of other girls especially happen 
when the guy's going down on you. 

A: Oh, yes. Because then I can open my eyes and see his head, 
imagine everything, pretend everything. Seeing his head, 
there, I can see his mouth, too, everything . . . and imagine 
he's doing this to some other lucky chick, as well as me. 

Q: You're a very generous girl, Paula. 

A: I never just think about myself when I fantasize. I like to 
think of lots of people getting what I'm getting, I like to 
imagine a roomful of people, lots of color, and voices . . . 

Q: So many people like to make love with the lights out, under 
the sheets . . . 

A: Oh, no. I like the lights on, my eyes open. I get some of my 
wildest fantasies when I'm driving. 

Q: So that's why you like driving so much. 

A: Always, when I'm driving a car, I feel sexy. 

Q: I think lots of women feel that. Why do you think it is, 
women, driving, get that feeling? 

A: There's like a whole scene going on sometimes when I'm 
driving. It's all happening. Most girls when they're driving 
. . . look at their faces next time you see one. They look very 
. . . proud. They never look bored, never. A kind of look they 
have when they're making love, thinking of sex. 

Q: Does Tony like to hear about these fantasies? Do you tell 

A: Oh, yeah. When we're fucking he loves to know what I'm 
thinking, he'll ask me and say, "Oh, that's beautiful; go on, 
tell me more." 


Q: Many people seem to fuck silently. So many women tell me 
they wish their guys would talk to them more. 

A: It's beautiful when you get someone to talk to you. I love that. 
Fantastic. I can really lose my mind. It's only half a fuck 
when you do it silently, it's like you're by yourself. But when 
a guy's inside you and saying, "Oh baby, I love to fuck you 
like this," and telling you about how it feels and then I tell 
him how it feels and what I'm thinking and when he hears 
that, oh wow, he just fucks me all the wilder. Oh, yes, I love 
to chat while I'm fucking. It gives me encouragement, makes 
me want to do even wilder things. If a guy doesn't talk to you 
while he's fucking you, you don't dare to do certain things. 
It's like he's cheering you on when he talks. Guys spend a lot 
of time wondering what chicks are thinking about when 
they're fucking them ... I think it worries some of them. But 
the only way fucking can get better is when you tell them, and 
they like it. And you've got to say it right, you've got to use 
the exciting words, you've got to be vulgar, or it doesn't mean 
anything. Because when you're fucking, you should use 
fucking words. You've got to be vulgar, really vulgar. 

Q: Fucking is not about vaginas and other medical terms, it's 
about cunts and cocks . . . 

A: You're not going to the doctor, are you? You're: being 
fucked. I love to say, "Oh, I'd love to be naughty, darling, I'm 
thinking such naughty things ..." 

Q: When you think of him fucking another guy, where are you in 
your fantasies? Watching? Are you fucking, too? 

A: My favorite is that he's fucking me while another guy is 
fucking him. That way I can imagine what he's feeling, too. 
It's also like I'm sharing in what he's feeling, like the cock 
going into him is also going into me, so like there's extra 
pressure from above. I'm getting two cocks. 

Q: When you think about other girls are you in the active role or 
the passive role? 


A: I like to be the aggressive one. Maybe because that way I'm 
like a guy fucking a chick. I like to be able to think what he's 
feeling, because what he does to me makes me feel so good. 
So I think about me doing wild things with these other 

Q: Most women I've talked to say they have had thoughts about 
other women. They seem to accept this; they don't feel guilty 
about it. 

A: When I see a girl naked, I usually get excited. Then I think, 

Q: Wow, you'd like to fuck her, or see her being fucked? 

A: Mostly that I'd like to see her legs apart, see her being fucked 
by some guy. 

Q: Your guy? 

A: Any guy, mostly my guy. It's exciting. It's the way most girls 
react to being fucked that excites me. Because my mind is so 
... I can imagine it being so strong, I can almost feel it for 
them. I think, Oh wow, they're really enjoying it. 

Q: And no guilt feelings? 

A: Oh, no. When I'm making love I'm not ashamed of anything. 
If you're ashamed, then your mind's not free to create; and 
your body's not free either. I think maybe I wouldn't do the 
things I do when I'm making love if my mind weren't really 
free to create. 

Q: I don't think women always fantasize during sex, but to deny 
that it ever happens, to deny it altogether . . . 

A: Oh, you've got to fantasize when the time's right. When I'm 
fucking, I don't fantasize about the guy I'm with. I know he's 
doing it. I mean, if I didn't like a guy I wouldn't be fucking 
him, but the guy in my mind is always someone else. I know 
it's him inside me, but making it in my mind with another 
guy at the same time, it's fantastic. 

Q: Tell me, what comes first, the fact or the fantasy? 


A: The fantasies have always been there, very strong. That's how 
I knew I would really dig that sort of thing. Ever since I was 
. . . eleven or twelve. 

Q: That's the magic age all right. Did the fantasies change, say, 
the ones of you and another girl, after you started really doing 

A: No. When I was young I used to sometimes see people 
making love, and it used to make me feel quite good. I wasn't 
involved, I was much too young. Well, where I grew up, 
sometimes people would get careless, forget to close a 
window or a door, and I'd walk by. 

Q: Gee, I wish I'd grown up in a place like that! When you tell 
Tony your fantasies now, do the two of you sometimes think 
of making them come true? Like another guy fucking him 
while he's fucking you? 

A: Yes. Anything I tell him, my fantasies, are all things I'd 
really like to have happen. Like, say we're at a party and 
feeling very good. Suddenly we both begin thinking this is the 
night we will get it together. I'll say, "Oh Tony, I'd love to 
have a scene with that chick." He'll automatically say, "Why 
don't you get it together?" Recently there was this American 
girl staying with me, and Tony and I came home very late one 
night. I'd never had any kind of scene with this girl before, 
and Tony really didn't fancy her, but he was enjoying our 
scene, him and me, so much, and I said, "Come on, darling, 
let's get it together," so I called to this chick to come join us. 
He enjoyed himself like crazy that night. I don't think she'd 
ever been in a scene like that before, but she really enjoyed it, 
she never stopped talking about it. She wanted it every day 
after that. But Tony didn't want it again. He didn't really 
fancy her, it was just that that night he was already excited 
and he'd got so turned on listening to me talking about my 

Q: How about with another guy? 


A: Only recently. Once I 'got him so excited one day talking 
about it, that the following night, there was a guy who was 
always trying to get him, that we actually had a scene with 
him. I don't think Tony was very pleased in the end, because 
it's not his scene, he likes chicks too much. But he said I'd 
turned him on so much about it, he thought he should try it. 

Q: Are you more turned on with guys? 

A: Oh, yes. Guys more than chicks . . . but it all depends. 

Q: Generally, I think women can handle both sexual scenes, 
even just thinking about them, with much less anxiety than 
men. They don't seem to be threatened by their fantasies of 
other women. 

A: No, I don't think chicks feel threatened by it. Girls ... there's 
something sort of innocent and beautiful for them in that sort 
of scene. They think of it as beauty rather than vulgar, or 
disgusting. And if they really do get into a sexual scene 
together, they are very natural about it. 

Q: Do you still fantasize about Tony and that guy he made it 

A: Oh yeah, but I don't talk to him about it, because I know he 
really doesn't want to do it again. But I think about it. I go 
back through recent scenes all the time when we're making 
love, even if he wasn't with me at that particular scene. I love 
going back over the particulars of a scene even while I'm in a 
new scene. It makes it all so fantastic. I even fantasize when 
I'm in bed alone. I love it. I get excited all over again. 

Q: Did any guy ever put you down for your fantasies, for telling 

A: Oh, no. I've never found any guy who doesn't like someone 
being as naughty as I am. The way I say it, tell my fantasies, 
they're so beautiful, no one in his right mind would put me 
down for them. 

Q: When you were talking about jealousy earlier, you said it 
excited you. What did you mean by that? 


A: For instance, if there's a girl in the room who I think Tony 
would like to make it with, a girl I'm jealous of, then I start 
thinking about making it with her. I'd like to say to him the 
next day, "I fucked that girl." It would annoy him, but it 
would satisfy me. Even if he went with her after that, I 
wouldn't feel too bad because the conquest would really have 
been mine to start with. But that's only because of jealousy; if 
it weren't for the fact that he wanted to fuck her, the thought 
wouldn't have occurred to me. 

Q: Do you sometimes want these jealousy fantasies of making it 
with the other girl to come true? 

A: Oh, yes. Sometimes I'll really get it together, me, the other 
chick, the one I'm jealous of, and Tony. These scenes, I really 
enjoy them, but even during them I 'still feel jealous. But the 
jealousy excites me, too. I mean, if I've been jealous earlier in 
the evening, and then Tony and I are in bed, I get excited 
because of the jealousy . . . even though I hate being jealous. 
Maybe I'll fantasize that the chick is also with us. I know 
most chicks, normal people, get very aggressive when they're 
jealous, but me, I just become quiet, almost passive, and 
wildly sexy. 

Q: If you know Tony is fucking some other girl, and you're not 
in on it, you're not there, how do you feel about it? 

A: I fantasize what's going on. If you know the person very well, 
you can imagine everything. I get an almost satisfaction 
thinking of their movements, it excites me, and I think, Oh, 
wow. I feel jealous, but I know he'd like me to be there, too 
. . . and I imagine myself with them. I imagine him thinking of 
me while he's fucking her and in a way I am there. Can you 
understand that? 

Q: Are your fantasies of black girls as well as white girls? 

A: No, I never fantasize about black girls. They don't come into 
my mind at all. If you're going to fantasize, it's always the 


opposite you think about. Except when I was at home, of 
course, because there weren't any white girls there. 

Q: Do people in your fantasies dress strangely, wear masks, or 
do the fantasies take place in strange surroundings? 

A: No, I always just think of them nude. And it's always in bed. 
A bed that I know. And my fantasies are always in color, 
never black and white. 

Q: Some people, if they want to really do something wild while 
they're fucking, they have to fantasize about it first. 

A: Sometimes, not always, I really need my fantasies to get me 
started, I can't get turned on without them. Maybe some 
people, they only have to be touched and they get sexy. But I 
really doubt that most people can think about absolutely 
nothing and get sexy. 

Q: If it's somebody totally new, maybe then you get instantly 
turned on. 

A: But if it's somebody you've fucked a lot though, even if he is 
the greatest fuck in the world, I still think it helps to fantasize 
... in the beginning, you understand, just to get you started. 
Sometimes I get turned on thinking about the wild things he 
must be thinking while he's fucking me. 

Q: Do you think men fantasize as much as women do, especially 
in bed? 

A: No; I think men often depend on the woman to start things 
going. If a woman, for example, can just relax and confide in 
her man and tell him about her fantasies, it really turns him 
on. The other night, we were in bed, and I knew he was still 
thinking about his work, that he wanted to fuck, but his mind 
was preoccupied. He even said, "I'm too tired." I said, 
"You're not tired." And he just had to look at me to know 
what was going through my mind, because I'd told him of my 
fantasies so often. He could tell from a look that I was into 
one of them and suddenly he was into it, too. That's why 


women really should tell their guys what goes on in their 
minds. It could change their lives. [Taped interview] 



The content of a fantasy, what happens, is not the clue to 
whether or not it should be acted out. (Always excepting, of 
course, obviously dangerous or physically dam. aging notions 
like playing Russian Roulette in bed, etc.) What may sound ugly, 
even horrific, to you or me may mean sexual satisfaction to the 
woman who thought it up In the end, she's the only one who 
knows whether a fantasy should stay where it is - in her mind - 
or whether living it would add something to her life. Where 
women seem to get confused is in thinking that accepting their 
fantasies means putting them into action, and that unless they do, 
they're sexual hypocrites. 

But accepting your fantasies can mean just that, and end right 
there; there's nothing that says you've only gone halfway if you 
don't act them out. Fantasy has no Hoyle's Book of Rules. 

What must be clear; however, to anyone who's read this book 
is how many of the fantasies in it should be part of a woman's 
real life. How many fantasies are sexual desires for things any 
woman has a natural right to. And this right may go beyond the 
satisfactions ordinarily understood by saying a woman is 
married, or has a lover, or even that she is sexually satisfied. 
Because, after all, what they want is so simple that it is a mystery 
to me why a woman is afraid to ask. What it means, I suppose, is 
that women just don't talk, not even to their lovers, don't express 
their desires, whether through shyness or fear. This fantasy is 
typical, except that its surprise ending makes it even more 



I am a married woman of thirty-four. I would like to tell you 
about my sexual fantasy. My own fantasy has a true base on 
which I build. About eleven years ago, before I was married, but 
was engaged, I went out a number of times with a married man 
with whom I worked. This was no "love" affair. It was purely 

Although I made it regularly with my boy friend, this man 
really excited me. We were lucky that we had a room to go to and 
didn't have to make it in the back of a car. First we would 
undress completely. He would always have the most incredible 
erection. He would fondle, kiss, and suck my breasts. He would 
caress my bottom and smack it. He would play with my clitoris 
and insert his fingers up me. Then he would suck my clitoris and 
insert his tongue in me. During all this I never used to touch his 
penis. He would concentrate wholly on me, making me cry with 
excitement, and he would talk to me, the language of lust: "Oh, 
you beauty, you lovely little cunt, those lovely soft hairs I'm 
going to bury my cock against them, right up your cunt. I'm 
going to fuck you, fuck, fuck, fuck you, and I'm going to wet all 
those hairs with my come, and after that you are going to suck it 
forme, all of it." 

Then he would insert his fingers up my bottom and suck me to 
orgasm. While I was still crying with pleasure he would put his 
huge penis in me and with my legs around his waist would fuck 
me to at least two orgasms. He would still not have come yet, and 
would have an erection like an iron bar. He would push it against 
my lips until I opened my mouth and took it in and I would suck 
it. He was capable of withholding his ejaculation for as long as 
he wanted. Still not having come, he would take it out of my 
mouth and I would caress it with my hand, wrapping my fingers 
round it. Suddenly he would roughly grab my legs, put them onto 
his shoulders and force his cock into me again and work hard and 


fast. Then he would come, and I would feel his warm semen 

That then is my sexual fantasy. It never actually happened. I 
did have an affair with this married man, but most of the rest is 
just a daydream. [Letter] 


While only the woman herself knows whether acting out her 
fantasy would enrich her life, even knowing herself isn't a 
guarantee that what worked in fantasy is going to work as well in 
reality. It's a gamble; some women have told me that just talking 
about their secret desires - forget about living them - was not 
only disappointing, but ruined the effectiveness of the fantasy 

Some of the spine-chilling fantasies described back in the Pain 
and Humiliation Rooms at the House of Fantasy are enough to 
turn anyone off the idea of making their "dreams" come true. 
Luckily, the women who have these frightening sexual images 
usually say they have no real desire for the "Ouch!" treatment and 
would run a mile to avoid any real pain. Their gory fantasies 
would seem to be similar to the horrific, but beneficial, 
nightmares dreamed at night. (But if your nightmare fantasies 
aren't therapeutic - if they frighten you, not with the delicious 
thrills of a Dracula movie, but instead tempt you to find your own 
real-life monster - a little professional help might be in order.) 

Women who see no conflict whatsoever in their fantasies, who 
want to get closer to them rather than further away, look around 
them and see everything changing and everything being tried; 
from films, magazines, and billboards, it seems life itself is full 


of fantasy, getting closer to each other every day; why not merge 
her life with her fantasy? Here are some interviews and letters 
from women who've had various degrees of success at doing just 


I've been married for twenty years, have two children, and I've 
just celebrated my forty-second birthday. Both my husband, a 
newspaperman, and I have college degrees; we are middle-class 

Years ago, discussing dreams and fantasies with my husband, 
we confessed to each other that we did, indeed, think of others 
during sex. Further, like many, of my friends, I find it somewhat 
of a relief during the course of a hectic day to masturbate and 
fantasize about the red-haired producer and writer for television 
who is a neighbor of ours. 

But I've had disappointing results in actually experiencing my 
fantasies. They both sort of just happened. The first had to do 
with a lesbian fantasy that's vague, in fact more just random 
thoughts about what it would be like . . . after all, who knows 
women's vital sexual areas better than other women? Well, a few 
years ago a close friend paid me a surprise visit early one 
morning. Since I had not had the time to finish dressing, she 
caught me in my dressing gown. As we sat on the divan and had 
coffee, she gradually worked herself closer to me. That's when I 
began thinking about my fantasy, and wondering if this was it. 
But before I could decide if I even wanted it, like a bolt out of the 
blue she suddenly reached over and started fondling my breasts. I 
started to admonish her for such behavior, but she was not to be 
denied and gradually lowered her face onto my lap. I confess that 
while it was quite a shock at first, I wondered to myself whether 
she would be as good with her tongue as my husband (and a 
couple of other males I know) or as exciting as some of the 


lesbian scenes so prevalent in today's films. Did you see The 

Well, sadly she wasn't. She did bring me to a climax, 
masturbating with her hand. I can still see her doing it. 
Fortunately, she has moved away. I really could never have 
brought myself around to seeing her again. 

The other incident has to do with what I am sure must be a 
prevalent female fantasy: the male Negro and his reputed size 
and talent. This happened during the last presidential contest. My 
husband was called to Washington to cover some Senate 
hearings. During his absence, I attended a dinner party which 
brought together two presidential hopefuls and a group of 
pseudointellects (forgive me). One young Negro, well groomed 
and with a Ph.D. in political science, spent most of the evening 
with me discussing subjects from sales to sex. He offered to drive 
me home. By now, the fantasy had begun to play through my 
mind, and wondering what he was like sexually, I had already 
begun thinking about whether I wanted to find out. During the 
drive he pulled into a parking lot and proceeded to make 
advances. Of course you know what happened: he took out of his 
trousers his very hard and pulsing penis which he placed in my 
hand. I was actually holding it, this thing I'd imagined so often. 
He pleaded with me to let him "go down on you," and before I 
knew it, I was lowering my briefs and pantyhose. He ate as 
though it was his last meal. Fortunately, the children were away 
at school, and so I thought it best that we drive to my home and 
continue the action there. I'm not one who can relax in a sedan. 

I don't know if Charlie was any representative of his race, but 
he was a lousy fuck. It was my first and last experience with the 
other race. But I shall never forget the experience. I thought it 
would also be the end of the male Negro as a fantasy for me, but I 
find it hasn't finished the fantasy, it's changed it. I may not do it 
again but I'll always remember it ... in a way. One more thing: 
he begged me to suck him off - which I had done in fantasy - but 


which I naturally refused to do. I admit his instrument was 
mighty handsome to see and to hold, but beyond that, his sexual 
talents were zero. Incidentally, a close friend of mine also had 
intercourse with a black, and she, too, agreed that their sexual 
prowess is just so much baloney. It is a status symbol, I fear. 
Women would be smart to stick to their fantasies. 

So, there's my story. I hope that it has been enlightening. Of 
course we mortals dream ... for that is what life is all about. 


My fantasies are so personal, and the pleasure I get from them 
derives so much, I think, from the fact that they are private and 
locked away in my imagination, that I wouldn't dream of trying 
to make them come true. I've thought a lot about this, especially 
after writing this letter. I almost didn't write it for fear of 
diminishing this pleasure; I was afraid that putting them on paper 
would lessen their effectiveness. Luckily it hasn't, perhaps 
because I don't know you. I mean, if someone, even a close 
friend, asked me to speak them aloud so that the words actually 
made sound for someone to hear, I don't think I could do it. And 
if I could, it certainly would spoil them for me, especially the 
ones involving love. But act my fantasies out? Make them come 
true? No, absolutely not. My real life's not what they're about; I 
don't want those things to really happen to me, I simply want to 
imagine what it would be like. So that's where they'll stay. 


I am twenty-five years of age and have spent most of my life in 
Kansas City. My husband and I have been married nearly five 
years and we have a son four years old. I am a college graduate, 


interested in painting and music, and after graduation I spent a 
short time working as an actress in summer stock. My present 
job is that of a telephone solicitor. Good luck in your research. 
Here goes. 

Usually during sex I concentrate on what I'm doing and who 
I'm with. However, I sometimes fantasize that I am with an old 
boy friend or a complete stranger, that another man in addition to 
my husband is making love to me. There is a friend of my 
husband's with whom I once had a sexual encounter (at my 
husband's urging) and I often imagine him as the extra man. This 
fantasy happens when my husband and I are having anal 
intercourse. While I am stimulating my clitoris or my husband 
stimulates it for me; I pretend that the other man and I are 
enjoying vaginal intercourse while I'm having anal intercourse 
with my husband at the same time. 

I sometimes think about the other women I know my husband 
has been with and wonder if he did the same things to them and 
how they reacted. I imagine that I am he, making love to one of 
these women. Also, when I am blowing my husband I try to 
imagine how it feels to have a penis with someone sucking it or 
tickling it with her tongue. I can almost feel the semen being 
sucked out when I would (when he does) obtain orgasm. I 
thoroughly enjoy my fantasies and find talking about them 
increases the excitement. 

My husband encourages me to fantasize and urges me to 
describe my fantasies to him. He becomes very aroused for 
instance, if I tell him that I masturbated that day and describe to 
him what I was thinking about while I masturbated. I have even 
at times told him of some of my fantasizing while we were 
making love. Any verbalization of this kind adds to his 
excitement. He has at times asked me to pretend he was an old 
lover and to describe my feelings and reactions. I have also asked 
my husband to pretend I am someone else while making love to 
me. I have once or twice pretended I was a boy and asked my 


husband to pretend the same while balling me anally. But 
although it excites him to hear me telling him my fantasies while 
we're making love, he later becomes depressed at the thought of 
what I've been thinking. He asks to hear my fantasies, but later 
I'm afraid they repel him; he becomes disgusted with himself for 
becoming excited by that kind of thing. All in all, I think I've 
decided to keep my very pleasurable fantasies to myself in future. 


Okay, here goes ... (I may have to go and masturbate before I 
can finish this, as my mind goes blank.) 

I have often thought it would be very yummy (and now that I 
think of it, very messy, too) if somebody would pee inside me 
(depends on who's washing the sheets). I never had this actually 
occur, but often thought about it and talked about it to men who 
seem to think it might be impossible. It is impossible - why? 
think I - because they can't pee and have a hard-on at the same 
time? I suppose this is destined to remain a fantasy, unless I can 
find some physical wizard. 

Also, I've been thinking about something and can't remember 
if I talked to you about it when we met: I recently was wondering 
if it isn't unpleasant to have all. of your fantasies played out and 
then you don't have any more. See what I mean? Like ... if a 
person does all those things she thinks she would like to do, 
where will she get any more fantasies? Just a thought. [Letter 
from a friend] 


The most significant thing I have discovered about my 
fantasies is that they are far more exciting as fantasies than as 


reality. I speak from experience. Carrying them out was a 
disappointment. The fantasy was, in truth, more exciting than 
doing it. I shall say no more than that my fantasy was to be 
dominated, to be tied up. [Letter] 


I was left a divorcee with two daughters at the age of 
twenty-five, and after a while I began having fantasies about 
young boys. I used to imagine them in bed with me, dressing and 
undressing me and all sorts of peculiar things, such as kissing me 
on the vaginal lips. It made me masturbate and also wear very 
sexy underclothes. 

I used to picture the newsboy who delivered my papers having 
an affair with me. Then one day one of my daughters got lost and 
the newsboy eventually found her, and as a result a friendship 
started between us. Sometimes when he came to visit us he 
would sit in a chair opposite me. Staring at him "there" - as I was 
facing him - I used to imagine what his penis was like. Then one 
night after we had all gone to the pictures and the girls were in 
bed, he and I sat on the settee. Suddenly the urge came over me 
and I asked him if he was fond of me. I felt his hand moving 
under my dress, and before long one of my fantasies was realized 
and I actually found that his penis was in excess of what I had 
imagined. After two years we were married, even though I am 
twelve years older. We are very happy and have three children, 
one of which was the result of the night we came home from the 

Fantasies tend to keep one going. I certainly enjoyed them, but 
the real thing is even more enjoyable. [Letter] 



My most exotic and rewarding masturbatory/copulative 
fantasy has remained a constant throughout my sex life, and this 
from the age of perhaps seventeen or eighteen when masturbation 
managed to find its way into my life more or less regularly every 
day for about two years. Where this fantasy comes from is still a 
mystery, but it has very often influenced my choice of lovers, and 
within the boundaries imposed by society on those relationships 
in which the fantasy has become a reality, I have truly been 
"living" my dream on several occasions. 

It is possible that the Scorpio/Sado-Masochistic/Florence 
Nightingale superfuck that I imagine myself to be on these noble 
occasions is a giant myth, but my ability to make it seem real is 
very unmythical, and it is in that way I manage to bring myself 
off to its sweet music each time it rears its lovely head. 

The aberration explained away, I may now be capable of 
explaining the fantasy with the lucidity it demands. 

I like gangsters. When I was a teen-ager, the masturbatory 
stories I told myself had to do with a sort of Mafia chief type of 
fatso who hired girls or even had them captured by his henchmen 
for his pleasure. Since all of the masturbation I ever do, or did, 
was clitoral and I then thought that was blatantly abnormal, the 
sequence of my fantasy is rather important. 

These henchmen types would have me on a table and I never 
had the chance to do much talking. I was being masturbated in 
this artificial clitoral way to a peak of excitement which was 
designed to turn the gangster guy on when he actually poked his 
head through the door and suddenly got a whopping hard-on 
from seeing me ready to come. Needless to say, he always had a 
very big cock. He was dressed but would show me his hard-on 
because the boys told him I liked big cocks. He would then say 
that he wanted me to be brought off, because he didn't want to 
enter an "uncome" cunt. That gave me an excuse for having my 


orgasm, and that was usually the end of my story and I went to 

Now . . . there are variations on this theme which have had to 
be dealt with throughout the years. This dangerous character of 
whom the whole world is obviously scared shitless sometimes 
comes through the door of the room where I am being 
masturbated to readiness by the "boys," and when he sees me and 
talks to me he decides he really thinks I am just the grooviest 
chick he has ever seen or met, and that I have the most delicious 
looking pussy around, so he tells the guys to lay off and he fucks 
me good and proper and likes it and tells me that I will be his. 
permanent old lady and get to have him every Thursday, for 
which I shall be handsomely rewarded. The boys are very 
surprised by this because the big boss never turns on to chicks, 
and they even stop to remind me that I am just about the luckiest 
girl in the world. 

Aside from this variation, there are other things that 
occasionally swim into the scene. Sometimes he likes me enough 
to avoid entering me because his cock is so enormous as to have 
actually been rejected by many, many ladies, and he feels a little 
nervous about the possibility of hurting such a sweetie-pie as 
myself. I reassure him a lot and tell him it's perfectly dandy if he 
wants to enter me before I come because I can handle it. 
(I-am-a -champ sort of thing.) He's usually reluctant, but tells me 
that he will try it out first after I have come and am relaxed and 
wet enough to accommodate him, but that maybe next Thursday 
if we find it comfortable the first time . . . again this gives me the 
excuse I need to bring myself off with my hand and not introduce 
objects of unimportance into my vagina. 

Anyway . . . this gangster guy is my friend and he would never 
hurt me but he hurts lots of other people 'cuz he's really a killer 
meanie. But ... I am a nice chick and nobody would want to spoil 
such an adorable number as me. He used to be called "Joe," but 
sometimes now he is called by the name of whatever current 


lover is absent from my own scene and whose memory I am 
trying to call up. 

I have had three gangster lovers in my real life, and all of them 
have been excellent lovers and fallen quite nicely into my 
preformed image of what a good gangster should be, i.e., they 
might be murderers on the outside but they would never hurt me. 
I never have bothered to tell any of them about this fantasy 
because they have all acted the part so well without a script. 

I have gone off gangsters recently in both real and fantasy life, 
and have entered a period of recalling another fantasy which 
blows my mind sufficiently during times of extreme stress to 
enable me to have orgasms with myself: I imagine there are ten 
or twelve men in a sort of amphitheater who are being taught 
how to make a girl have orgasms. They all have to listen carefully 
to the nice man who is in charge of the lesson and who is 
showing them how to get girls to like them better. I get to be 
screwed by the one of these callow types (after I have come) who 
pleases me the most and whose cock is the hardest. 

Boy, this really sounds stupider on paper than it ever does in 
my head, but I guess that's what fantasies are all about. Aside 
from the two fantasies I have mentioned, I have the eternal 
doctor-examiner, gynecological, freak-out number, and the very 
occasional recourse to horse or dog trips. In the main, though, 
doctors and horses I can do without. Generally speaking, it does 
not interest me much to carry out my fantasies in real life, as 
mostly when I have tried it has been a disappointment; morally 
and socially I can't go hanging around with gangsters all my life. 

J ocelyn 

My fantasies have always concerned animals and nothing else. 
Ever since I was a teenager, the sight of dogs copulating or a 


horse in a field with his penis hanging down has excited me 

I am now divorced but have a lover, and most times when we 
make love I imagine it is the penis of a large dog or horse that is 
entering me, or a dog licking me and hordes of dogs all screwing 
madly. This really turns me on. I don't know why this should be 
or why it is only dogs and horses. My lover knows about this and 
likes to talk about it, but he does not understand either. While we 
are making love he says, "Don't you wish I were a large Alsatian 
or that this was a stallion's penis between your legs?" 

When visiting a friend some time ago, his very large German 
Wolfhound was sitting beside me on the sofa when the pink tip 
of his penis began to appear, and this excited me so much I had 
to leave immediately. I dreamed about this dog for weeks 

I have never owned a dog, and much as I would like to I 
would be afraid of what might happen if I did get one. I am sure I 
would not be able to leave it alone, so I prefer to stick to my 
fantasies, which I really enjoy, and so I shall never buy a dog. 

Another fantasy which I have, but which does not turn me on 
so much as the animal one, concerns a colored girl. My lover 
talks to me as he is stimulating me, asking me to imagine he is a 
young, slim, black girl and she is licking me, or that I am licking 
her and her creamy juices are pouring into my mouth. Although I 
have never had any homosexual experiences, I once saw a picture 
in a magazine of two girls, one white and one black, stimulating 
each other. Again, it was the little pink tip of the black girl's 
clitoris which got me excited, and it is this that I think about 
when I fantasize about a colored girl. [Letter] 



A sexual fantasy shared with an accepting, encouraging 
lover. What can I add? Like sex itself, it's more fun for two. 


My fantasies during sex usually involve one or more men; 
whatever we are doing, there is invariably a group of people 
present, watching. In both fantasy and real life, I am an 
exhibitionist. I enjoy having men look at the crotch of my 
trousers, swim suit, or pantyhose. My husband knows of my 
fantasies, and encourages them. He also knows of my 
masturbation, which he considers heightens my sexuality. During 
masturbation, my fantasies are usually exhibitionistic. Before I 
was married I did have occasional lesbian fantasies, but no 
longer do. 

If in real life I sit with my legs apart to show my crotch, in my 
fantasy it changes so that I'm wearing just a mini-dress with 
nothing on underneath, and sitting wide-legged so that I show my 
genitals. My husband is very understanding about my needs and 
encourages and helps me in my fantasies. I give him a better time 
this way. For instance, he will kiss and suck my genitals for an 
extended time so that I can fantasize about other men without any 
vocal interruption from him. When I am ready, I will indicate to 
him and he will move up and put his penis in. He will say, "Have 
you been fucked today?" and I will say, "Yes, three men fucked 
me at the office," and he will ask me if I showed my cunt on the 
way to the office, and I will tell him I sat in the train with my legs 
apart so the men could see. It's a game we play together and both 
get a big kick out of this. 

Here is my favorite fantasy: 


It is evening. We are going to a party and I am in the bedroom 
dressing. I put on a sling bra, then a short tunic dress, and 
nothing else but shoes (I have a beautiful tan). I stand in front of 
the mirror raising my arms so that my dress lifts well above my 
cunt. We arrive at the party, where there are about six couples, all 
handsome or beautiful, the men with tight trousers, the girls are 
all fully dressed as far as their tits and crotches are concerned. I 
sit down and enjoy knowing the men are looking up my skirt. I 
stand up and bend over to pick up something from the floor. I feel 
hands on my hips. I stay as I am and feel a great penis go into 
me. I do not look around and he carries on until he has finished. 
Then another man takes me and lays me on the settee and fucks 
me. They all take turns in different positions while the others 
watch. But none of the other couples have sex. Eventually we 
leave. It is a warm evening and we walk along with my 
husband's arm around my waist. This pulls my skirt up enough 
so that men passing can see my cunt. We come to a grassy patch 
beside the road and I pull my husband down to the ground so that 
he is on his back. I take his penis in my mouth and then mount 
him and we fuck in full view of the passersby. If I had been 
fucking with my husband while having this fantasy we would 
now have reached the point where I would be telling him of what 
was happening in my fantasy an that he was the man doing it so 
that we could work up to wonderful finish. [Letter] 


It has taken me some time to write to you, even after 
consulting my husband, Who had been in favor of my doing so 
since we first read your letter. The reason for my not making up 
my mind earlier was because of the results of my fantasies, and 
not so much because I practiced them. Whether you will find 
them surprising or shocking only you, of course can say. 


I am forty-two and have been married for twenty-five years, 
and have four children now grown up. Our sex life was, we think, 
reasonably satisfactory, except that I thought, for a long time, that 
something was missing, and that it was often rather humdrum. 

About a year ago my husband apparently guessed this - 
probably from my attitude at times to sex, and also (and far more 
likely, I think) because he came to realize more and more that he 
could not give me enough to satisfy me. He had asked me often if 
he did have enough for me, and usually I said that he had - partly 
because I did not want to make him feel inadequate, and also, in 
retrospect, I am sure that I knew once I really started thinking of 
another man giving me more, that it would so obviously show in 
my reactions that my husband would notice, and might take 
serious exceptions to another man fucking me, even if it was only 
in my imagination. But one night, when he was trying to fuck me 
himself, he suddenly said that was not of much use, and that I 
had become far too large for him to manage; that he could put 
what he had right into me without me feeling it and that what I 
now wanted was a man who was able to give me a thicker penis. 

I amazed myself with my reaction to this, and he obviously felt 
it, because he then proceeded to talk to me about it, and we had 
the most wonderful fuck. I admitted to him that I had often 
imagined, other men on top of me, and I even let him know 
which men I had imagined doing it. He became very worked up 
over my fantasies, and started going through our acquaintances, 
noting my variations in reactions as he mentioned their names. 
He knew I had a soft spot for at least two of them - his cousin 
and my sister's ex-husband - and we both reached a fantastic 
climax together, both imagining that I was being fucked by his 
cousin. He even made me call him by his cousin's name. 

Having experienced this, we then of course practiced it more 
and more, and after about two weeks, during which time he had 
fucked me more than ever before, we were in bed one Sunday 
afternoon, which was about a week before we were going away 


on a holiday with his cousin and wife. This afternoon my 
husband was taking no precautions, as he normally did; he 
wanted to put it in bare, and he told me why once he had it in: 
this time he told me that when we were on our holiday he wanted 
it to be what he termed "a holiday of fucking," now that he had 
discovered how much nicer everything was, and that he wanted 
me to let his cousin fuck me if the opportunity arose. His idea 
being that if he put his cock into me bare, it would be reasonable, 
should I do as he suggested and let his cousin also fuck me, that 
if I became pregnant I could say that the baby was my husband's. 
He wanted me to agree to this and also to expose myself to his 
cousin, so I could find out what another man could do for me. 
Being miles away from home, he said, no one would know, and if 
I liked it, then there would be ample opportunity to enjoy it to the 
full, and as often as I wanted to. 

By this time, of course, I was so worked up that I held him 
close to me with my legs around his back and for the first time in 
years I felt his come shoot right into me, as I promised to try what 
he had suggested. During that week before we went away, he 
rode me several times each night, and as I took his come every 
time, he could not say that if I was pregnant that it was not his. 

He made certain that I was well-shaven before we went on our 
holiday, and now I began to really feel like my husband did; I 
was far more ready to wear even shorter skirts and no panties, 
and found no difficulty in doing this once we got to Italy. We 
experimented to find out how I could expose myself without 
being too blatant, even though I knew in my heart that his cousin 
would not need much encouragement. We found it was easy for 
me to show what I had - bearing in mind that my cunny was 
absolutely bare, and that my slit would show clearly - and as 
soon as I found his cousin taking more interest and more liberties 
with me than ever, it was not long before we could slip away to 
our room and I was able to find out what another man was like. 


The experience was something out of this world, and far better 
and easier than I had imagined. I also found that there are men 
with tools that can still open a woman, even after they have had 
several children, and I would have been content to have lain there 
for hours, watching myself being opened and really fucked. 
Although he was quite a lot bigger than my husband, it was not 
just this that gave me great satisfaction, it was the variation, and 
the different ways we did it - mostly with me lifted on pillows, 
but also often from the rear - a position I had not thought I liked, 
nor often indulged in. But with this man it took on a different 

The history is that during that holiday I enjoyed both these 
men regularly and to such an extent that I was probably fucked 
more during those two weeks than in any year previously. My 
husband also enjoyed every moment, and what was surprising to 
me, even though he suggested it, was how much he liked to talk 
about it - to talk about me having had his cousin, and the fact 
that another tool had been in between my lips added spice, so that 
I had to promise him to continue our experiment. My sister's ex- 
husband was now brought into it, and I had to promise that I 
would take him if he showed interest after we got back home. 
Since he had parted from my sister he had lived alone in his 
house, and my husband now suggested that we ask him to come 
live with us. We invited him after we got home from Italy, and he 
was put in a bedroom through which we had to go to reach ours; 
it was proposed by my husband that if things worked out, he 
would go on to bed earlier, and that I could then go to bed with 
my brother-in-law on the way to our own room. My husband 
could then enter me, immediately after I had taken my 

This also turned out as we had thought it might, but in this 
instance I really found out why my brother-in-law had parted 
from my sister. He was large enough to put off most women, 
particularly those who had not had children, as my sister had not, 


and I found my fullest satisfaction in having some difficulty in 
taking him, and in being stretched after years of being told I was 
too large. When I got into bed afterward with my husband, it was 
obvious to him what I had taken, and of course this gave him 
even more pleasure to insert his own tool only a minute or two 
after in the same place where I had just taken this larger tool. 

I realize that this letter may not be exactly what you asked for, 
as in the main, it is an account of actions that followed after 
fantasies and not what occurred during them, but I would hope 
that you may be able to obtain some information from it. The 
point I would try to make is that it has benefited both my 
husband and myself. Him, because he is so much more a superior 
lover now than before, and quite frankly, I feel no regret or 
feeling of shame. [Letter] 


My fiance is writing this letter as I speak. This should give 
you some idea of how open we are with one another. I am 
nineteen years old and we are soon to be married. 

My fantasies during intercourse and masturbation are always 
of him; he is always present in them. It is only during foreplay 
that I sometimes think of another man, in particular a man I work 
with. I imagine various situations that I have been in with him, 
but these thoughts end when I have intercourse, probably because 
I have never had intercourse with him. 

Even when I think of another woman, my fiance is present in 
my fantasies. He is usually watching as the woman goes down on 
me, or me on her. In reality, this would give us both a great deal 
of pleasure. In fact, anything I think sexually seems to turn him 
on. We don't talk too much during sex, but I do like him to tell 
me at the outset that he is going to "fuck me." Words like this can 
add a lot. 


When I was about eleven years old, there was a rather 
good-looking young man, about twenty, who lived next door. 
Some weekends he used to have his girl friend come stay with 
him. In the evenings I could hear him in his bedroom with her - 
clearly the wall between our houses was not that thick. It did not 
take much imagination to know what they were doing, even for 
an eleven-year-old. My fantasy was very straightforward. I would 
simply imagine that he was doing, whatever it was, to me instead 
of her. I would lie there for hours listening through the wall and 
wishing I were in her place. I would never go to sleep till all was 
quiet next door. To this day I remember their lovemaking noises. 

The only fantasy I've been able to put into practice has been 
one that indulges my exhibitionist tendencies. With my fiance's 
encouragement, I will sometimes leave off my panties when I am 
wearing black stockings and a garter belt. With my mini-length 
skirts, it is not difficult to subtly reveal myself in public places. 
Later, I repeat all of this in great detail to my fiance. I wouldn't 
think of leaving him out of my fantasies; having him involved or 
telling him about them heightens everything for me. Even when 
indulging in my favorite lesbian fantasies, I like to have him 
there watching, or in reality talking to me. [Letter] 


I just recently became aware of my fantasies. I fantasize far 
more about black men than white; they appeal to me more 
sexually. But this is not just fantasy; my husband is black. The 
only other man I balled more than once was white, and I rarely 
felt satisfied with him. Since I am very satisfied with my 
husband, I would imagine that this has much to do with my 
preference for black men in my fantasies. I should add that up 
until last night, the men in my fantasies were always anonymous. 

In my fantasy last night - I've never had one like it before - 
the person I found myself fantasizing about was one of the three 


pastors at the church my husband and I attend. My husband is a 
student pastor at this church, and this man is his advisor. 
Physically, the man is not my ideal at all. My ideal is tall and 
slender (my best friend would call it "skinny"), whereas this 
pastor is no taller than myself, perhaps shorter, and stocky. He is 
middle-aged, which also hasn't before appealed to me. But last 
night was the first time the anonymous lover in my fantasy has 
ever been given an identity. 

I do have another strange fantasy in which I walk into a store 
which deals exclusively in sexual aids and accessories - dildos, 
false breasts, sucking apparatus, etc. My desire is to buy a 
"mouth," though I never really picture what it would be like, just 
what it would feel like. [Letter] 

J essie 

My husband and I do talk during sex, especially when he is 
feeling me. But the best sessions we have are when we both 
imagine that we are giving an exhibition on anything to do with 
sex. I usually strip while my husband lies on the bed describing 
every detail of me. I stand in front of our large mirror and have to 
do what he says. The language we use on these occasions really 
excites me. I end up caressing my titties and masturbating. When 
he strips, I part his legs and take the penis in my mouth. We have 
a session of oral sex, then we rub oil over each of us and go 
through a pattern of different positions. Rear entry in front of the 
mirror is best. Then we can see how we look to our imaginary 
audience and I can see it in me and also play with my clitoris, 
which by this time is really on end. [Letter] 


I am fifty years old, and my husband is fifty-four. We have two 
children, both married. We are both college graduates, and my 


husband has an above-average income, which permits us to travel 
quite extensively. Since I was about twenty-eight, we have 
enjoyed a very active and. varied sex life. My husband (I will use 
the name Bill) approves of all my sex activities, whether 
participating, assisting, or merely looking on. He would never be 
jealous or angry at anything I might tell him, if it enhanced my 
sex feeling. He insists that I mention the fact that my body is firm 
and trim, with about the same weight and measurements I had at 
thirty. We both believe that lots of sex is the best figure control a 
woman can practice. 

I do not often fantasize during coitus with Bill, but it does 
happen on occasion. We vocalize a lot, giving directions, telling 
each other how it feels, etc. 

I fantasize continuously while I masturbate. I conjure up many 
images at different times, depending how I am doing it. My most 
frequent image is of my boxer screwing me (this actually happens 
about every other day). Sometimes I fantasize sex with two men. 
I do it by alternating dildos between my vagina and my mouth, 
pretending that I am being screwed by one and Frenching the 
other. At times I have carried this further to include three men, by 
inserting a small dildo in my anus. Less elaborate fantasies have 
included my brother, my sister's husband, an uncle, and 
numerous attractive men we know. 

When Bill or the boxer perform cunnilingus on me, I often just 
lie back with eyes closed and imagine all sorts of oral situations. 
They are often lesbian in nature, and mostly are concerned with a 
beautiful girl friend with whom I made love many times between 
the ages of fifteen and seventeen. Unfortunately, our family was 
transferred, breaking up our relationship. I had sex with other 
girls, but none were as lovely or skillful as my first friend. I have 
told Bill that if our paths should ever cross, I would go to bed 
with her, if she were willing, and I am sure she would be. 

I began fantasizing at a very early age; at eight, I believe. At 
that time, my uncle, then about fourteen, showed me his erect 


penis, and showed me where it was supposed to go. He gave me 
a demonstration with his finger, which I enjoyed very much, and 
rubbed the head of his penis against my small hole. We engaged 
in similar sex play many times, and I began to masturbate 
regularly. Always, it was accompanied by thoughts of his finger 
screwing me, or his penis caressing my inner lips and clitoris. 
When I was thirteen, I began having sex with my brother, and 
this continued irregularly until about my sixteenth year. 

I enjoy imagining that I am on exhibition. I have performed for 
Bill so often that I am accustomed to an audience, albeit of one. 
In our travels we have had several opportunities to view sex 
exhibitions, and strangely, perhaps, I always identify with the 
girls, and how, and to what extent, I felt that I could improve 
upon their performance. I am sure that I have a decided streak of 
exhibitionism in me. I love to pose for pictures; the sexier the 
better. In mild ways (with Bill's approval), I have indulged in 
exhibitionism. For instance, I have not worn panties in many 
years, except (honest injun) when I am expected to take them off; 
at the doctor's or the dressmaker's. I have given lots of strange 
men an unexpected peek at my pussy, while Bill and I observed 
their surprised and pleased reactions. Usually, this occurs on a 
motor trip, and I will have applied lipstick to my labia, to be sure 
they are unmistakably visible against the background of dark 
brown hair. Being rather moist and swollen, their visibility is 
enhanced. On trips, we always have a dildo handy and, of course, 
the boxer. I have let him screw me many times as we traveled, 
much, I am sure, to the surprise of passing truck drivers, who 
must have wondered what a large dog was doing with his paws 
on the back of the front seat. 

Speaking our fantasies out naturally decreases the novelty of 
the particular situation to some extent. But we have discarded 
few, if any, of our fantasies. Actually, we have experienced many 
of our best fantasies, but even so, they remain effective sex 
stimulators. The most effective, the favorite, and the one which 


has withstood the test, is the one concerned with bestiality. It 
began about twenty years ago, and became a reality about three 
years ago. Our present dog is the third one, and he should be 
good for five or six years. The first two were German Shepherds, 
and we have trained all of them. Until the kids went away to 
college, dog-screwing was mostly reserved for special occasions, 
although I had cunnilingus often. I kept the dogs satisfied with 
masturbation and, when Bill was there to help guard against 
being surprised, I would fellatiate them. I know this may sound 
terrible, but it is really very pleasant, especially as I always 
thoroughly bathe that area with a nonirritating alcohol antiseptic 
which can be had in any drugstore. Precautions are unnecessary 
now, but I still enjoy giving him a suck sometimes. 

I hope that none of what I have written has been offensive. 
Please use it in any way you wish, if it has any value. [Letter] 


I am forty-seven years old and have only been married to my 
present husband for two and a half years. I was previously 
married for twenty-four years; he was a violent man and sex with 
him was something hateful. But my new husband is a very good 
and kind lover who has taught me that sex is a wonderful thing to 
be enjoyed. I find with him that talking about our fantasies makes 
them even more exciting when they happen again. 

What I always like to imagine during sex with my husband is 
that I'm doing it with someone who doesn't belong to me. This 
"someone else" is no one in particular, and not always a man. Far 
from being jealous or angry, my lover tells me to talk to him and 
explain in detail things that go on in my mind, and it makes our 
lovemaking fantastic. 

One of the favorite devices in my fantasy is to think that 
someone is watching me, and it becomes so real that it is this that 
heightens my climax. I do have lesbian fantasies, which really 


aren't great, as I'm a man's woman, but sometimes I do wonder 
how I would react to seeing another woman feeling her breasts 
and cunt, actually manipulating herself. I don't want to be doing 
it, I just want to watch her. 

We often indulge in fantasies together, acting out little plays as 
though we had just met and he has never had a woman before. I 
seduce him, teach him what to do. Or we switch the roles around 
and he becomes the instructor. Either way it's enjoyable. [Letter] 


I have actually acted out one of my fantasies, that of having 
sex with a colored man. When I describe this to my husband it 
really gets him going. If I add on top of this image the idea of 
being on exhibition, it gets me so keyed up I can even see the 
expressions on the faces of the people watching. 

When my husband and I talk about these things it is easier to 
explain what we really, think and feel, but of course most people, 
especially women, don't want to talk about taboo subjects. If you 
brought up the subject they would think you were sex-mad, when 
really it's the most interesting thing there is, and you are able by 
talking, and only by talking, to find out what makes people 
different. [Letter] 


I think my fantasies began when I was quite young, but q I 
have always remembered the first thing that really started me off. 
I still find it exciting to think about. I was about twelve and knew 
as much about sex as the next girl, I suppose. One day, two other 
girls and myself were in the park with several boys fifteen or 
sixteen years old. They bullied a younger boy to expose himself to 
us. This obviously fascinated all three of us girls, and as you 
might have guessed, the next thing that happened was an 


intensive petting session between us and the older boys. It may 
sound strange, but I can't really remember if one of those boys 
really got all the way inside me or not. But throughout it all, and 
still to this day, I can remember seeing that small red knob 
coming out through the foreskin, and I remember wondering 
whatever that little red thing was that was coming out toward me. 

Seeing that first exposure got me started on fantasies as well 
as sex. I am fifty-five years old, and until quite recently kept 
secret my fantasies of exposing myself. In my fantasies it is I who 
expose my cleanly-shaven cunt to younger men, even youths, so 
that they can see what a real woman's cunt looks like. I have 
always wondered about the size of other men, because after our 
third child my husband felt like a finger inside me. It was then 
that I began to really look at men and to urge my husband to tell 
me what other men were like. I couldn't believe that some men 
were as large as he described, and in my fantasies I would 
imagine them, egged on by seeing my shaven cunt, mounting me. 
I would think of an abnormally large man with a tool so big it 
would take me a long time to accommodate it. In my fantasy I 
would watch my bare slit being stretched further and further 
open, as his huge penis penetrated me to the hilt. (I have even 
pictured taking two men at once - as I know that this can 
happen.) And as my slit, totally free of hair, is visible in its 
entirety, the man in my fantasy can watch me as well, the 
movement, the reaction of my cunt. I see him thrusting, stretching 
me, stabbing away and then withdrawing completely for our 
mutual inspection of the red shining knob, over which the skin is 
then forced back just as hard as the man can stand without too 
much pain, which broadens the knob, making it just as wide as it 
can possibly be made before reinserting it again. 

Eventually, of course, when my husband began to see the 
reaction his stories of other larger men had on me, he began to 
suspect I fantasized. At first I was rather loath to admit them to 
him. I didn't want to talk back to him during intercourse; I 


wanted to stay with my fantasies. I also thought he might be hurt. 
But I soon realized how excited he got when I shared my 
fantasies with him, even told him that in them I was exposing 
myself to other men. He urged me to tell him more and our 
lovemaking suddenly took on a whole new excitement. He began 
to encourage me to think of other men. My husband is jealous of 
me, but he gets a definite kick from this "near attempt" at 
flaunting his wife before other men, even if only in fantasy. 

Eventually, however, this developed to the point where he did, 
in fact, encourage me to have other men. We have also got so 
worked up at times that we have fantasized together about incest, 
which brings on a fantastic climax. 

When my husband talks to me during sex - now that he knows 
that I have other men, and with his consent - he asks me all sorts 
of questions about the other cocks I have, and this gets him into 
such a state because, although he knows very well that he cannot 
fuck me like they can, he gets pleasure from at least trying. He 
now even encourages my real exposures to other men; in fact, he 
loves to shave me. These exposures later add a great deal to our 
sex as we fantasize together, talking back and forth, what it 
would be like if I had indeed taken on the man to whom he 
watched me expose myself - which, of course, is done simply by 
parting your legs a bit if you're sitting across the room from a 
man. Other times, of course, I do indeed take on the other men . . . 
and then tell my husband all about it. Now my husband even 
assures me that having other men regularly - and sharing the 
experience with him makes me a better ride and far more relaxed 
and able to give of my best in bed. [Letter] 

Adele's husband 

I have read and reread your article, and having eventually 
decided your research work is a serious one, I have at last 
decided to write to you. 


I am a heterosexual male, a widower, in fact, but I think you 
may find it quite interesting to read of the sexual fantasies of my 
dear late wife, who sadly died five long years ago. 

We were married in the latter part of the last war, and when I 
was demobilized I was twenty-three years old and she was 
twenty-one. Right from the word go our married life was 
wonderful, both sexually and in every other way. 

To come to the matter you're interested in. We had been to see 
a film with Alan Ladd in it at her instigation, because she always 
said how much she liked him. How much, I did not realize. The 
film had only been on ten minutes before she was kissing me 
very passionately and, of course, I slipped my hand in her blouse, 
undid her bra, and found her breasts hard and her nipples really 
erect. So naturally I went up her skirt with my other hand, having 
spread my raincoat over both our knees. She was wearing those 
silk panties without elastic - very handy - so I slipped my hand 
under and found her absolutely soaking wet. She had already 
come and as soon as I felt her clitoris, she came again. I finally 
had two fingers in her and she went wild. I hardly saw the film 
myself because she got my cock out and slowly tossed me off. 

When we got home I asked her if seeing Alan Ladd always did 
that to her, and she replied that it was so and that she often 
fantasized about him when we were making love. But she said it 
wasn't the same as seeing him in a film because I wasn't tough 
enough with her. In fact, she thought I was too kind with her, so 
there and then I knocked her onto the settee, stripped off her 
clothes and mine, switched out the lights and told her to call me 
Alan and to do what she wanted with me or tell me what she 
wanted Alan to do to her. It was fantastic ! She told me she had 
always wanted him to fuck her while he was on his horse and she 
was sitting astride facing him. So we pretended this, with me 
sitting on the settee while she played jockey on me. 
Unfortunately, that first time didn't last long, as you can well 
imagine. Now I realize how totally uninhibited we were then for 


such a young couple, because all the time she was crying out, 
"Fuck me harder, Alan - what a lovely big cock you have," and 
so on and so forth; no wonder I came quickly. As soon as I had 
come, she knelt in front of me and said, "I've always wanted to 
suck you off, Alan, and now I am." And my God, so she did! We 
went to bed and she was insatiable. In fact, it was so wonderful 
that next day I went to an army surplus store and bought an army 
officer's trenchcoat and also a felt slouch hat of the type he wore. 
I wore them home from the office, and when I went in the house 
she burst out crying. Apparently she had been afraid of what I 
might have thought about her behavior 'and would regret what 
had happened the night before. May I say that I am one man who 
never objected to my wife - I should say, my late wife's - 
fantasizing with Alan Ladd. In fact, I must have seen more of his 
films than any other man in the world. 

This, however, was not the end. When Sean Connery made his 
debut as James Bond in the films of the books by Ian Fleming, 
she found that he "turned her on," as the modern idiom says, and 
away we went again. Of course, we had become more 
sophisticated as we grew older and would have looked silly 
necking in the cinema. But as soon as we'd left the cinema, and I 
was driving home, she would have my slacks open and would 
suck me off, while I was driving with one hand and bringing her 
off with the other. This is not advocated in the Highway Code, by 
the way, but as I always drive an automatic, there was no hand 
brake or gear lever in the way. 

I trust you do not mind my writing to you and I do think you 
may be surprised that there are some men who encourage their 
wives to fantasize while making love. It certainly enriched my 
life, and how lonely these last five years have been. [Letter] 




This is as far as some women got in telling me their 
fantasies ... just a fleeting thought or two off the top of their 

... I imagine I am at the shore with the water running out from 
under my feet. The dizziness and the feeling of flight are 
overwhelming. I am being sucked out to sea. It is incredible . . . 

... I am being raped by a Harlem gang, or seduced by my 
boyfriend's roommate, or I am seducing a virgin myself, or being 
filmed for a porno flick, or being discovered in bed by my parents 
or younger brother, or being in bed with other couples (that act 
works wonders!) . . . 

... I think of my lover as a madman ... , or conversely as a 
virgin . . . 

... I pretend that my lover is the boy I loved and wanted to 
marry when I was sixteen and we were separated . . . 

... just knowing that this lover controls my life, since be- 
coming pregnant again was something my doctor warned me not 
to consider . . . 

... in my fantasies I always have my clothes on. I'm sure it has 
to do with rape, or why else would I be dressed? Having my 
clothes on adds to the urgency; there is no time for preliminaries, 
or even time to think. But it's the most exciting sexual image I 


have . . . me dressed and being totally and fantastically raped by 
some unknown man, who will then disappear into the night, 
leaving me wonderfully satisfied and yes, dressed . . . 

... I fantasize very typical stuff . . . our running through the 
fields, making love at the beach, whispered talks in bed, his 
asking to marry me . . . 

... I discovered the existence of sex through a chance en- 
counter with mating guinea pigs and was then filled in on the 
human details by a girl three embarrassing years younger than I. 
Once I knew the act existed, I did everything to try and visualize 
it: stung Kleenex up my vagina, then sitting down to watch hours 
of television, wondering if it felt like that. Picturing some 
crew-cut boy looking at me naked (he'd undoubtedly have been 
repelled by my almost non-existent breasts) and wondering what 
we'd do from there. Trying to imagine the actual penetration 
painful? disgusting? joyous? I really couldn't picture it. When I 
tried, it seemed so intimate you could only do, it with someone 
you really . . . cared for. But if you really cared for someone, how 
could you do such a terrible thing? It was a dilemma, and nearly 
stopped all my sexual fantasies . . . until I fell in love at sixteen . . . 

... I imagine I am my husband's mistress while he is making 
love to me. I imagine I'm trying to seduce him away from his 
prudish wife. Or I think of myself as a call girl or prostitute. After 
my husband and I once went to an all nude bar, I imagined for 
about a week that I was one of the girls we had seen. Strangely, 
when we are actually making love, I never fantasize that he is 
someone else. I'm always the one who is different . . . 

... I used to have sex dreams, when I was reaching puberty; it 
all centered around the penetration. I was fascinated by how 
wonderful it seemed in my dreams, and thought I would simply 


die and go to heaven when I actually engaged in sex some day. 
The dream was so potent that I would engage in fabulous 
masturbation, which I loved, imagining that real sex between 
men and women would be even better. I ran into some trouble 
later on with priests who said it was "dirty" and a "mortal sin" to 
masturbate. So for a while I didn't, or if I did, I felt guilty. And 
finally I didn't do it anymore . . . 

... I imagine what various men would be like in bed. I'm very 
happily married, so I would never go to bed with them, but if a 
friend of my husband's is attractive to me, I have fantasies about 
the two of us making love. As we are seated across from each 
other having cocktails, etc., I will picture him without his clothes. 
I get to the point where I am actually physically aroused by this 

... I had just broken up with a lover and in my masturbatory 
fantasies I would imagine I was making love with a woman, one 
of my best friends and a very attractive girl. In my fantasies the 
ex-lover would discover my friend and me and would be bitterly 
hurt . . . 

... I wonder what it would be like to masturbate with a dildo 
and it always arouses me to see pictures in sex books of these 
devices in use. Explicit sex books (you know, the full-color 
pictures of men and women in all those positions) really turn me 
on. My husband and I have two of them and every once in a 
while we look at them. If we didn't make love after this, I would 
have to masturbate! However, I never fantasize about perverse 
sexual acts, like doing it with a horse. That turns me off . . . 

... I began to have sexual daydreams about the age of four. 
There was a dark-haired, mysterious-looking man in the 
orchestra that played for Saturday night dances at my 


grandfather's country club. He played bass, and I would 
daydream from Sunday on through the week that he would come 
some night around dusk and whisk me off in the bass case. To 
this day I am attracted by dark-haired musicians, especially bass 
players, and have allowed myself time and time again to be 
carried off by them (not in their bass cases), only to discover that 
their lovemaking, no matter how wild, can never live up to my 
now quite grown-up fantasies of what I'd really like them to do to 
me ... 

... I am not with the obvious he-man muscular type. My sex 
orgies are with intellectual, almost shy men, who you think 
wouldn't know what to do in bed, but I picture them as experts 
under the surface. As if I'm the only one who knows their 
prowess . . . 

... I am chained, being beaten, forced to make love against my 
will. This surprises me, because I'd never allow a man to lay a 
hand on me . . . yet I keep coming back to this situation . . . 

... I just think how much I love him when we make love. But 
every once in a while, I play the pussycat and he the affectionate 
owner . . . 

... I have had erotic dreams which have produced orgasm. I 
am making love with a black man, a mysterious stranger, 
teen-age boys, once, to tell all, even with a woman, and there was 
one with a stallion who looked like a man I know but was a horse 
all the same . . . 

... I imagine, while I am masturbating, that I am being raped 
by a man who has just kidnapped me because he couldn't resist 
my fantastic beauty ... or I imagine I am making love with an old 
high-school sweetheart who was maddeningly sexy but whom I 


never went to bed with because I was too virginal (my husband 
really is the only man I've ever been to bed with!) . . . 

... I guess it's a submission fantasy, having my will overcome 
by sexual arousal. The man, my partner, has no identity, he is 
depersonalized. He never becomes another real person, like a 
movie star or my first love. He is not sadistic but he is not loving 
either - more like a cold unfeeling machine. Sometimes 
conditions are put on my achieving climax ... I cannot make any 
noise or move or something like that. Sometimes there are two 
men ... or more. I guess you would say my fantasies are 
somewhere between rape, victim and prostitute, sort of half and 
half. I never imagine being beaten or hurt in any way, and I never 
do anything myself; I am just acted upon. The man is an 
impersonal manipulator. There is no definite setting to these 
fantasies, no props or anything or fancy clothes. Sex fantasies are 
quite recent with me. I never had them when I was younger. I 
don't now have fantasies unless I know a man well and the 
sexual routine is familiar and comfortably old-shoe . . . 

... I conjure up this ultramasculine, coarse, strong fellow, and 
in my most climactic moments he becomes very tender, very soft 
in his lovemaking to me, very, very much the right man for me. It 
turns me on to realize how fully this man can give of himself to 
me. Usually my men are totally indulgent . . . 

... I am Queen Elizabeth (the First), ensconced in a castle with 
Hannibal, Rhett Butler, and Elke Sommer. The four of us do a 
variety of filthy things together. This is a serial fantasy, and I 
always take up where I left off. In my childhood fantasies I 
tortured various other women; but now that I am grown up, I 
don't have this particular type anymore . . . 


. . . I'm spread-eagled on a huge roulette wheel that hangs on a 
wall. As my partner penetrates me, the wheel spins faster and 
faster and faster . . . 

... I am attacked by a pack of German Shepherds (sexually, 
that is) . . . 

... I have been smuggled into a male prison and am being 
passed from cell to cell. It is the "long-termer" section (they are 
ravenous!) ... 

... I am completely passive having things done to me against 
my will. It is not actually rape, I don't struggle, I enjoy it but 
against my will. Sometimes I hear a voice, like on a PA system, 
describing what is being done to me and my reactions . . . 

... I am out on the street with no underwear. I approach two 
men walking together, lift my skirts, and offer to do anything . . . 

... I often borrow some of the more vivid scenes from The 
Story of O, like the one where she wears no underwear all day 
long and is constantly on call for her lover, who requests that she 
make love with other men while he looks on. And straight 
whipping scenes, like the bit from that same book where she is in 
the special beauty shop, sitting naked on the chair, having 
various interesting parts of her body prepared for sex. For orgies, 
I lean heavily on My Secret Life . . . 

... I am not very imaginative. I simply fantasize scenes that 
have actually taken place between me and my lover which I have 
found particularly interesting . . . 

... I am a stripper, performing on stage. Then I enter the 
audience and have sex with various men . . . 


... yes, I'm ashamed to say I've had fantasies about love and 
sex ever since I was at school. My headmaster never suspected it, 
but I was often his mistress in the most romantic surroundings. I 
sometimes fear that I am a nymphomaniac, but only in my 
"Walter Mitty" world. My favorite "trip," while plodding down 
our local Main Street, is into the harem of some virile potentate. 
When I awake, I am carrying ... a load of shopping . . . 

. . . The men in my life have all been a bit wishy-washy. My 
fantasies are always about a he-man who knows how to put his 
foot down. In my dream, he puts me across his knee and wallops 
my bare bottom. Then we make love . . . 

... I daydream about a certain bulky lump of male muscle I see 
pass up the road each day right in front of our house. He has a big 
black beard and marvelous twinkling eyes. Well, daydreaming's 
free, isn't it? ... 

. . . my erotic fantasy is to walk stark naked through a spring 
meadow on a really hot day. A great "horny" hulk of a man (also 
stark naked) grabs me, and without a word spoken throughout, 
makes wild erotic love to me. (I think it might be as well if you 
only use my initials.) . . . 

. . . my fantasy love takes me for a trip up the Empire State 
Building. He knows of my love of music, my fear of heights. As 
we soar skyward, he calmly takes me in his arms, first very 
affectionately, then more possessively, until he becomes very 
demanding. Once at the top we make love, accompanied by 
Scheherazade type music. A wild, passionate affair, a 
conglomeration of sounds and sensations, all madly exhilarating. 
(How I've enjoyed writing this!) . . . 


. . . my secret fantasies concern sex in the air or on the sea. If I 
won the state lottery, I'd hire a plane and a boat, just to find out 
which rocking movement is better combined with sex . . . 

. . . why is it when I'm a happily married mother of four lovely 
children and have a darling husband, why is it I always go off in 
a trance when I see our good-looking delivery man walk up the 
path on Monday and Wednesday mornings? My heart misses a 
beat as I open the door. While I wait for him to put down his 
packages, I stand there transfixed, my mind wondering what it 
would be like to make love to this six-foot hulk of a man. I'm 
sure I would die if he knew what I was thinking, as I'm only four 
feet ten inches tall . . . 

. . . my fantasy finds me swimming in a pool, filled with 
champagne, along with two handsome men, one blond, one dark. 
I clamber out of the pool and lie on the table, while they massage 
me gently, but possessively, all over. The three of us dive back in, 
and I make love, right there in the champagne, to first one and 
then the other; tempestuously with the dark one, then languidly 
with the fair one . . . 

... I go to my doctor and find a gorgeous Doctor Kildare type 
instead of my usual doctor. He asks me to go behind a screen and 
undress. I do so, and when I'm down to my bra and panties he 
comes behind the screen, looks me up and down, and 
compliments me on my body. I am embarrassed at first, but 
afterward feel flattered. He asks me to undress completely. I do 
so. When he examines me with the stethoscope, he repeats how 
much he admires me. When he says he would like to make love 
to me I willingly agree. Then he undresses and we make love on 
the examination couch. Afterward I dress and leave as though I 
had just paid a normal visit to the doctor. My husband, of course, 


knows nothing of my little daydreams and our marriage is a 
happy one. . . 

. . . I'm lying on a low, large bed, wearing a long, bright red, 
see through, antique Roman toga that would suit my long blond 
hair. Near me are two pet snakes and a cat. Lounging about are 
eight tall, slim, long-haired men, wearing short roman togas, 
pure white. They serve me and talk to me on erotic topics. 
Meanwhile, another eight sexy guys, wearing purple or red 
bell-bottom velvet trousers, black belts and flowered shirts, are 
singing and dancing to the sound of stereophonic, psychedelic 
music. I can choose any of them at any time to make love to me. 
(I'm not underaged.) . . . 

. . . whoopee for those delightful dirty daydreams. I often dream 
about what sort of bed partners certain men would make, and my 
little mind went berserk recently when we had these lovely men 
installing a new central heating system. Our house may have 
been cold that week, but my thoughts kept me pretty hot . . . 

. . . when sex got a bit mundane, I found myself imagining one 
night that I was "Jane" in a jungle but being made love to. I 
screamed out "Tarzan!" and tore at my lover's hair. The fantasy 
ended miserably when some .of hubby's last strands came away 
in my hands . . . 

... I am being made love to in a huge, dimpled, whiskey 
bottle, hung from top to bottom in tiger skins. My lover is dressed 
as an executioner, with eyes glittering through his mask, and 
when he takes me, the tiger skins slither down to reveal my entire 
family gazing in shock, horror, and bewilderment. Please don't 
print my name or my family really will be shocked! . . . 


... I have only one romantic fantasy about men, and that is that 
I would love to walk out dressed to kill with my three children 
looking like TV model children. As I pass, every man looks at 
me and desires me, thinking how beautiful I keep myself for a 
woman with three children . . . 

. . . my fantasy always takes place on a deserted beach. I am 
taking an evening stroll when I meet my heart-throb. I have had 
this fantasy ever since I was a teen-ager. Of course, the 
heart-throb changes from time to time . . . 

. . . although I am over sixty, I am still a romantic at heart, and 
a very happily married woman. I must confess I often look at an 
attractive man at a social "do," or while waiting for the bus, and 
wonder what sort of partner he would make on a stolen weekend. 
I suspect not all the virile types make the best lovers! It is an 
exciting fantasy, and I'm thankful no one can read my thoughts, 
most of all my dear husband . . . 

... I'm tall, elegant, and intelligent. I am always at a masked 
ball where I am made love to by every man I desire. I never take 
off the mask. Of course, in reality I'm short, thin, not very 
intelligent, and middle-aged. But I'm happily married . . . 

. . . killing my daily traveling boredom, my mind always drifts 
to the jungle. Tarzan has me prisoner in his treetop home. He is 
wild, passionate, making love like the primitive man that he is. 
But how I enjoy every rough, clawing moment, so different from 
civilized delicacies. I've lost count of the times Tarzan has forced 
me to indulge in his animal sexual pleasures, but they keep 
getting better . . . 

I'm the seventh wife of Henry Tudor, 
Each night he comes to my boudoir. 


By day I am Olde Englande's Queen, 

But by night it's a different scene. 

There's love, there 's passion, and there's lust, 

On Saturdays an orgy's a must. 

I know I shan 't go to the Tower, 

For through my sex I have great power. 

Of all his wives from one to seven 
I only transport him to seventh heaven . 

... I am a divorcee and live alone, but am not ever lonely, even 
though I do not go out and about much. My "fantasy" lover is 
always with me day and night, and I find her very exciting. She 
is a "masculine" looking woman dressed in "drag" (men's dress). 
She is very sweet and she takes me out every Saturday and 
Sunday evening. She works in the Ambulance Services as a 
driver (senior). When we go to bed she is very gentle and 
understanding and a great lover - much better than a man. I 
would never exchange her for a man. Every time we have sex it is 
more exciting than the last time, and we manage to make love 
often (about twelve times per night - when I feel hot). Each 
action short, fast, but satisfying. Of course, this is just a fantasy 
or daydream, but the woman exists; however, not in my life 
(lucky devil who has her). I have only seen her in passing. I have 
been holding the "torch" for her for nearly six years now . . . 

. . . there's this giant centipede or prawn, or a cross between the 
two, crawling into me head first, my legs being really wide apart 
to accommodate him. As he crawls into me, his thousands of 
fuzzy legs fall off onto the sheets around me. He tickles and 
excites me as he undulates and wiggles from side to side getting 
further and further in, and he becomes drenched with my nectar, 
which he licks up and is strengthened by. He goes on up and up. 
This all takes hours as he is ten thousand feet long, but I like 
every inch of it . . . 


The next morning, happily exhausted, I begin the ritual of 
carefully gathering up the thousands of orange fuzzy legs that 
surround me, and take them in a wicker basket to the kitchen. 
There I dump them into my blue enamel jam making pot, and 
add sugar, orange peel, lemon, nutmeg, banana peel scrapings, 
and a bit of hash when available (very optional). At the hard-ball, 
or so-called crack stage of cooling, I pour the orange mass into 
penis-shaped molds (can be bought in your nearest sex shop), 
and allow them to cool and harden. To be sucked later when 
desired, but I usually give mine away to my friends, as the 
penis-shaped mold itself is far more satisfying and I share him 
with no one. You'd be surprised how many of my friends drop by 
for their sucks. 

As you can tell, these aren't things I really think about while 
fucking. They're not even masturbatory fantasies, just the kind of 
idle daydreams I have after a bath, while I'm lying down for an 
hour or so, half asleep, half awake, waiting until it's time to get 
dressed and go out for the evening . . . 

. . . once every three or four months my husband trims off all 
my pubic hairs. He first uses scissors and then a small lady's 
electric razor. I always like him to be naked when he performs 
this task. Throughout the exercise I hold his penis in my hand, 
and with gentle movement insure he maintains an erection. When 
I know he is nearly finished, I can feel in my mind a mounting 
impression of wanting to turn his penis like the throttle of a 
motorbike to make the noise of the shaver louder. This gets me so 
aroused that I almost climax, and so I turn the throttle even more 
to increase the noise of the motorbike in order that my husband 
will not be overwhelmed by my cries of passion . . . 

. . . showering together, we occasionally have intercourse 
standing face to face. I like to lean back and watch as he puts just 
the tip of his penis into me. Then, as the water cascades down 


between our bodies, I imagine that I can feel an enormous 
quantity of his semen flowing out of the shower and into my 
stomach and pubic area. It heightens my sensations so much that 
I actually feel he is pumping gallons of semen into me and I 
always have a prolonged orgasm, even without there being any 
mutual motion between our bodies. I only experience this fantasy 
when he holds just the head of his penis inside me. I have to be 
able to look down and see some part of his penis between our 
bodies ... if he is in too far and I can't see it, I can't have the 
fantasy . . . 

. . . having sex with two men who are going down on me 
simultaneously. Or having sex with the television on inspires the 
fantasy that the TV performers are watching. Or masturbating in 
front of a crowd and turning them all on. Or fantasy of reaching 
down a man's pants on a crowded bus and masturbating him. Or 
being raped by a strong, handsome stranger, with constant 
profanity: "My cock is in your cunt and it's on fire," "I want to 
come all over you, in your eyes and your ass, etc.," plus assorted 
"Fuck me's." ... 




by Martin Shepard, M.D., 

author of The Games Analysts Play 
and A Psychiatrist's Head 


Frequently when we condemn, criticize, poke fun at or 
derogate traits in others, we are refusing to accept the same traits 
in ourselves. "I can't stand her being so dependent" often means 
"I'm ashamed of my own dependent feelings." "I think his 
rudeness is terrible" can be translated as "I won't accept my own 
rude moments." Similarly. "I think her fantasies are the products 
of a diseased mind" means "I would never allow such thoughts to 
enter my mind - for if I did I would be either sick or disgusting." 

On the other hand, deepest contentment occurs at those 
moments when we are fully accepting of ourselves. At such times 
we respect our actions, feelings, bodies, thoughts. Failure to 
accept any of these aspects of ourselves is synonymous with 

One of the highest states of consciousness attainable is that of 
the nonjudgmental observer. In such a state, freed from the 


distortions of needs and value judgments ("If a pickpocket sees a 
Holy Man he will see only his pockets"),* he will begin to see 
WHAT IS, both in the world about him and within himself. 
Gurdjieff, the Russian philosopher-mystic, tried to teach people 
to develop "the Witness" within themselves. "The Witness" could 
detach itself and non-judgmentally witness and thereby accept 
both inner and outer events. Zen Masters and Yogis try to teach a 
similar acceptance to their students. All of these thinkers 
appreciate the fact that you don't think your thoughts, but rather 
that your thoughts think through you. They recognize that you are 
no more responsible for thinking than you are for digestion, 
breathing, for life itself. You may bear a certain degree of 
responsibility for what you do with your thoughts, but you 
certainly bear none for having them. 

My Secret Garden is a compilation of uncensored data on 
women's most secret sexual thoughts. This is something that has 
not been done in our time. As a psychiatrist who has listened to 
such fantasies before, I consider it an honest accounting. It is also 
a useful book, for it can help other women witness and accept 
their fantasies and themselves. And yet I am certain that many 
people in our society will attack this work. They will do so by 
attempting to ignore it, condemn it, ban it, laugh at it, 
intellectually dismiss it, or psychoanalyze it. In doing so such 
critics will only reinforce their own and others' self alienation. 

The attacks on My Secret Garden will come from three 
directions. The most primitive charge will be that the women Ms. 
Friday interviewed are tortured or abnormal in some way and 
don't represent the average woman. The second and more 
sophisticated attack will be the intellectual/psychoanalytic 
approach, which will attempt to demonstrate why certain 
fantasies are not "healthy." Lastly there is the attack to be waged 
by the anti-Eros forces - those who regard such a frank sexual 
discussion as this work as either pornography or perversity. Both 

* Had DassBaba 


the nature of these lines of attack and the bankruptcy of such 
charges are themes I would like to explore more fully. 

1. The Women Interviewed 
Are not Representative * 

It might be argued that Ms. Friday's respondees were not 
representative of the average woman; that those who would talk 
about their fantasies are by nature exhibitionists or sexually 
preoccupied; that only the most "sensationalistic" fantasies found 
their way into print; that the sampling leaves out women who 
don't fantasize and therefore gives a misleading picture of female 

There are two basic troubles with this argument. The first 
concerns the impossibility of obtaining a representative sampling 
in any study about anything. Indeed, there is as axiom in physics 
- the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle - that recognizes that the 
very act of measuring distorts that which you are observing. And 
what is true of atomic particles is even more true of 
measurements in the field of human events. 

Freud, for example, wrote books about the development of the 
psyche. Yet his samplings consisted not of "average people" but 
of patients he treated. Studies are presented of marital problems - 
and yet such studies, by their nature, omit marriages that don't 
have such problems. Still, the observations such works contain 
have a certain relevance for us all. Given the heterogeneous 
cultures of England and America - black/white, rich/poor, 
educated/uncultured, urban/rural, Christian/Jew, old/ young - 
only a massive computer program could dare begin to claim a 

* The 400-odd biographies and descriptions of the women do seem rather " average." No social 
or economic groups predominate. M s. Friday has gotten a balanced sampling with the one 
exception that her subjects admit that they fantasize. 


"representative sampling." And even then, the question arises of 
the biases of those persons who program the computer. 

The second weakness of the argument that the "average 
woman" won't find herself in this book is that there is no such 
person. The "average woman" is an abstraction, a statistical 
fiction, not a reality. She has 2.3 children, had 11.6 years of 
formal education, married when she was twenty-one years three 
months and two days of age, is now thirty-two and a half years 
old, has intercourse 2.7 times per week, and will die at age 67. 

Charges, then, that Nancy Friday's interviewees are 
unrepresentative are misstated. One should ask, instead, "Can a 
reasonable woman find fantasies within this book that she can 
relate to?" And here, I think, the answer must be "Yes." In my 
roles as therapist/husband/social being/ lover, I have heard 
similar tales told by "ordinary" people. Dr. Seymour Fisher, 
author of The Female Orgasm, a book based on a more scientific 
study than Ms. Friday undertook, has found the same 
predominating themes in the fantasies his respondents reported. 
Not only that, but he found no correlation between any given 
fantasy and the life style, education, orgasticity, sickness, health 
or any other life function of his respondents. 

2. It's Not Healthy 

For all its liberating value, psychoanalytic thinking is also 
used (misused, in my opinion) in the service of containing and/or 
negating a healthy eroticism. I am sure some misapplied 
criticisms of this book will also come from this direction. 

Yet how could it be any other way? For Freud, like all great 
teachers, taught best to others that which he had to learn himself. 
The essence of his message was that our sexual urges are our 
prime motivaters and that this is how it should be. He taught that 


sexual appetites and curiosities are okay. Indeed, his life work 
revolved about and satisfied his own exquisite sexual curiosity. 

Still, as long as a message is being preached, you may be sure 
that the preacher has not yet mastered it himself. And such was 
the case with Freud. He showed a remarkable patience 
(inhibition?) in losing his own virginity (after he married at age 
thirty) and, as far as his biographers knew, ceased further sexual 
activity somewhat over ten years later. 

Freud's ambivalent attitude about his own sexuality was 
naturally reflected both in his own life and theories and by his 
disciples. He paid homage to the immense motivating power of 
lust, yet seemingly blunted his own. He preached that the sexual 
appetite (Id) was natural, yet worked at fortifying the barrier 
(Ego) between lust and gratification. For he cautioned against 
abandoning oneself to one's pleasurable impulses ("acting out," 
as he called it) and preferred, instead, to analyze these forces. 
Why expect more? For a Viennese intellectual with a seductive 
mother, mind games might be more stimulating and less 
anxiety-producing than the mindless pleasures of the body. 

Among his followers the story is not much different. Few 
analysts live what they teach. How many openly sexy 
psychiatrists have you seen lately? How many Freudian analysts 
would even dare to give a patient a warm embrace? How can one 
truly teach that Eros is okay if one is afraid to be erotic? 

Still, analytic arguments (by sophisticated lay people as well 
as professionals) will be used to derogate and invalidate many of 
the fantasies expressed in this book. We will be told that it is 
unhealthy to fantasize. Or that fantasy is a substitute for reality; 
that if there is "real satisfaction," there is no "need" for fantasy. 

Yet the term psycho-analysis means nothing more than an 
analysis of psychological material, as presented in word or deed. 
We can just as fairly psychoanalyze these analytically critical 


The question ought to be raised: Who are these arbiters of 
what constitutes "health" or "real satisfaction'"? Are the 
analyst's pleasures the only "healthy" ones? It he doesn't 
fantasize and you do, does that make him healthy and you sick? I 
would prefer simply to say that you are just different. "Real 
satisfaction" for one person is not necessarily "real satisfaction" 
for another. It takes a person of overwhelming conceit and 
arrogance to determine what "true pleasure" or "right pleasure" 
ought to be for others. 

How can a critic state that fantasy is a substitute for reality? 
Isn't a fantasy as real as anything else? It is as real a thought as 
are the thoughts and words that the critic uses to dismiss it. And 
if the critic tells you that he, with his "real" or "healthy" 
satisfactions, has no "need" to fantasize, who is to determine 
whether it is the critic's inhibitions that prevent his adding 
pleasurable fantasy to his current pleasures or your "inferior" 
pleasures that cause you to fantasize? 

This is a question for gods to answer, not men, and necessarily 
remains unanswerable. My point in raising it is to underscore the 
arbitrariness and the gamesmanship involved when dealing with 
the more intellectually oriented critics. 

More traditional analytic remarks are bound to revolve around 
the theme of submission that runs through so many of the 
fantasies presented in this book. We will be told that these are 
examples of "masochism" - a label that conjures up images of 
mental illness or perversion. What of that charge? Is a woman 
who fantasizes being dominated, tied up, or forced to submit 
showing signs of mental disturbance? Does it "truly mean" 
(whatever that means) that she desires pain with her pleasure? Or 
that she needs pain in order to feel pleasure? 

Writing in the journal Medical Aspects of Human Sexuality, a 
California psychologist, Dr. Andrew Barclay, reports a similar 
theme of so-called masochistic "I - am - being - exploited - 
during - intercourse" fantasies among women. But Barclay 


makes a less hackneyed interpretation of this phenomenon. He 
suggests that such fantasies serve the purpose of providing 
reassurance to the woman that she is being passive rather than 
aggressive sexually - thereby conforming to our cultural sexual 

I could suggest another interpretation of this submissive 
theme. Many women in their childhood have been strongly 
conditioned to say "No" to sex. They have been taught that the act 
is exploitative, naughty, indecent. To them, willingly to enter into 
such a lustful exchange with total commitment and abandon is 
not acceptable. But if someone else, by force, assumes total 
responsibility for the love-making by forcing them into it, they 
can finally lie back and enjoy it. 

Neither Barclays nor my "non-pathological" interpretation of 
this submissive element is more correct than the traditional 
pathologically oriented psychoanalytic one. But I do affirm that 
they are equally plausible. Besides which, it is important to bear 
in mind that psychoanalysts, by vocation, are trained to seek 
pathology everywhere. To paraphrase Hari Dass Baba: "If an 
analyst meets a Holy Man, he will see only his Oedipus 

The same reasoning applies to the other side of the submission 
coin: that of the dominator. Does a domineering fantasy mean 
that the dreamer has it in for men? That she wishes to humiliate, 
control, enslave, or torture them? Is it a sign of unresolved 

Might it not just as logically be an attempt to mentally try on 
exaggerated cultural male stereotypes? Or a declaration of her 
own passionate sexual desire ("I am so horny I must capture and 
hold my frightened, reluctant stud"), or a way of affirming her 
responsibility for initiating the sex act ("I forced him into it")? 

An analytically oriented critic could have a field day "proving" 
abnormality in the case of Stephanie (Chapter Four, Seeing and 
Reading), what with her preoccupation with tribal sexual 


punishments, Nazi tortures and sexual organ mutilations. And 
perhaps such is the case. Yet, if the critic accepts the reality of 
Stephanie's fantasy, can he fairly omit or negate the reality of her 
statement that "although I might be a perverted sadist down deep, 
it doesn't seem to show in my daily life; in fact I am a gentle 
person, so I could afford to laugh, feeling secure in the fact that I 
have disciplined this part of myself"? 

So again we have these unanswerable questions. Is a gentle 
woman who has sadistic fantasies disturbed? Might it not be 
nature's wisdom to enable her to handle and discharge negative 
feelings in dreams and fantasies instead of doing so in her 
interpersonal relationships? Would she be "healthier" if she were 
nastier in person and had less violent fantasies? 

I contend that analytic criticisms of these fantasies do a great 
disservice to people. By declaring certain fantasies "No-No's" 
they reinforce self-rejection. (Your fantasy is as much you as any 
other part of you.) This is the direct opposite of the therapeutic 
goal. What is wrong with thoughts which improve one's sex life? 
The true masochist is one who avoids thinking "masochistic 
thoughts" once she has discovered, by accident or design, that 
such thoughts excite her. 

There are additional factors to bear in mind in evaluating 
analytically oriented criticisms of these fantasies. One concerns 
the fact that psychoanalytic theory has been, by and large, 
formulated by males. Freud, Sullivan, Adler, Jung, Reich . . . 
became the arbiters and interpreters of what woman's "normal" 
sexual response should be. Yet, not being women, how could 
they possibly know on a cellular level what they were talking 
about? Is it really likely that these men were any more 
appreciative of what a "normal woman" might dare think than 
were the lover and former editor whom Nancy Friday mentioned 
in her opening chapter? 

Another difficulty in interpreting these fantasies analytically is 
that the very act of analysis - of labeling ("Sadist, Masochist, 


Castrator, Oedipal, Self-destructive, Exhibitionistic") - creates a 
self-consciousness that is antithetical to the sexual mystique. One 
of the effects of sex is the self-transcendence that can be obtained 
by losing one's "self" - one's ego - in an act of embrace. To be 
conscious of self (self-conscious) and transcend self at the same 
time is an impossibility. Pity the bind that so many analysands 
are in who seek sexual freedom while being prodded by their 
analysts to be suspicious of and act analytically toward their 
erotic impulses. 

The only "labeling" process that has impressed me in recent 
years came from a woman I met who only recently began 
enjoying her life. Painfully self-conscious during her first 
thirty-eight years, she woke up one day "and decided to stop 
criticizing myself. I resolved, instead, to label everything I do as 
"good. ' Since then I've been doing exactly what I want to do and 
enjoying every minute of it." Self-conscious female fantasizers 
have more to learn from this woman's labeling process than from 
many of the followers of Sigmund Freud. 

The greatest weakness in analytical evaluations of these 
fantasies, however, is that such intellectual dissections represent 
a rational approach to what is essentially an irrational process. 
For fantasies, like dreams, arise from the twilight zone of ancient 
experiences, future expectations, social conditioning, unfinished 
business, and complex biological and biochemical processes. The 
separation of these elements is possible if one recognizes that we 
make these evaluations as an intellectual challenge - much as 
one can find satisfaction in solving a crossword puzzle. But to 
suggest that such evaluations yield "truth" is either pretense or 


3. My SecretGarden Is Nothing More than 
Thinly Disguised Pornography 

Paul Krassner, in his satirical newspaper The Realist, once 
wrote a story about a pornography case appearing before the 
Supreme Court. If the Justices got erections while reading the 
material, it was declared pornographic. This raised a very ticklish 
question. Might the Court next be asked to rule on whether or not 
Vaseline was pornographic? 

Krassner's exaggeration was funny. Yet the reality of the 
situation is apparent. Society often considers that which turns you 
on to be wrong. Unless there is a "redeeming social function," 
such turn-ons are seen to be a threat to the morality or the fabric 
of our society. 

As I write this I find myself in somewhat of a box. I do think 
that My Secret Garden performs a useful service in that this open 
sharing of various sexual fantasies might allow many readers to 
accept, without shame, guilt, or anxiety, various fantasies of their 
own. Yet, even if that were not the case - even if every purchaser 
of this book bought it solely to be sexually turned on - I would 
also say, "Well and good." 

What is wrong with healthy erotic responses? Why should 
anyone have to justify a desire to "turn on"? If you believe in the 
right to turn on to your own fantasies, don't you also have the 
right to turn on to the fantasies of others? Is turning on some evil 
that requires a "redeeming social function" to justify it? I see 
more moral harm being done, not by the authors or publishers of 
"sexy" material, but by those censors and critics who attempt to 
foist and enforce their values upon others. 

Bernardo Bertolucci, defending his film Last Tango in Paris 
against charges of pornography, put it well when he said, 
"Pornography is not in the hands of the child who discovers his 
sexuality by masturbating, but in the hands of the adult who slaps 


The demand for a "redeeming" aspect of frankly sexual 
material puts those who would simply enjoy erotic pleasures on 
the defensive. For we then have to justify that which should be 
our birthright. We are told that an absence of erotic censorship 
would lead to social add cultural decay. But if that is so, why is it 
that so many members of our cultural aristocracy can and do 
respond to unadulterated erotic material? 

The current craze over the movie Deep Throat, which consists 
of a thin story line to account for endless scenes of fellatio, 
underscores not only the absurdity of our anti-erotic critics but the 
absurd conditions that those who enjoy the film must also endure. 
Throat is an "in" film to see, and as such has been reviewed and 
commented upon by serious critics. Doctors, lawyers, members of 
Mayor Lindsay's administration, jet setters, and businessmen 
have been turning on to this movie for months. Yet they still 
remain productive members of society. And how do they justify 
their attendance at Throat? By pretending that the film is making 
a serious social point - that it is commenting on the morals of the 
day and/or poking fun at our sexual foibles. Serious film critics 
have gone to court to make this very point. No one seems willing 
to be quoted outright as saying the simplest truth: "I went in 
order to turn on." 

Throughout Nancy Friday's commentary, the gentle message 
is: sent to accept these fantasies for what they are - poetic/erotic 
daydreams that provide enjoyment for the fantasizer. As a 
mental-health rule, such a message makes eminent sense. 

Also, Nancy Friday attributes to fantasy the functions of 
foreplay, excitement, and the allaying of anxiety - thereby 
allowing excitement to grow. Fantasies can also be used, as she 
points out, as a rehearsal - a situation worked through in 
imagination before one actually lives it out. It is also true that 
fantasy can be used as compensation for a most dreary existence 
or as an escape - a way of procrastinating or avoiding taking 
more affirmative action in the outer world. Monica (Chapter 


Three, The Transformation Room) is a case in point. Described 
as a short, messy-looking overweight nineteen-year-old who has 
toyed with the idea of suicide, Monica would rather fantasize 
herself as her beautiful sister than attend to prettying herself up. 

Yet, even here, one can say "Why not?" After all, what 
alternatives are left? You can't make someone else's fantasies 
disappear anyway. And even if you could, would that cause 
Monica to make herself more attractive? Or would robbing her of 
a precious daydream make her even more despondent and more 
unkempt? Rather than discouraging her fantasy, I world prefer to 
see her live it out. 

There are some types of fantasies that I've shared with others 
that have not found their way into print. This is no criticism of 
this book, for it does not claim to be a definitive encyclopedia of 
female sexual fantasies, but rather an attempt to show the range 
and variation of such material. One common fantasy left out is 
that in which the fantasizer thinks of herself as part of a machine, 
as an animal, as having the body of a man, as some creature from 
another world, as insect, or as God, or a part of the Buddha, or 
the petal on a lotus. 

Many fantasies of this type occur under the influence of 
psychedelic agents (marijuana, hashish, mescaline, psylocybin) 
and are accompanied by exquisite sexual pleasure. So "real" are 
these fantasies that one truly becomes them - is not aware 
enough of "self" to realize that a fantasy is occurring until after 
the orgasm, which is often explosive and felt, seemingly, in every 
cell of the body. 


While I feel quite strongly that the fantasizes ought to allow 
herself to accept, enjoy, and fully give herself over to her reverie, 
I also feel a word is in order lest non-fantasizers feel 
self-conscious over their lack of reverie. One should no more feel 
pressured to produce fantasies than be encouraged to avoid them. 

It is, for example, quite possible and quite "normal" to be 
totally free of fantasy while making love. There are states in 
which a man or a woman may be so lost in bodily sensations that 
not only are daydreams absent but such people could not tell you 
where or who they are at that moment. This is not to say that such 
sexual experiences are better or worse - merely that they are 

Finally, it is my belief that our interest in matters sexual - be it 
as critic or defender - is related to something far more basic and 
inclusive than deciding whether stimuli are "decently erotic," 
"pornographic," "perverse," "scientific," and so on. Whatever we 
are attracted by, we are always looking, exploring, thinking. 
These are the constants. 

And these three constants have to do, I think, with the never- 
ending, unsolvable, and therefore always intriguing questions of 
creation and ego transcendence. How is it that motion and 
friction upon a small part of the body can make people for a 
moment oblivious of themselves, can cause - what the French 
refer to the orgasm as - le petit mort (the little death)? 

If we are intrigued by the sexual appendages of the world, 
what could be more natural? We were all sired by an ejaculating 
penis, grew in the womb, passed through the vaginal vault, 
emerged between the labia, were nourished at a breast, and will 
most likely re-create again when we perform the rites of 
procreation ourselves. That the mysteries of life, death (ego 
transcendence), and intense pleasure are so closely linked with 


our sex organs is what, to my mind, makes these organs objects 
of perpetual curiosity. 

My Secret Garden allows an important aspect of this natural 
curiosity to emerge from a locked closet. The bigger "secret," 
however, remains.