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Hairy women are Beautiful...

... a guy who loves hairy women like I do, this really is heaven.
These women could in no way be described as beautiful in the usual sense but to me they really are beautiful in their ... ... Continue»
Posted by hairyladieslover 2 years ago  |  Categories: Anal, BDSM, Fetish  |  Views: 302  |  

Hairy women are Beautiful...

A good few miles where I live there is an all female f****y, the Mum Lynzi aged 35, Becki and Elaine both aged 18 and the twins Carly and Carla aged 16 (her husband and their late daddy had banned them all from shaving any body hair off and from EVER wearing underwear), who all live in an old Victorian house.
I found out all of this information because I had began talking to the nearest of these women as she was sitting next to my table, and I had noticed that the top she was wearing was sleeveless and very see-through, so much so that I could see her long armpit hair and the hairs on her tits & nipples and as she was wearing a micro mini skirt and sitting with her legs apart, I could easily see her hairy legs, thighs and very hairy pussy.
As I was talking to them I got the most amazing erection and had to keep adjusting myself because of the rate my erection was developing at and Elaine asked me what was making me so uncomfortable and I told her that I could see her pit, leg, thigh and pussy hair and it was just so in my face and turning me on something awful and she laughed so much that her top opened and both of her huge and extremely saggy tits fell out of her top and almost landed on the table top and she didn't make any attempt to cover them up, this made her laugh even more and her breasts just kept bouncing up and down and swinging to both sides off her chest.
At that point my prick tried to make a leap for freedom from my shorts and the other females in the group came to my table to see what the commotion was, and there was me with my prick poking out of the leg of my shorts and the five women gathered round me and insisted on walking me to my car and would not let me put my prick (which by now was standing at 45 degrees) back in my shorts but told me to leave it as it was until we got to their house.
We got into their mini-bus and made our way to their house which was a two minute drive from the store, when we got in the house the women pulled my shorts down my legs and off of me then they took off my tee shirt too, so there I was stark naked in the living room and I told them that this isn't fair me being nude and all of them still dressed and without a word they all undressed too which didn't take too long as I had already seen that they were all dressed the same (just like s****rs do) and were wearing the same type of see-through tops AND NO BRA and the same type of micro mini-skirts AND NO PANTIES, at this point my throbbing prick wasn't sticking out at 45 degree's any more it was standing straight up pointing to the sky and the main reason was the amount of body hair I could now plainly see all around me.
The girls (except the twins who had smaller tits) & their Mum had very large, saggy & really droopy, hairy tits and really long, hard and very hairy nipples.
ALL the girls had very hairy legs < from ankles to thighs >
very hairy 'pits < really long and thick >
very hairy pussies < with extremely thick, bushy and really long hair > which spread out sideways to their thighs and upwards over their belly's in a wonderful 'treasure trail' which were well up to and indeed past their belly buttons.
I asked them if they intended leaving me in my current aroused state at that instant Elaine, the female I had been talking to in the store took me by my now solid penis to a bedroom pushed me on to the bed and squatted down on to my face with her pussy's hairy bush smothering me as she deep throated me ( all of my 9" right down to my balls) in one smooth movement, I thought I was going to explode as she lowered her pussy even more and then I felt a wetness running down my face and I thought that she was cumming but no, she was peeing on me then she took her mouth off of my penis and screamed at me to swallow her pee so I started swallowing (which I had NEVER tried before ) like mad as she let go full flow and went back to deep throating me until I came really deep down her throat and then it wasn't just urine flooding my mouth as she came too.
We went back into the living room, still naked with me soaking wet and her with some of my cum still in and on her mouth and face.
Carly told Elaine that she could clean her face with her and Carla's hairy bushes so she did and I started to get an erection again, after all I'm a normal horny guy, the upshot of this episode was that the women asked me to move in with them as I was just what they were looking for, me being such a dominant guy and all of them being so submissive so I said OK but I have conditions, which they readily agreed to;
You must ALWAYS be naked in the house,
You must NEVER sit/stand with your legs together,
When you are sitting you must always sit barefoot with the soles of your feet flat together,
You must also make sure you lift your skirt up at the back and sit on your bare arse,
You must NEVER shave ANY hair, from ANY WHERE,
When we are out in public you must ALWAYS bend OVER, and NOT bend DOWN for whatever reason,
If your skirt blows up in the wind or your blouse opens up, LEAVE IT,
I can punish you any way I want whether you have misbehaved or not,
You do not wash unless I tell you to,
You do not pee, shit or cum unless I tell you to and if you do need wiped, DO NOT EVER WIPE YOURSELF CLEAN.
If I want you clean I WILL CLEAN YOU,
YES they all said, we agree to everything...
What happens from then on is for a further addition to this story, SO KEEP WATCHING...... Continue»
Posted by hairyladieslover 2 years ago  |  Categories: Anal, BDSM, Fetish  |  Views: 405  |  
  |  2

White Women are Goddesses

My name is Eloise Jenkins and I'm a young woman living in the city of Brockton, Massachusetts. I'm around five-foot-ten, kind of plump, with red hair, green eyes and alabaster skin. I'm an Irish-American lesbian and I'm also a BDSM fanatic. By nature, I am submissive. My Mistress Kendra Jones taught me all I know. She's a six-foot-three, curvy and big-bottomed, dark-skinned Black woman I met at Saint Marcus College ages aso. She's an award-winning fiction author and a professor of African-American Literature at one of Massachusetts top schools. I was her most devoted student, in more ways than one. I worship my Mistress just like a good slave should. Lots of young white women who are gay or bisexual are deeply submissive. And we have a thing for bossy exotic women, especially Black women and Hispanic women. The lesbian BDSM scene is really diverse and quite fun.Recently, my Mistress came to me with a strange request. Mistress Kendra Jones told me that she had some submissive fantasies that she wanted to explore. I was stunned. Mistress Kendra doesn't strike me as the kind of woman with a single submissive bone in her body. She's tall, strong and beautiful. And she is good at domination. She dominated the hell out of me. This tall and sexy, butch Black woman. I remember kneeling before her and sucking her toes. I remember her pulling my hair and smacking me. Prying my legs open and fisting me deep in my pussy while smacking my tits. Oh, and let's not forget her strap-on dildo. She would bend me over and spank my white ass until it turned red before donning her strap-on dildo and fucking me with it roughly. She loved drilling my pussy with her dildos. And not just my pussy. One time, she shoved a dildo up my ass while fisting my pussy. Did I mention that I was tied up and spread-eagled on a table at the time? Yeah, I was. And I absolutely delighted in how she handled me. I'm the submissive and she's my Mistress. Now my Mistress admitted to having submissive tendencies. This severely alters our dynamic. If the Mistress wants to submit, then what does the submissive do? I knew the answer the moment I asked myself the question. If the Mistress submits, then the submissive must dominate. I smiled at Kendra Jones and agreed to be her Mistress to help her explore her submissive side. She smiled and thanked me.Thus, Kendra Jones and I began our journey together. White Mistress and Black Bitch instead of Black Mistress and White Bitch. How awkward. I started things light. I wanted to let Kendra Jones get used to being submissive. So I bought her a Black and white maid's uniform and asked her to wear it while we were alone in my house. Kendra was hesitant. The strong Black woman wasn't too keen on that. I smiled at Kendra and gently kissed her forehead, then I e explained to her that she was now the submissive and I was the Mistress. She had to do as I said. Kendra nodded, and put on the uniform. Oh, man. She looked really sexy in the Black and white maid's uniform. Her big ass looked really shapely in it too. I sat on my couch and watched her as she cooked and cleaned for me. And when she was done, I praised her. I rewarded her by spreading my legs and letting her lick me out. Kendra once again hesitated. I stared at her, shaking my head. I told her to kneel before me and she bristled at my tone. I smiled and told her to simply lick my pussy. Swallowing hard, Kendra did as she was told. I got such a sexual thrill at the sight of my former Mistress, a strong Black woman, kneeling before me, a chubby white chick. I almost came I swear. Kendra began licking and fingering my pussy. Mere days ago I used to kneel before her and eat her out. Now she was doing it for me. How times have changed.Kendra Jones was an excellent pussy licker. I praised her skills. Afterwards, we sat down and discussed what we had done together. Kendra was a little shaken by what she had done. Years ago when I first submitted to her, she used to berate me and call me a silly white slut. She used to say that silly white sluts belonged on their knees and were made to serve strong Black women. A really mean part of me wanted to give her a taste of her own medicine. I wanted to tell her that silly Black sluts belonged on their knees and were made to serve strong white women. However, that would be wrong of me. Besides, Kendra isn't just a sexy Black chick to me. I care about her, believe it or not. A long time ago, all I wanted was her love. And I thought I would get it if I obeyed her and tried to make her happy. Unfortunately, she could never see past my skin tone and middle-class background. All she saw was a silly white slut in need of domination at the hands of a strong Black woman. I decided to be a better Mistress to her than she was to me. I told her that there was no shame in exploring her submissive side. I also reassured her by telling her that submitting to me did not diminish her standing as a strong Black woman in my eyes. Kendra looked at me adoringly and smiled. Gosh I wanted to kiss her. However, I couldn't. She was too arrogant and bossy. I needed to put her through hell to save her from herself. Even though I loved her.The next time we met, I had Kendra strip naked before me and inspected her body. I was really critical of her big tits, wide hips and big Black ass. Now, I love curvy Black women. I really do. However, in order to remake Kendra I had to break her down. I grabbed a picture of a magazine and showed her a skinny blonde. I told her that chick was the ideal of beauty. Kendra swallowed hard and nodded. Now, it hurt me to say that. I would pick a curvy Black woman over a skinny blonde any day. Believe that. However, I've got to break down Kendra's mental fortitude in order to truly transform her into a submissive. It's not just a physical process. There's more to it than whips and chains and dungeons. It's a mental process as well. I had to dominate her physically as well as mentally. And so I did what I had to. I told her that in order to fix her, I would need to put her through some tough work. She agreed. I made her do yard work for me while wearing a bikini. Luckily there were high fences around my house. Kendra looked so sexy mowing my lawn in a bikini that I wanted to pull her into my arms and make love to her. However, I couldn't do that. I had to follow the script and be her Mistress and make her my submissive. I f***ed down the warm feelings of love I had for her and adopted a steely, stern demeanor. It wasn't easy but I did it.When Kendra Jones finished mowing the lawn, I inspected her work. Truly she did a splendid job but I had to criticize her. I told her she did an awful job and she looked crestfallen. My heart ached when I saw that look on her face but I steeled myself against it. Next, I told her that working in the sun all day made her sweaty and smelly. Kendra stared at me, mouth agape. I smiled nastily and told her that she smelled nasty. She protested. I laughed and then I took her to the washroom and hosed her. My way of cleaning her up. That seemed to really affect her. Kendra promised me that she would do a good job working for me and that she'd be clean about it too. I smiled and rubbed her head in a very patronizing way. I knew I was wearing her down. She didn't call me Eloise anymore. She simply called me Mistress. Kendra Jones the strong Black woman who moonlighted as a dominatrix was fading away. Kendra Jones the meek-eyed submissive was taking hold. And I loved that transformation in her.I continued to push her further. She got used to wearing the Black and white maid's uniform. One day, I invited some white female friends at my house and told them Kendra Jones was my maid. And for the entire evening, Kendra Jones quietly served us tea and crackers, and went about her duties just like a real maid would. None of my friends ever suspected that Kendra Jones was anything more than a maid. They had no idea that she was a graduate of Spelman College and Howard University. A gorgeous, intelligent, educated and accomplished Black woman. I was both pleased and disturbed by how quickly Kendra Jones had changed. After my friends left, I made her kneel before me and lick my pussy. This time she didn't even hesitate. I called her names while she lapped away at my pussy and even berated her but she didn't even react. Just continued licking my pussy like there was no tomorrow. I noted with satisfaction that the fire was mostly gone from Kendra Jones eyes. She was becoming a true submissive. Good. We're making progress. One day, I decided to take Kendra Jones to the final frontier. I decided to fuck her with a strap-on dildo. One day, Kendra was going about her duties when she accidentally spilled juice on my kitchen floor. I got really mad on purpose and decided to punish her. Kendra started mumbling an apology. I wouldn't hear of it. I smacked her hard across the face. Kendra's eyes blazed. I gasped. For a moment, I thought I had gone too far. Instead of rushing me, Kendra started crying. Actual tears. I couldn't believe it. I smiled and told her to clean the floor. She went to get a rag but I took the rag from her. I told her to clean the floor with her tongue. Amazingly, she obeyed. I watched this big and tall Black woman licking up fallen juice on my kitchen floor. Mere days before our situations were reversed and I was the submissive white chick in awe of the Black goddess, completely dominated by the strong Black woman. Now she was completely submissive to me. Smiling, I caressed Kendra's big Black ass and told her to get naked. She did. I admired her big sexy ass. Hot damn she looked great. I fetched my strap-on dildo and told her I was going to fuck her with it. Kendra's eyes went wide. This was truly the last frontier for her. I couldn't quit now. So I smacked her big ass and told her to assume the position. Amazingly, she obeyed. Face down and ass up. I smiled wickedly. Then I pressed my dildo against her pussy lips and pushed it inside. This was Kendra's first time getting penetrated. She once told me that she'd never been with a man and she never let women shove dildos inside of her. She liked to be the one penetrating her women, not the other way around. Well, I guess there's a first time for everything. Time for this big and tall Black Amazon to submit completely to her chubby white Mistress.I gripped Kendra's wide hips and thrust the dildo deep into her pussy. She squealed as she officially lost her virginity to me. I smacked her big Black ass, loving the way it jiggled under the f***e of my thrusts. I grabbed a handful of Kendra's long Black hair and pulled it. She yelped. And the most amazing thing happened. Kendra's hair or at least a large chunk of it came off since it was a weave. And not a very good one either. I laughed so hard I almost pissed myself. Why do so many Black women like to wear fake hair? Kendra's own natural hair, which was kind of short, looked really nice. Short hair looks good on many women of all races. Why leave what's real and opt for what's fake? I guess I'll never know. I fucked Kendra's pussy hard. It was fun. And I could she liked it. The bitch enjoyed what I did to her. However, nothing can make a strong woman feel dominated the way a dildo up her ass can. It's the ultimate thing. So I spread Kendra's ass cheeks wide open and rubbed my dildo against her asshole. The big and tall Black woman tensed. I leaned close to her face and whispered that I was going to fuck her in the ass. I could feel her trembling. Smiling, I rubbed her big round ass before pushing the dildo into her asshole. Kendra groaned as my dildo slipped into her asshole. I smacked her big ass and pushed the dildo deep into her booty hole. It was my second time taking her virginity that day. This butch Black woman had never been anally penetrated before. I gripped her hips and pushed the dildo deeper into her asshole. Down where the sun didn't shine. Kendra howled as I fucked her in the ass. Her screams were music to my ears. I smacked her ass hard while fucking her. I wanted to make her pay for having such a big sexy ass and for dominating me for so long. If I knew dominating her would be this sweet, I would have done it a long time ago. I plunged the dildo deep into her asshole, making her squeal. I berated her while fucking her. Face down and ass up, she took everything I dished out at her. Like a good submissive slut.After fucking Kendra's asshole with my strap-on dildo, I ordered her to kneel before me. The tall and sexy Black Amazon knelt before me, her dominant white Mistress. She licked my dildo clean, without a doubt tasting her ass on it. I smiled and rubbed her head while she cleaned my dildo. Afterwards, I took her to the washroom for a good clean up session. Then we went back to my living room. I grabbed my favorite Zane novel, and busied myself reading some really hot urban stories. Meanwhile, Kendra lay on the floor and I rested my feet upon her broad back. I love what she's become. She's gone from a stern, bossy and domineering Black Mistress to a delightfully submissive Black slut whose only wish is making her white Mistress happy. The new dynamic suits me greatly, and it suits her as well. After a while, I decided to make it a permanent thing and of course Kendra had no objections. She quit her job at the school and moved in with me. Now she cooks my meals, cleans my house and sl**ps in my bed. Taking care of all my needs. It's what makes her happy. I'm her Mistress and she brings order and purpose into her life. We're happy together.

This is not my story its from
... Continue»
Posted by kellyrows 1 year ago  |  Categories: BDSM, Interracial Sex, Lesbian Sex  |  Views: 861  |  
  |  1

Women are as bad as men

First please pop along to my photos as I have just uploaded some from summer and some from last night.
The reason I suggest you do, will give you an image as to what transpired that day. I have more photos of the man in question, and his actions.
I sailed out to one of the many small islands in the Baltic and was left there to be picked-up later that evening.
The small islands are a great retreat if you like to be alone as there are thousands to land on, sometimes you have one to yourself.
However the one I chose, for safety reasons, was large enough for privacy, but had families there and moored boats, tied to rocks on the shore.
I get a knot in my stomoch each time I land on one of these rocky outcrops, its a feeling of the unknown and that something might transpire, the unexpected and the daring do of a woman on the prowl.
One of the photos shows shows me in a small pocket sandy section, where I am naked and about to enter the water. What the camera does not show is a man off to my right, he is nude also, so I dare not point the camera directly at him, however he is watching me and I am giving him the full side on view and looking directly at him.
His cock is up, that I can see and its obvious to him it does not bother me.
As I stare him down he suddenly reaches for a towel and covers himself and a noise to my left idicates the reason why, a couple of teenage boys are making their way across to us ad discretely decide to venture into the cold water of the Baltic.
The boys are drinking beer and stop directly opposite me and start talking and one notices my camera beside my discarded clothes. 'Shall I take your photo?' he calls out, I am some 3 to 5m away from the shoreline, and without waiting for my reply, picks up my camera and takes the photo, which is also posted here, the one of me in the water.
I think the boys are a little d***k and not used to drinking especially outdoors in full sun. One reaches into his plastic bag and pulls a beer off its plastic ring and offers it to me. I call back for him to leave it beside my clothes, which he does, right on top of my skimpy knickers and I can see him lift them for his friend to view.
They are young, being imature and excitable, enboldened by the alcohol the one with my knickers tosses them to his friend who sniffs the crotch and thrusts them down his shorts, where they nestle snuggly beside his cock.
I close the distance to them by a couple of meters, where I can now talk with normal levels and tell them to behave and put my panties back. I am smilling as I talk and both boys are clearly excited with the encounter as the bulges they are now sporting, confirms they are up for it.
I slowly emerge from the water, aware the image I am now casting is having a deafning effect on both of them. They dont speak, just stare and gulp nervously on their beers. I stand tall, raise my arms to tie back my hair, causing my breasts to lift, this coupled with my nipples erect and rubbery from the ice cold water, is doing what I love doing, being an exhibitionist, a tease, a preditor and a fucker of men.
I had them both transfixed and as I moved closer I was sure they could smell my scent coming from my hot pussy. Walking over to my clothes I stooped down to lift the beer, slowly and deliberately, giving both enough time to savour the curve of my vagina as it dissapears from my ass curving into my thighs.
This is a pose, well rehersed in front of a mirror, a pose that displays a womans sex organ to its full extent, one favoured by older men as it shows the ass in combination, open, vurnable, and inviting.
Carlsberg Elephant Beer 7.2, 'Wow strong shit guys' I say, 'Trying to get me pissed?' I smile a smile that is wide and open, exhibiting a relaxed easy going woman comfortable with her environment and the two boys, she now confronts.
I sit, bare-assed and a rock, 'Ouch that is fucking hot' I say and jump back up. They both laughed nervously and I hold out my hand to the guy with my knickers stuffed down his crotch, 'Can I have my knickers back, please?' He reaches inside his shorts and pulls them out, tosses them to me and they land at my feet. I stoop down, pick them up and press them to my nose. 'Mmmmmmm you smell nice,' I say, and we all burst into laughter.
I put my shorts on the hot rock and sit down facing them both, take another long draw on the beer, burp, more laughter and ask for another beer.
I look over my two new friends from my vantage point, which is higher than them, as they are sitting on the sand. I raise my eyes further across to the guy lying on the beach further down and he is looking across intently. 'Do you know him' one inquires, 'No,' I replied, 'He was there when I arrived, I think he thought we were going to fuck, before you guys came'
I studied their faces as I said it, paying particular emphasis on the work Fuck, it appeared to shock them and I was happy, I was in control and leading the conversation in the direction I wanted.
I raised the beer can to my lips, straightening my back so my breasts could jutt out more, and as I swallowed I let my thighs open wider to expose my vagina to the full gaze.
As I lowered the can, both of them were transfixed with my exposed pussy, I smiled broadly and said, 'Boys you never seen a womans cunt before?' 'Not as beautiful and open as that, one said. 'Come here' I ordered, and he came across and knelt in front of me. I took his hand, turned his fingers and placed it between my legs, drawing it slowly backwards and forwards, his fingers tracing a moist streak along the length of my hot vagina. 'Keep doing it' I rasped between gritted teeth, I was being masturbated tenderly and lovenly by a beautiful young teen boy, I felt no shame only desire and a stong need to orgasm.
'Take your shorts off' I ordered the other one, 'Lie on your back and hold your cock upright'. He did as I demanded, I rose and slid down his shaft, humping his cock as only a bitch in heat could.
The three beers had dulled my clitoris, I had an immediate vaginal orgasm but the clitoris for me is the more powerful, so on I ploughed onto his cock. I turned and said to the boy, who had prepared me only 5 minutes ago, to get behind me and squeeze my tits as hard as he could.
This was having an effect, I could feel it building but not quite there, I wanted something more. 'Take your cock out and stick it up my arse' I gritted, 'Fuck me, fuck me,' I was moaning.
From afar it must have looked an incredible sight, a woman stradling a boy with another trying to get his cock into her ass and her pumping fevourishly on one cock and trying to push the cock up her bottom while moaning fuck me fuck me.
Well, it was a sight, because the third cock was being pumped by the older guy now sitting much closer to the action and readying himself for insertion into my fevourish flesh.
The heat was intensified in my crotch as one then two ejaculated. Both boys had cum too quickly. We in fact had been fucking for less than five minutes and I had a pussy full of fresh cum and an ass covered in a second load, we never quite got him into me.
I sat with his flacid cock in me and a shadow came over me, I looked up and my friend from afar was standing, cock in hand. 'Join in, why not' I said and kneeling above the boy the man came in behind me inserted and pumped me to my second vaginal orgasm.
I will stop at this point as the action continued later but it would be too long to tell.
The point I am making here, this happened because I made it happen, so guys not all women are princesses we are as bad as men... Continue»
Posted by MarieL 4 years ago  |  Categories: First Time, Hardcore, Mature  |  Views: 2137  |  
  |  11

Tattoo’s Release Who Women Are From Within

I love the beauty of tattoos. To me it has always been an art form of
expression through ink on the flesh. I remember a time it was a sign of
rebellion but to me art is very rebellious. Art is what sets the pace for
not only the next decade but has a lasting effect for the next century, as
well of our thoughts spiritual beliefs, thoughts and actions. To me
tattooed women are exhilarating, an orgasmic universal explosion of raw
pure beauty. Tattoos can tell a story not only of the person’s thoughts
but events in their lives. Also tattoos can enhance a women’s beauty one
hundred times over. I am not saying women cannot be beautiful without
tattoos but it makes you study every single inch of them, not only their
flesh but their mind and soul as well. And let me share with you why.
There was a time I would only write poems about women but it did not
release my vision of how I see them as a whole so I started to create free
form art on them. I will not claim to be a Salvador Dali in any shape or
form but it gave me a chance to express my love for women. I would take
some of my art markers and have one of my lovers at the time get naked and
lay on the bed. I would draw designs on them for a couple hours or so.
Each time, drawing something different, releasing parts of their
personality on them and sometimes mixing it with mine depending on both of
our attitudes or feelings at the moment towards one another. To me
permanent tattoos or drawing tattoos with art markers that in time fade
away intensify a woman’s beauty and it makes me hunger for them even more.
For one reason and one reason only it releases the complete self or soul
if you want to look at it from that perspective. So all of the boundaries
and walls crumble down all their hang ups for the time I was drawing on
them were gone if only for a couple hours. I gave them that release at
times during the drawing process. It is interesting there have been times
when I was drawing on them it has even given them sexual releases, mental
releases, even spiritual as well sometimes all in one. It always blew my
mind away! There were even times they would spill their feelings,
confessing things to me that they would not have if I was not drawing on
them with my art makers. What makes a women feel all these emotions
releasing their thoughts, sexual desire, spirituality and hidden doorways?
I guess I will never know was it me, the markers or both?
So to be honest, what drives me mad is a woman with independent thoughts
who expresses herself no matter who she offends. To me tattooed women are
sexual meditation punk rocker artist gurus of the world and they have a
sword to swing for all who dare to cross them.... Continue»
Posted by king_k91 2 years ago  |  Categories: Lesbian Sex, Mature, Taboo  |  Views: 339  |  
  |  2

women are not innocent

Ive been observing women for years and have come the a fair conclusion. Women are no where near as innocent as many try to make us to believe. They also have many double standards. I hear so many arguments women have with their boyfriends about giving attractive female co workers a ride home. On many occasions i have given female co workers rides home and have watched them lie to their man about how they were getting home. Women spass out when they look thru their mans phone to find pics of women. Yet they send each other men pics as well as look on line as well. Women just know not to store so much in their phone. They leave it online and come to places ike this. I here women say to their man if you love me why do you flirt with other women online? Fuck what you think they flirt too. They dont use word's like men do. They put on titty tops ,tight spandex and sexy clothing. Sorry thats flirting no matter how you try to sugar coat it. Your trying to provoke a response from the opposite sex. Women want all their man's attention but they also want the other men attention too. The ones that say they dont have you ever seen how mad or upset they get when they see a man looking at an attractive woman. She either has to point out the woman's flaws or labels the man as a dog or say he is thirsty. You dont see men responding when women check men out. You also don't hear the same type of complaints when they are the one's on the receiving end of the attention. I hear so many women say they dont fuck alot of men. I watch Maury and ive had stranger chat (women that do know me or i them). They have admitted lying so men would not veiw them as sluts. Boys are taught young not to turn hoes into wives. Most women cant hide it though. 3 bady daddies is a good clue along with how you carry yourself. I hear alot about down low guys. I think its sad but women are down low bi in alot of cases.Also there are alot of down low hoes. 1 out of every 10 women have at one time or currently selling pussy. One week they selling ass then trying to convince the next man they girlfriend or wife material. Sad part is as a hoe a man gave you some change and you sucked and fucked him dry. Most get a man spend 5 times his money and he gotta beg for head. Then he go out to get a woman like hoe you use to be before you met him. Then when she cheat on you she giving him the freaky sex she should have been giving you to the guy she dipping with. Still wonder why men dont want to commit? Ladies dont make your man be faithful if you know your not going to fuck him thoroughly. Stop being a selfish bitch then when he get selfish back and cheat you mad as fuck. Women be acting like the man is only suppose to bust his ass in a relationship. Most women bust their ass too but in the wrong department. You bust your ass to cook, clean etc. when you should be busting it 70% sexually. Sucking his dick is the biggest key not pussy. Put his dick in your mouth a couple of times a day even if you dont make him cum every time. The sex will also be better in your favor. Get sex from your man without head then next time suck the shit out his dick then let him fuck you and you will see the difference. Head is important to men otherwise men wouldn't be sneaking around sucking each other's dicks ugh.... Strip clubs would be half empty. Yes alot of strippers suck dick. Some dont but i have not met one yet. Street hookers would not make up more than 1/3 of all female inmates. They are the cheapest and dont mind the slutty treatment of being a cum disposal with no strings attached. Very unclean though even with condoms. Then there the dips, side bitches and those the ones that know about you and sympathetic to him about the shit you wont do for him at home. They sucking ,licking and swallowing. Giving back rubs and soothing words of comfort then sending him home happy.Till he walk in the door and you bitching about crazy shit. Yall be like why he fuck with that and he got this at home? Its not her beauty its what she do on duty. If you make good money got a reasonably nice body, can cook,suck alot of dick and freaky when you do fuck. You can have and keep any man. So many women today say they only have male friends and swear they not fucking them. Yet when men got all female friends women are uptight. Thats because they know the shit that go on with them and they male friends.They say men are the hoes and women are not the shouldn't i be tripping more about your men friends. Thats cause women know they just as big of hoes as men. Also they say men bigger cheaters and thats not true. see men cheat different. Men cheat for sex women cheat for sex and emotional reasons. Men get caught more cuz the women they fucking usually at some point want him to their self. When men fuck with a girl that has a man they not trying to steal her.Come suck my dick, eat my k**s and lets be beat it up. Then take you ass home to him and come back next week when my other chick is notin my bed cheating on her man. Women say they dont like to fuck with men the got a girl. They feel like they betraying other women.or not respecting a relationship. Also they dont wanna share. Remember the saying you ladies made. If you wanna fuck around stay single? Well you ladies quick to fuck that single dick but odds are he's fucking 5 times more women then the man with the one girl. Your willing to put yourself at higher risk to respect his women's feelings. Thats nice....That single man single for a reason that man that been with that same gal 10 years? She locked on for a reason. Im not say go home wreck im saying yall logic be fucked up. Stop having k**s with men that cant take car of themselves or current c***dren.... Continue»
Posted by addictedtooralsex 1 year ago  |  Categories: Mature  |  Views: 1067  |  
  |  4

Women are special

Ok, someone told me that one-liners and cock pix get women.

Really? Well maybe they aren't women. Maybe they've been abused or hurt or just want to have fun with you.

Consider this. You are a tool for a woman sometimes. If she feels chemistry or a need to procreate or mate or have a good time, you are the one at the right time at the right place. Or maybe not...

Women are different and there are and will be discussions until God says the way it is and Her word is final.

If you really want to be a friend with a woman on here and maybe in real life, then tell the truth. Be honest.

I am 58, half-asian, retired, and more on my profile. But I never lie to women here, no matter who they are. I may embellish myself or write stories that are true but updated, etc. but as far as relating to another human being. I try to be honest.

If you are gay, tranny, etc. so be it. Only one person can judge you and from what I hear He/She gives you an opportunity to repent at the last breath. So I live life here truthfully, as far as I can without revealing myself because there are others involved who are friends I will never betray, and f****y.

But I am alone and don't hurt anyone, and I've said if I do something that may not be right to you, tell me, I will listen.

So guys, if you want to friend a woman, get some class. Like in real life, show up dressed well, clean, and with a smile. First impressions last a lifetime. Look in the mirror. Would you want to meet you. Be honest.

Stop living in drama and anger about what's out of your control. Be a Dude. Save some $ (put aside 10percent a month like it's spent), educate yourself (Ray Bradbury went to a library for 10yrs and wrote his stories from learning there, and not a college), clean up the body, (get in shape whether at home or gym- you will meet women there too, stop the booze and cigs-save $), you can be more.

Life is what you make it. If you're a perv or whatever, it's probably too late, but the Marquis de Sade and others got remembered in history...). Don't hurt yourself or others. Never put another person at risk or cause them to be in fear. Some women today can and will defend themselves by weapon, training, or words that cut. And remember, they will tell their gal pals if you are naughty or nice.

So women are special. I know. I love them all. I am here to play and to learn and to destress. But I know who I am. I accept it. Do you know who you are? Once you do, you will find fate and destiny open up and that woman walks in.
... Continue»
Posted by asianflyer 2 years ago  |  Categories: First Time  |  Views: 242  |  
  |  1

Why Women Are So Special...‏

Mom and Dad were watching TV when
Mom said, "I'm tired, and it's getting late. I think I'll go to bed."
She went to the kitchen to make sandwiches for the next day's lunches. Rinsed
out the popcorn bowls,

took meat out of the freezer for supper the following evening,
checked the cereal box levels,
filled the sugar container, put spoons and bowls on the table, and
started the coffee pot for brewing the next morning.
She then put some wet clothes in the dryer,
put a load of clothes into the washer,
ironed a shirt and secured a loose button.
She picked up the game pieces left on the table,
put the phone back on the charger, and
put the telephone book into the drawer.
She watered the plants,
emptied a wastebasket,
and hung up a towel to dry.
She yawned and stretched and headed for the bedroom.
She stopped by the desk and wrote a note to the teacher,
counted out some cash for the excursion, and
pulled a text book out from hiding under the chair.
She signed a birthday card for a friend,
addressed and stamped the envelope, and
wrote a quick note for the grocery store.
She put both near her bag.
Mom then washed her face with 3 in 1 cleanser,
put on her Night Solution & age fighting moisturizer,
brushed and flossed her teeth and filed her nails.

Dad called out, "I thought you were going to bed."

"I'm on my way," she said.
She put some water into the dog's dish, and
put the cat outside,
then made sure the doors were locked, and
the patio light was on..
She looked in on each of the k**s, and
turned out their bedside lamps and radios,
hung up a shirt,
threw some dirty socks into the hamper, and
had a brief conversation
with the one up still doing homework.
In her own room, she set the alarm;
laid out clothing for the next day,
straightened up the shoe rack.
She added three things
to her 6 most important things to do list.
She said her prayers, and
visualized the accomplishment of her goals.

About that time, Dad turned off the TV, and
announced to no one in particular. "I'm going to bed."
And he did...without another thought.

Anything extraordinary here?
Wonder why women live longer...?

(and they can't die sooner, they still have things to do !!!!)

Send this to five phenomenal women today...
they' ll love you for it!
And Forward this to as many men as you can
so that they know why women are so special :) ..........!
... Continue»
Posted by happy_sex 3 years ago  |  Categories: Anal, Lesbian Sex, Voyeur  |  Views: 895  |  
  |  1

Nancy Friday Forbidden Flowers MORE WOMEN’S

This book belongs to the
women whose letters fill it. Many
wrote to question their own
sexuality, others to confirm it.
From them all, I have learned
about my own.
– N . F.
“Your book My Secret Garden reduces women
to men's sexual level.”
– Dr. Theodore I. Rubin, to
Nancy Friday, in NBC
radio interview, 1973
“Aren't women entitled to a little lust too?”
– Nancy Friday's reply
AN INTRODUCTION ...................................................... 1
CHAPTER ONE............................................................ 13
Dorothy, Carla and Tom, Jennie, Sarah, Claudia,
Janice, Denise, Frank, Lana, Robyn, Ivy, Bonnie,
Sophie, Dr. John Harrison, Deedee, Loretta, Sharon,
Brenda, Gena, Joyce
CHAPTER TWO........................................................... 65
ADOLESCENCE .................................................................65
s*s, Beth Anne, Penelope, Jenny, Veevee, Katherine
Muffie, Carina, June, Tina, Toby, Penny, Cecillia,
CHAPTER THREE ....................................................... 94
LOOKING ...........................................................................94
Roxanne, Sharon, Molly, Jackie, Sally, Marylou
CHAPTER FOUR ....................................................... 116
FRUSTRATION ................................................................116
Laura, Biba, Lyle, Dot, Gloria, Callie, Arlene, Bunny,
Sherri, Ginger, Ricky, Stella, Jill
CHAPTER FIVE ......................................................... 156
DAYDREAMING ..............................................................156
Lulu, Jackie, Ethel, Samantha, Debbie, Connie,
Elaine, Sophie, Killie, Libby, Phyllis, Marilyn,
Moreen, Janet, Lucia, Lilly, Wilma Joan
CHAPTER SIX ........................................................... 187
Emma, Venice, Libby, Dorothy, Liberated Lady,
Noranna, Fanny, Liz, Anonymous, Diane, Cecilia,
Carole, Gabbie, Isolde
CHAPTER SEVEN ..................................................... 226
DURING SEX ....................................................................226
Lynn, Jan, lsabel, Kate, Helen, Riva, Beth,
“Shoulders”, Monica, Delia, Daisy, Vi
CHAPTER EIGHT ...................................................... 255
DREAMS COME TRUE ...................................................255
Carolyn, May, Chessie, Rose Ann, Nessie, Kellie
Lizzy, Joni
AFTERWORD ............................................................ 295
Dear Nancy:
I finished your book this morning, and all I can say is Thank
God someone opened my eyes to this aspect of human sexuality
while I am still young enough to be just at the beginning of my
sexual life. Your book has totally changed my way of thinking.
I am s*******n and until a few months ago, had had
intercourse with only one person – my boyfriend for two years.
Perhaps that is why I have fantasized so much during our
sessions. But whatever the reason, it always made me feel
guilty, unfaithful, and perverted – and I suppose this negative
feeling about myself was another factor that kept me from
enjoying sex with him.
Reading My Secret Garden has shown me in the clearest
terms that sex and fantasies are not something to be endured,
but to be enjoyed. Your book has chopped years off the time it
would have taken me to make these discoveries myself. Thank
you for allowing me to be reborn sexually before it was too late
to change my beliefs, and before I got clogged down forever in
sexual guilt.
 Sexual mores and practices have shown an age-old
resistance to change. Today, there is hardly any part of human
behavior we are more willing to question and alter. The acceptance
of new ideas of what is sexually okay is now so immediate
you'd think entire generations had been holding their breath
– people being born, living, and dying, yet never daring to explore
their own sexuality, afraid that only she/he ever felt certain
erotic desires, only he/she was aberrant and everyone else
was “normal.” Then, suddenly, The Word is out; without
seeming to pause for even a sigh of relief, everybody knows
without further discussion that it is not only okay, but that it
has always been okay.
To suggest you ever questioned it is to show what a hopeless
square you were to begin with. It took years for Kinsey's findings
in the '40s to make their full cultural impact, but the revolution
Masters and Johnson introduced in the '60s was immediately
accepted as not revolutionary at all. Right away, their
findings became part of everyone's workaday bedroom knowledge.
“Sure, what else is new?”
Oral sex, for example. In the '50s, I almost fainted when a
man suggested it. Yet I almost fainted with pleasure when he
did it. Today, who would dare suggest that oral sex was bad,
dirty, perverted – or even unusual?
During the five years I was compiling material for My Secret
Garden, I could not find a doctor or psychiatrist who would
intelligently discuss women's sexual fantasies. It was still a
taboo subject. In 1968, before I decided to write the book, I did
some research in the giant New York Public Library and the
even larger British Museum library in London. In the millions
upon millions of cards on file in these two vast repositories of
practically everything ever written in the English language, I
did not find a single book or magazine article that dealt with
the subject, even though, by definition, women's sexual fantasies
were of more than intellectual interest to one-half of the
human race.
I spoke to at least a dozen psychiatrists in both the United
States and Great Britain. The most any of these learned men
would concede was that perhaps some women did have sexual
fantasies when they masturbated; otherwise, they said, the
phenomenon was limited to the sexually frustrated and/or to
the pathological. They took the initial fact that a woman had
sexual fantasies as a sign of sickness. The idea that a happily
married woman, sexually satisfied by a beloved husband,
might still have erotic pictures in mind – perhaps of another
man, perhaps of ten other men – was totally foreign to their
ideas of feminine “mental health.” Too often in these discus3
sions, the medical mask would slip, and I would find myself
facing not the calm professional but the outraged man. The
disgusted son, husband, and father would look at me – surely a
hoax cleverly disguised as a “nice woman” – with ill-concealed
anxiety and dislike. “You are entitled to your subjective opinions,
Miss Friday. But have you any medical qualifications to
back up your ideas?”
As late as February 1973, the noted “permissive” Dr. Allen
Fromme would take a similar position in daring Cosmopolitan
magazine. “Women do not have sexual fantasies,” Dr. Fromme
wrote, and went on with patronizing kindness: “How do we
know? Ask a woman, and she will usually reply, No. The reason
for this is obvious: women haven't been brought up to enjoy
sex … women are by and large destitute of sexual fantasy.”
Needless to say, this reinf***ed the need to deny the practice
of sexual fantasy among the millions of Cosmo Girls who read
these words, not only when talking to eminent medicos like Dr.
Fromme but even to themselves. Of course, most women told
Dr. Fromme that they did not have sexual fantasies; no woman
wanted to be thought sexually “weird” when faced with what
seemed to be expert medical opinion, that if she did, she was
totally outside the “normal” experience of her s****rs. Dr.
Fromme may have thought he was being merely descriptive. In
fact, he was being normative. A self-fulfilling prophet.
Yet an example of the almost frightening speed with which
the experts can revise their ideas on contemporary sexual dos
and don'ts was recently printed in the same magazine in February
1975. When a practicing New York psychoanalyst and
Cosmo's own monthly psychiatric-advice columnist could say
“… all women have sexual fantasies, though sometimes
they won't admit it, even to themselves. Fantasies are makebelieve
states used to enhance reality. A woman making love to
one man may imagine that several other men are watching….
Her fantasy provides a safe way to explore the erotic possibilities
of a situation that might be very threatening or guiltproducing
if she acted it out.”
The psychoanalyst goes on to say: “A fantasy can give a
woman an added sense of life and all its possibilities. It is the
unexamined corners of the mind that breed neurosis and fear –
not the portions of ourselves we know, recognize and accept.”
When My Secret Garden was published, I was happy to
find other doctors coming forward to support my feelings that
sexual fantasies were not necessarily a sign of neurosis, but
were, instead, a sign of a woman's sexual exuberance and life.
Dr. Leonard Cammer, chairman, Section on Psychiatry, Medical
Society of the State of New York, endorsed my views, as
did the noted founder and executive director of SIECUS, (Sex
Information and Education Council of the U.S.), Dr. Mary Calderone.
And yet the anxiety that the subject aroused in many
medical men would not abate: the validity of my statistical
methods was attacked. “But all the women you talked to volunteered
to do so,” was the way this objection usually ran. “They
are a self-selected sample. How can you extrapolate from what
these exhibitionistic volunteers tell you? How can you say that
their experiences are also shared by their s****rs in the silent
This same argument was used against Kinsey and Masters
and Johnson when their research was published, but time has
proven that their studies not only voiced the views of the people
who volunteered but also spoke for the broad spectrum of
Americans in general. In addition, I note no reluctance in the
works of psychoanalysts themselves, beginning with Freud, to
base their theories of human nature on that tiny fraction of the
human race that has laid itself bare on the analytic couch. The
vast majority of the human race has never figured in any psychoanalytic
survey or clinical documentation of human behavior
– and still any psychoanalyst you talk to will unhesitatingly
tell you “all” people pass through certain stages of the Oedipus
complex. It is my feeling that if over two thousand women
from all parts of the country, of all ages, marital status, and
economic classes write that they have these or those sexual
fantasies that make them feel this way or that, their feelings
and experiences are going to be shared by the great majority of
all women. “In my practice,” says Dr. Sonya Friedman, a De5
troit clinical psychologist and marriage counselor, “I am continually
struck by how much more we are alike than we are
In the end, I must leave the validity of what I am saying to
you, the reader, to judge. If this book awakens no resonance in
you, if you feel no recognition or empathy between yourself and
the women who speak in these pages, it is not that you are odd
– it is only that I am wrong about you. But for the rest of my
readers, I offer the message that is contained in almost every
letter I have received. “Thank God you opened the discussion
about women's sexual fantasies. I thought I was the only one
who had these ideas. I was afraid to tell my husband [priest,
doctor, or whoever], because I was afraid he would think I was
some kind of weird freak. I felt like a pervert, so guilty and
alone….” My message is, Welcome. You are not alone.
I believe it is individual anxiety that makes so many people
unable to accept the idea of sexual fantasy in others. The portrait
of women it evokes is too new, too frightening – above all,
too much at war with all our past stereotypes of women as
maidens, mothers, “ladies.”
People laugh nervously when the subject of My Secret Garden
and sexual fantasies comes up. Some people turn red and
tell me they never read pornography or else they nervously light
a cigarette and dismiss the whole subject as “boring.” When
Garden was published, I became depressed by the anxiety/
dismissal/north the book aroused in many women and men,
friends and strangers. My husband helped me. “Freud was
dismissed as a scandal and a dirty old man,” Bill said, “because
he talked about masturbation and the sexuality of c***dren.
Up till then, people thought c***dren were `pure' as angels.
When Freud talked about sex and i****tuous desires, he
was called a pornographer too.” Of course, I am in no way
comparing my work or myself to Freud; but I do think we are
living through a time in sexual history as emotionally loaded as
Freud's own. By trying to understand the secret thoughts of
women – the emerging sex – we may succeed in unscrambling
the sexual bigotry of the past. Only in this way will we be able
to understand the distorted man-woman relationship that has
led to the frightening anger between the sexes today. I hope
this book will help.
Our real world … from the morning paper to the late late
television movie … is saturated with commercial sex, romantic
sex, and, yes, violent sex. These emotions and images stay in
our minds – along with all the other desires and drives we are
born with. What is a woman to do with all these ideas? One
thing she does is shape them closer to her heart's desire, using
the sexual stimuli she likes, softening or discarding the images
that turned her off, inventing her own sexual fantasies. If these
reveries stimulate her sexually while she goes about her daily
routine, I'm all for it. If a few lustful and erotic reveries make
the housework go by “as if in a dream,” why not?
Probably the most important thing to remember about fantasies
is that they are not facts, not deeds; they are not “acting
out.” Summoning up an erotic image in the imagination does
not necessarily mean we want to bring it into reality. In fact,
very often the fantasy itself discharges the forbidden energy
and entirely eschews the need for acting out. In the same way
that dreams at night can be said to be psychotic discharges of
the mind that allow us to be sane during the day, fantasies of
even the most primitive, regressive nature help us to be adult
and responsible in our real behavior.
If anyone, man or woman, lives out Freud's dictum that a
fulfilled life contains both love and work, I don't care what
fantasies that person has. If a woman has daydreams of making
it with Napoleon's horse, but says she is satisfied with her life,
who am I, or who is any doctor, to tell her that she is strange?
Today, for the first, time in history, women are encouraging
each other to be more sexually free and accepting. As we do, is
it surprising that men are now becoming the first line of defense
against the breakup of the old morality? It is men who
have become wary and critical of women's new role as sexual
initiator and free agent. “Love” itself is suddenly raised as the
banner under which many men march. “Don't you love me
anymore?” suddenly asks the husband who always claimed
that his own casual philanderings “have nothing to do with my
wife,” when he learns that she has been having a little after7
noon peccadillo of her own … or, yes, a sexual fantasy starring
his best friend.
I find men's sexual anxiety today understandable. I am sympathetic
to it; women have changed so much in recent years.
And men have not. In fact, if you are a woman who is not
sympathetic to men today, and you call yourself a “liberated”
woman, you should question your insensitivity. Are you happier
in your new freedom because it gives you a chance to “get
back at men” … or because you see it as an opportunity at last
to make things better for both of you? Sex never was the simple
piece of cake Hugh Hefner sells to men; women's questioning
of a sexual status quo that was questionable to begin with must
be disquieting if not threatening to men. I'm not saying that a
lot of men – the machos, for instance – don't deserve their discomfort.
But a lot don't. I suppose what it comes down to is
that if you're a woman who wants men in your life, you've got
to take your responsibility along with your liberation.
The as-yet-unplotted possibilities of women's sexuality,
given almost surrealistically vivid form and image in fantasy,
not only frightens men but women too. Think of all that desire
unleashed, desire he may not be interested in or able to satisfy,
appetites mother would never have approved of, sexual-power
she doesn't know what to do with. (How many women know
how to make the first move? Should she pick up the telephone,
reach for his hand, his cock? Should she say, “Please, I want
you to go down on me?” And how many men would reject her
if she did? Oral sex may be “intellectually” accepted today, but
as you will see from the women in this book – if you have not
already discovered it for yourself – there are a great number of
men who are unskilled, unpracticed, or unwilling to do what
they say.)
We are not yet ready to accept the simple proposition that
female sexual power added to male sexual power equals better
sex for both. And yet the truth is that the foundation of our
myth of male sexual superiority is riddled with deception and
fakeroo. Worse, it gives the poor man who believes it an awful
superman's burden to carry. Dominance and superiority are
words you use when you go to war, not to bed.
Henry Miller wrote me a letter about My Secret Garden:
“I've always suspected that women had richer, wilder, fantasies
than men. From my limited experience with women I must also
add that I have found them more capable of abandoning themselves
completely in intercourse than men. In a good healthy
sense I would say, to use an old-fashioned word, that they are
more `shameless' than men … . Men are only beginning to
perceive the true nature of women's being. They have created a
false image of her. She is neither an angel nor a bitch in heat. If
she is no longer an enigma, she is certainly an everlasting
source of wonder and rich in unexplored possibilities in every
domain of life.”
If I prefer Henry Miller's approach to women's fantasies to
that of many psychiatrists, it is because his view of life is large
enough to see fantasy as enriching human experience, and not
the mark of pathology.
Far from being a perversion of our deepest and most intimate
moments together, sexual fantasies answer the need for
variety that exists in the best of relationships. To those who
think it is a crime to consciously retreat into the secret garden
of your mind while in the arms of your beloved, let me quote
Dr. Ray Birdwhistle of the University of Pennsylvania. An
overly closed idea of marriage, he says, leads to pathology.
“Privacy is disallowed as being disloyal. But if the couple
wants intimacy, both partners need to refresh themselves with
privacy. That implies also being allowed to withdraw without
guilt. It is only in the private kingdom of the mind that one can
enjoy fantasies. And what held together romantic love in the
first place? A rich, lusty, sweet and sad, vengeful and even
violent fantasy life” [New York magazine, February 1973].
On the last page of My Secret Garden, I asked readers to
contribute their own sexual fantasies and comments for the
book you now hold. It is from the shape these letters took that I
have devised the form of this book. Part One deals with the
very frequent question of readers, “Where Do Sexual Fantasies
Come From?” Part Two, “The Uses of Sexual Fantasy” concerns
the role these imaginary, erotic scenarios play in the lives
of many women.
As you will see, I have not so much tried to theorize on my
own; I have tried instead to organize the material my readers
sent in to illustrate the answers to these questions they have
raised in their own lives. I believe we live in a time when it is
of paramount importance that women learn to speak unashamedly,
so that we may learn from each other. I did not ask my
readers for all the information they sent me, but I am very
grateful that they felt it “right” to try to trace for themselves,
and me, the origin of their fantasies and the context in which
they appear in their lives.
It is, of course, impossible to analyze any particular
woman's fantasy without knowing her, and understanding the
full meaning of why she has chosen any particular event or
symbol to express her erotic excitement. But that was never my
purpose. I began research for My Secret Garden in 1968 … I
began to work on this book in 1973. I wanted to see if the intervening
five years had made any significant difference in the
attitudes of women toward sexual fantasies. I am pleased to
say that while I would characterize the majority of fantasies in
Garden as various strategies women had devised to handle or
disarm sexual guilt, the fantasies I have collected for this book
are much more characterized by pleasure and guiltless exuberance.
Poets are often called the conscience of a nation; I believe
our sexual fantasies are mirrors of the women we would like to
I don't think anyone can read the letters in the pages that follow
and not be as touched as I was, not only by the feelings
expressed but by the outpouring of honesty and the unglossy
portrait they give of their lives. What impresses me most is
that, although I guaranteed that all contributions would be
anonymous, over half the women who wrote signed their full
names and gave their addresses – as contrasted to one woman
in ten who signed her real name to the letters I collected for
Garden five years ago.
While I have kept my half of the agreement – all names,
professions, geographical, and other too revealing biographical
data have been changed – I am moved by the courage of my
readers in wanting to speak to me without disguise. As one
twenty-five-year-old woman wrote, “I believe that selfacceptance
is the first step toward maturity. So that I can believe
in myself, I want you to believe in me and what I wrote.
And so I am signing my full name.” 
Where Do
Sexual Fantasies
Come From?
It is evident that fantasies have value in and of themselves to the fantasizers
… . From the time they were little girls, women have been
told “not to think about such things.” By bringing women's sexual
thoughts into the open the book gives them permission to fantasize
and, in so doing, increases the possibility that women thereby also
derive permission to experience real life sex more fully, more easily,
more rewardingly.
– Dr. Mary Calderone
Review of My Secret Garden
SIECUS Report, May 1974
 In My Secret Garden, there was a chapter called, “Where
Did a Nice Girl Like You Get an Idea Like That?” It put forth
my feeling that many of our fantasies spring from a time long
before the world is ready to acknowledge our sexuality – c***dhood
itself. No great pioneering idea on my part, Freud's work
on infantile sexuality dates from the turn of the century. More
recently, the eminent authority on c***dhood psychology, Dr.
Arnold Gesell, conducted a study on infant behavior. He placed
a fifty-six-week-old boy in front of a mirror, naked. What the
c***d saw of his own body excited him so much that Dr. Gesell
was able to photograph him with an erect penis. If a boy barely
one year old can have an erotic experience, is it surprising that
little girls – usually more precocious than boys can also be said
to be sexual beings almost from birth?
And yet the idea is still unacceptable to most people. c***dhood
is pictured as a time of ribbons, fairy tales, and lemonade.
Adults notoriously forget that they were once c***dren too; they
close off their minds to early sexual memories – those embarrassing
or shameful events connected perhaps with anxieties
about masturbation. I am not suggesting that the sugar and
spice of little girls' c***dhoods are only a false facade. That
aspect is real. But so is our sexuality.
So far, I have received over two thousand letters from
women who sent me ' their sexual fantasies in response to the
invitation on the last page of My Secret Garden. Many were
from highly educated women; an equally great number were
from people who probably never read Freud. It didn't matter.
The cumulative truth of their personal experience confirmed my
view that sexual fantasies are often born out of remembered
c***dhood events. These letters cheered me in a very significant
way: I loved the self-acceptance they showed, the refusal to
continue to carry the age-old feminine burden of shame and
guilt. “Let me tell you a bit about myself first,” these openhearted
letters often begin. The writers want me to see them as
they are; they want some recognition for the courage with
which so many of them lead their lives, even if they ask me not
to print their names. “My first sexual experience was when I
was about four years old. The little boy who lived next door
came over and he … etc.” No apologies are given, no anatomical
details are glossed over or prettified. There is an intuitive
understanding that ladylike language would be counterproductive
to the purpose we are both striving for … that facts are
facts and moral judgments are irrelevant. While names, geographical
locations, and occupations in these letters have been
changed, I have preserved all other biographical details. I feel
only out of the richness and density of facts about someone's
life can we come to see that she is a woman just like ourselves.
I believe this is important work that women must do together,
and I am glad that there are so many willing to lay their
lives on the line to help tear down the curtain of silence behind
which we have had to hide our erotic selves. It left each woman
feeling isolated, an all-too-easy victim to the assumption that
only men knew “all about” sex and what “a real woman” was.
Behind this barrier, which was marked Innocence, but should
more rightly have been named Ignorance, the sexual exploitation
of women went on during practically all of recorded history
– a time that, thanks to women's new openness and honesty
with one another, is coming to an end.
Another significant difference between the letters of 1968
and these new ones is that in Garden the average age of the
women who contributed was about thirty; they were of the generation
born around the time of World War II. The world they
grew up in was very different than today's. In that book, the
greatest number of fantasies I collected centered around themes
of imaginary f***e and ****, a*****ion, domination, the
anonymous man whom the woman never sees again – all of
which are psychological strategies for allowing the woman to
have the most thrilling sexual experiences in her fantasies, but
all under the slogan, “It wasn't my fault; he made me do it.” In
other words, sexual guilt and its avoidance was the great emotion
shared by most women who contributed to Garden.
The average age of women who sent in their fantasies for inclusion
in this book is about twenty-two. They grew up in the
age in which Elvis Presley was bringing a new kind of blatant
sexuality to pop music, they entered their own sexual years to
the songs of the Beatles. I am not saying that the music of their
time directly influenced their approach to life (although often it
did), as much as it reflected a whole new era of freedom of
sexual expression. The fantasies in this book fill me with admiration
for these young women. I am struck by their pride in
their sexuality and their pleasure in its exercise – if not in their
lives, at least in their fantasies. They are not at all frightened by
the sexuality of their earliest years. They aren't into guilt at all.
In memory, there is security. One of the first signs that infants
are maturing is the ability to allow mother out of their
sight without tears of fear or rage. The baby has begun to believe
in the reality of memory – to recognize there is a correspondence
between her inner world and the reality “out there.”
Remembered figures do not vanish into a void, but come back.
In time, the baby is freed by this inner certainty and reliance
upon memory; she comes to enjoy her periods of solitude. Secure
in a base of remembered happiness, the little c***d can
turn her attention forward to learning new things: how to crawl
around her crib, perform experiments with her toys and/or
body, the pleasures of watching patterns of light cross the ceiling.
So it is in our sexual years. Whenever periods of sexual
boredom, anxiety, or frustration come along, we tend to return
to c***dhood scenes of remembered erotic happiness. These
will be images or events that happen to the baby that are of an
erotic nature. Something is imagined or felt by the little girl,
something comes into view that stimulates her. The c***d does
not yet know, nor does she need to know, that these are specifically
sexual feelings. She only knows that they make her feel
good … excited, stimulated, flushed with life. Nobody has yet
told her she is not to touch herself “down there” … that she is
not supposed to look at this or think that or do any of the other
999 things that “nice little girls” do not do. She goes over the
stimulating incident again and again in memory, almost as a
form of sympathetic magic to make the experience recur; it is
the same form of primitive logic that made the cavemen draw
pictures of deer when they wanted to meet them on the hunt.
This is truly our Age of Innocence. The knowledge of good
and evil (conventionally viewed) had not yet been f***ed upon
us. Is it any wonder that we withdraw to these happy memories,
these simple joys, during our grown-up times of stress,
frustration, or boredom? We were safe and felt alive then;
memory allows us again to draw upon these emotions in fantasy.
Unfortunately, it is a period of c***dhood that does not last
long. Very soon the little girl begins to notice that when she
says this or does that her parents frown or quickly change the
subject. The long series of don’ts are laid on her; the very lack
of explanation behind these illogical commands make them
more frightening and ominous. She becomes aware that various
aspects of her thought or behavior are not to be mentioned.
She learns concealment and evasion – but in her mind, at least,
she does not stop having these ideas that make her feel good.
They are too exciting to give up. Guilt and silence turn her
memories into fantasies. Again and again, I receive the wildest,
most ravenously erotic fantasies from women who begin by
writing, “I was very strictly brought up by puritanical parents
… .”
But while guilt is a heavy load to carry, it is not without innate
benefits too; it adds a terrific charge of daring and defiance
to sex, of forbidden thrills and excitement to heretofore
innocent memories. In the last fantasy that closes this chapter,
Joyce writes, “I think 'that what makes all my sexual activity
so enjoyable to me is that my parents were so strict with me
when I was growing up.” Behind the silence with which she
faces the world, the c***d begins to play over and over again
with her taboo ideas, elaborating, adding elements that
heighten their erotic charge, changing details with infinite care
to ever – increase the orgasmic effect. In our outlawed memories,
our first fantasies begin.
Like Joyce, Dorothy too begins her letter by discussing her
“strict upbringing.” She can remember lying in bed as a c***d
and thinking about her fantasies. “I was never able to banish
these deliciously nasty thoughts from my mind,” she writes.
What heightened her pleasure in these erotic scenarios was to
imagine them while she could hear her mother moving around
in another part of the house. Right under her mother's nose, so
to speak, she could play with these forbidden thoughts. In the
secrecy of her mind, she could be sexually defiant.
Carla's letter is not so much the work of an imagination like
Dorothy's as it is a collection of resummoned actualities. This
loving evocation of the past can be defined as sexual fantasy
too: it is the substitution of a remembered scene for present
reality. “I like to go over my memories when I have nothing
else to do,” writes Carla. “It gives me a warm feeling to remember
all the people in my life, because I liked so many of
I have found that this kind of fantasy, which sticks very
close to actual events of the past, is almost always the mark of
someone with low levels of sexual anxiety and/or guilt. When
memories carry too heavy a charge of psychic pain, the fantasizer
usually drops or disguises them, putting an emotional
distance between herself and the ideas that excite her. She
makes up imaginary events, uses imaginary people to express
her eroticism; she can almost be said to see herself in the third
person in heal fantasy scenes – all this incredible sex is not
happening me it is happening to her.
I hasten to add here that this does not mean that imaginary
fantasies are the work of puritanical or guilt ridden minds. I
would say instead that they are the work of creative minds that
need strategies other than memory over a distance of time to
overcome inhibitions. Dorothy's fantasies may be more the
works of imagination than Carla's, but nobody reading Dorothy's
six scenarios could feel they were invented by an inhibited
What is most interesting about Carla's letter to me is that
while her memories of past (and present) sexual experiences
would shock or horrify most, people, Carla herself speaks of
them all very fondly, with total acceptance of every man, every
sexual encounter – with less guilt about breaking even the i****t
barrier than most women would feel about kissing a
stranger at a party. She speaks of her memories with no bravado,
no shouts of defiance that might make us feel she was
protesting too much. “This is how I am,” her letter seems to
say, “this is what I do, neither more nor less.” It is her life of
which she always speaks, and it does not occur to her for one
second that she does not have every right in the world to do
with it what she will. 
I have just finished reading your book, My Secret Garden,
and I can truly state that it has changed my life for the better. It
took my husband and I four evenings to read it, and those four
nights produced the most fantastic sex of our entire married
life. I had no idea that knowing about other women's sexual
fantasies would turn him on so, and now I think I have the
courage to describe some of my own to him, which I've never
done before. You see, I had a very strict upbringing. Actually, I
suppose it was no more strict than most women's, certainly no
worse than that of the other girls I grew up with. But looking
back now, I can see it's a miracle that I grew up with any feelings
of sexuality whatsoever, given the fact that the atmosphere
around our home was that sex just wasn't nice.
Let me say that I'm twenty-six, have been married for a year
to a wonderful man I lived with for a year before we married,
have no c***dren, and I have a good job as an executive secre19
tary. My husband and I are middle class, both with college
I know now that I have always engaged in sexual fantasy,
but up until this point, I felt very guilty and ashamed of my
fantasies, and even tried very hard to keep from having them. I
can remember how guilty I felt as a little girl when I went to
church with my parents, and knew what a terrible little sinner I
was for having had those wicked thoughts during the week. I
used to pray for salvation (although no one in my f****y was
terribly religious … it's just that I was terribly sexual, I suppose).
However, I was never able to banish these deliciously
nasty thoughts from my mind; lying in bed as a c***d and
thinking about them, even as I heard my mother moving about
the house, made them all the more thrilling. Many of my fantasies
stem from these early c***dhood daydreams, and have
never lost their impact. Now, your delightful book has finally
enabled me to relax with a guilt-free conscience and enjoy
them. As I have jotted down the basic themes before starting
this letter, I see that I have at least six basic fantasies – each
one involves a different position, and I adapt the appropriate
fantasy to coincide with the particular position I'm actually in
bed. Below are a couple of my favorites:
1. (I use this one while being manipulated by hand before
intercourse.) It's in the 1800s, and I am a beautiful, homeless,
penniless young maiden on a voyage by ship to America. The
ship's captain (handsome, rugged, much older) has agreed to
take me, even though I have no money for my passage. After
we are underway, though, I soon realize that there will be a
payment demanded of me, and I am helpless to resist. (Do I
want to be thrown overboard in the middle of the Atlantic?) I
am the only woman aboard a ship of rugged, lusty, men, and
they all stare at me with desire and longing for my exquisite
body. The captain, however, saves me for himself. Since he
knows I am a virgin and doesn't want to actually deflower me
(I justify this dubious morality of his by making the setting in a
very non permissive time in history), my requirement is to always
be by his side, where he can lift my long skirt with on
hand and enter me slowly and passionately with his fingers
while he is otherwise engaged in commanding his ship. I, of
course, am embarrassed and mortified and I wriggle around as
if to get away from his hand but he only continues with more
f***e and stronger manipulation of my clitoris, until finally I
am so excited and turned on (against my will) that I scream
out, “Oh fuck me, FUCK ME!” and the whole crew of the ship
gathers around to look and comment in amazement at this demure
little maiden panting and screaming, with their captain's
hand up her dress. At this point, I've usually had an excellent
orgasm, and do indeed speak those words, to which my hubby
happily accommodates, as that is what he has been waiting for.
He has no idea what has been going on in my head to bring me
to such a frenzy – he only knows his fingers drive me wild!
2. (This is for the male-superior position.) I am a schoolteacher
in a rural school, and several young, lusty farm boys
have cornered me in the one-room schoolhouse after school.
Their purpose is a bet: one of the boys (a huge, fair-haired
brute with an enormous cock) has bet the others that he can
fuck me until I beg for more. They throw me down across my
own desk on my back, pull up my dress, pull off my panties,
and while the other boys are holding my arms and legs, this big
stud goes to work, ramming it in, accompanied by the taunts
and encouragements of his friends. (Such as “Shove it in!”
“Give it to her!” “Make her scream!”) All the time he's saying,
“Come, baby, come cream on me!” while he massages my
body with his huge hands. The boys holding my legs spread
them wider apart so that he can get deeper into my struggling,
writhing body, and he keeps on thrusting away, all the time
using his filthiest words, imploring me in a strong but gentle
voice to come all over him. I prolong this part as long as it
takes me to reach my climax, and it's always a blockbuster. In
fact, writing this down seems to bring the whole image flowing
back to mind so strongly, I'm really getting turned on. These
images had never entered my mind before except during sex.
As I said before, I have a different fantasy. for everything including
cunnilingus and fellatio, but I'm not going to write
them all down or I'd end up writing a book myself. I will say
they include such participants as a horse, a dog, Indians, a
doctor, and a headmaster in a girl's school. I change roles in
each one, and sometimes I'm beautiful and sophisticated, while
in others I am c***dish or simpleminded. Each one is elaborate;
but so familiar and dear to me that the right one just pops into
my mind without my even consciously willing it. I've truly
always thought of these fantasies as my “private little world,”
and I use them also while masturbating. They make sex more
vivid and meaningful for me, and I don't think I could bear to
be without them.
As I said before, thanks to your wonderful book, I'm no
longer going to try.
I absolutely promise that these fantasies are legitimate, and
I'd be glad to write them all down for you if you should want
me to, so the name and address are legit also. I look eagerly
forward to your next book, and I do hope I may have been of
some small help – you've helped me more than I can tell you.
Carla and Tom
Since my b*****r and I read your book, My Secret Garden,
we have felt great relief to know we were not the only b*****r
and s****r who fuck. May we add our bit to your next book? I
hope it will help others like us. Tom and I don't consider what
we're doing “unnatural” at all. Being in bed with him seems
like the most natural thing of all.
I like to go over my memories when I have nothing else to
do. It gives me a warm feeling to remember all the people in
my life, because I liked so many of them. I remember when I
was six that my mother used to scold me when she caught me
playing with my cunt, but I always had the desire to expose
myself to the little boys who came over to play in our yard. I
would take off my panties, and I remember several times the
older boys would take me into a corner and play with my cunt.
Some boys took all their clothes off one day and laid me down
on their shirts and pants and worked their fingers up me. I
liked it, but it made me sore. I didn't say anything to my
mother, because she would stop the boys from coming over to
play at our house. The first time a bigger boy took me into the
back seat of a car in a garage, he removed all my clothes and
spread my legs so far apart I thought he would split me apart.
He kept getting closer and closer, and I thought he was examining
me. I like the idea that he wanted to see my cunt so
closely, but he suddenly proved my reading of what he was up
to wrong: he got his mouth into my cunt and was darting his
tongue in and out like a snake. I loved it so much that when he
wanted to stop I begged him to do it some more. He promised
to come over often and do this to me. We found places like our
attic, garage, or sheds in the woods. I was very sad the day his
f****y moved to another part of the state, but before he left, he
taught me a nice game. He used a weiner to jack me off with
and then told me to eat the weiner so that nobody would ever
discover I had a weiner in my bedroom. When he moved away,
I used to do this and think of him.
When I was old enough to go to school, the boys soon found
out that they could get to play with my cunt any time at all. My
uncle found the same to be true one summer we spent July and
August on his ranch in New Mexico. I have very happy memories
of the way my uncle loved to play with my cunt and took
me with him when he was making trips around the place. Uncle
was very kind to me, and when he suckers my cunt, he did
it very gently. I remember one time we were a long way from
home, and he found a spot where it was really quiet. He had
me undress completely, and he spread out a large quilt, laid me
down, and put his tongue in my cunt. At this time, I was nine
years old. We had fun, and then he undressed and showed me
his cock. I had never seen a grown man's cock before, and I did
not understand how it could be so big. He got on top of me and
told me to be easy in my mind; he was just going to put the
head of his cock up to my cunt. I asked him what would happen
then, and he said that he would just do with his cock the
way he had always done with his finger, so I wasn't frightened.
Instead, did that ever start my desire to have that cock in my
cunt. He spread my cunt lips open and gently shoved his cock
part way in. His actions just drove me to want that big cock all
the way in, just as I had gotten used to shoving a big, rubber,
imitation weiner all the way in when I wanted to jack off. (The
rubber one was bigger and better than the real ones I had
started with.) When my uncle shoved his whole cock in, he
found it was easier to do than he had thought. He asked me if I
had ever fucked before. I told him about the big rubber weiner.
He asked if I had brought it along. I had, and told him how I
used it when I was by myself. That made him so excited that
after our first fuck he spent two more hours just sucking my
cunt. Then he asked me to take his cock in my mouth. I was so
afraid that if I said no he would never fuck me anymore that I
took his cock and sucked him. He kept telling me to suck
harder, and after I had sucked awhile my tongue got sore, so
we stopped. When we returned to the house everyone had gone
to see a movie, so that left us alone. I was so tired that I just
fell asl**p. When I woke up, my uncle was sucking my cunt.
The next day my uncle and aunty had to go into town for a
meeting, leaving my b*****r and I alone. We spent the time
looking around because being on a ranch was so new to us. We
came across two dogs who were trying to fuck. We watched
and it got me so passionate that I stepped backward, up against
the front of my b*****r's pants. He was feeling the same way,
because without a word, he put his hands up under my halter,
exposing my little breasts and cupping my tits in his hands.
We soon were kissing, and he had me walk around to the back
of the milk house. When we were there, he pulled my bikinis
off and the halter of my sunsuit. We played a bit there that
way, and then we made a dash for the house – me running
naked all the way – and went to his bedroom. It started that
way, just as easy as that, and from then on we have been fucking
each other all along very happily and that was twelve years
ago. Do you know any other marriages that have continued
happily for twelve years? I don't. I wish people who read this
letter and feel bad about us would remember that before they
criticize. We now live together, and every one of our friends
think we are husband and wife. He is very considerate. Unlike
most husbands, he shaves every day so that he will not irritate
my skin, etc.
One of the letters in My Secret Garden spoke about dogs.
When Tom and I read this, we decided to see what it was like.
My b*****r and I started to fuck to get the dog excited. It sure
did – he got in between our legs and licked both Tom and me
while we were fucking. What a pleasure! When we finished,
Tom let his cock go off in me. (I'm on the pill) Tanzy licked my
cunt, and Tom just lay back and watched. We let Tanzy lick as
long as he wanted, and then he began to get up on his hind legs
and hug my leg. That told us he wanted to fuck. Tom had me
get up on my knees and he helped Tanzy get his cock in my
cunt. We did not know how much cock a dog has, but I soon
found out. When he got that knob in my cunt, he had over eight
inches of cock shoved, up me. Fuck, you never know what it
can do to a girl until she gets fucked by her dog. That pink
fleshy cock is in my cunt whenever Tanzy has a desire to fuck
me. Tom likes to watch his cock plunge in and out of my cunt.
One day Tom asked me how it made me feel, and when I told
him, we tried to get Tanzy to shove it up Tom's asshole so he
could feel what I was feeling. But the hole was too small for
Tanzy to get in. Sometimes I get up on top of Tom, and we
both lay that way, both our legs apart, bellies up, and Tom lets
Tanzy fuck me when we are in this position. Tom's cock rides
in the crack of my ass below, and Tanzy is giving it to me from
straight above. If I am alone and Tanzy wants to fuck, I place
the davenport cushions on the floor and lay on my back. Tanzy
is very smart and knows how to fuck me both from the rear and
front. I love to fuck him from the front, because I can look
down and see his cock entering my cunt, that pink shaft just
going in and out. He always licks my cunt clean after we get
through fucking.
It was Tom's idea that I write this letter to you, but when I
got started typing, I got so excited that he had to help me finish
it. My last thought is that anything you fuck that makes you
feel good is okay.
 Jennie is only s*******n, and her c***dhood isn't that distant.
She remembers it very clearly: “Where I was brought up,”
she says, “sex was pretty much taboo.” She is enough a c***d
of our time to say in one breath, “I always consider myself a
girl of high morals and always thought I would be a virgin
until I was married” … and then she goes on to describe her
sexual experiences with her boyfriend, whom she plans to
marry “in three years.”
What I like about Jennie is that she does not feel these contradictions
are important enough to comment upon; no apologies
or explanations are felt necessary. She is a girl who accepts
her own sexuality in her own time; she believes more in
her own feelings than the amorphous “rules” in the air. When
she says she has no guilt about her sexuality or her fantasies, I
believe her.
Jennie's mother clearly grew up in a totally different sexual
atmosphere, and although her daughter was aware of this difference
between' herself and her mother, even as a c***d of
nine, she did not blindly accept her mother's sexual authority:
she felt and believed in her own sexuality even more.
Jennie may not be typical of her generation, but there are
countless young women like her; the very fact that she wrote
me – and with such eagerness – indicated her interest in sex.
What I find more significant is the ease, acceptance, and utter
naturalness with which she treats that interest. 
I have just finished reading your book, My Secret Garden.
Throughout the book, I kept thinking what it would be like to
actually write to you. When I saw your address in the back, I
knew I had to write.
First, I'll give you some background information about myself.
I am s*******n, and my boyfriend is sixteen. We are both
seniors in high school, and plan to get married in three years. I
always considered myself a girl of high morals and always
thought I would be a virgin until I was married.
Where I was brought up, sex was pretty much taboo. No one
ever spoke about it, so I never knew anything about sex. I
know that when I was about nine years old I used to get sensual
feelings, although at the time I didn't know what they
were. I used to take my clothes off and rub my small breasts
and my cunt against the cold washing machine, and this made
me feel very good. At other times, I would take all my clothes
off and run around in the woods across the street. Sometimes
my girl friend would come with me, and we would sit and
masturbate ourselves or each other. Just thinking about doing
these things when I was a k** would get me excited, and the
next thing I knew I was doing them or thinking up something
new that would make me feel good. Given the puritanical
background where I grew up, it's amazing I didn't feel really
guilty as a k**, but I didn't. I just knew it couldn't be bad if it
felt that good.
Nowadays, I fantasize whenever I have time on my hands …
or my hands on myself. I don't think I masturbate any more
than the average girl, but I don't know much about the average
girl. It's a sexy world, so I have sexy thoughts quite a bit. I
don't usually fantasize when I have sex with my boyfriend. All
I need to hear is his heavy breathing and I get horny. My boyfriend
loves to experiment with sex. Sometimes we fuck with
him coming in from the back, sometimes sitting up; we even
tried it in the shower once.
He likes it when I use my mouth on him. Often, in public, I
can't refrain from touching him up. Up until recently, I would
never allow him to perform cunnilingus on me, but now I love
to feel him sucking my clitoris and slipping his tongue in and
out of me.
When I'm by myself masturbating or daydreaming, my fantasies
change all the time. My favorite fantasies include being
fucked by a lion, a black man, or a cousin of mine. I've always
dreamed about trying i****t, but I have no b*****rs. The closest
I can get is my cousin. He is ten years older than me. Recently,
my grandfather died, and my cousin came up from Georgia for
the funeral. We have always been attracted to one another, and
during the middle of the night, he came down to where I was
sl**ping on the sofa. We smoked a jay, and he kissed me. Then
we got into some petting. After a while, I told him to go away.
Since then, how many times I've wished I hadn't! My chance
will come again, but I know I won't let anything happen, because
I am very faithful to my boyfriend, and I know he would
never have an affair with another girl. But I love to use this
story of what happened that night with my cousin as my fan27
tasy; I try all sorts of different endings to it, thinking about all
the things that could have gone on between us.
I have no guilt feelings about fantasizing. I love to hear my
boyfriend tell me he's going to “fuck me” during intercourse. It
really turns me on. Some of my fantasies I share with him.
There is one we plan to carry out soon. I told him I wanted him
to f***e himself upon me, to **** me when I said “No” to him.
He wants me to fight him off while he tells me he's going to
fuck me.
We have not got into “the group thing.” It doesn't appeal to
either of us. My boyfriend says he doesn't fantasize. Maybe
someday he will. I have found that when I do fantasize during
sex, it adds to both of our excitement.
Thank you for letting me get this off my chest. I hope it is of
some value to you in your studies. Good luck.
 One of the pleasures in reading novels or going to the
movies is the feeling they give us of how other people live.
They seem to enlarge the possibilities of our own lives. Sexual
fantasy, too, will often serve the same function, but instead of
reading about other people, by an act of emotional imagination,
we put ourselves in their shoes and bodies, feel what they feel,
experience their sexual joys as if they were our own. In Sarah's
fantasies, which follow, I find the one about the male guardian
the most interesting. It is evidently born out of c***dhood experiences
– the emotions seem to be of such an early stage of
development that even the sexual lines are blurred: Sarah tells
us that she plays all roles, both male and female. This is not
uncommon in fantasy. We all wonder how other people are
sexually; in our erotic reveries, we can rehearse their emotions
within ourselves. Another signal, I feel, that this fantasy is an
imaginative recreation of very early scenes is that Sarah does
not really put herself into any of the roles, not even that of “the
girl.” It all speaks of a time when she was so young that she
could not choose to act, but was acted upon. It is not, “I did
this or that …” but “The girl is told to take a bath…” and so
My fantasies have some points in common with those in
your book, which I loved, and others somewhat different. One
of them is recalling some good times with my ex-husband. He
would get me pretty excited with foreplay, and then he would
put it in, he would make just two or three thrusts, and then he'd
sort of back off with just the tip of it in and tease me – “Do you
want it, baby? Then you'll have to come and get it! Bring it up
to me, baby, climb my pole!” and I would have to raise my hips
up and down, and sometimes he would move around a little
and pretend he was going to take it out and quit, and I would
twist and. turn and raise and lower my hips frantically to keep
it in and keep the motion going – and of course I'd get hotter
and sweatier – doing all the work. And I had really great orgasms
that way. I could get on top, but it never worked with
me that way – only when I was underneath, and really working
at it. (I know some men don't like that at all.)
One other fantasy I have is about a lover I had who used to
have me sit on top of his refrigerator and sort of slide down one
rounded corner of it till his tongue was even with my cunt, and
he'd stand there with his hands sort of cupping my buttocks to
keep me from falling quite helplessly onto the floor, and lap it
up like an ice cream cone. Then he'd have me slide down off
the refrigerator right onto his big cock – nothing I could do
about that either – and waltz me into the bedroom with my toes
just off the floor. Our favorite joke was, “Do you want to come
over and defrost my refrigerator tonight?”
So much for recalling reality – now for fantasies that are just
fantasies. There's one about the little girl who has a male
guardian – father or uncle, I never really figured it out. One
day, the girl has a little boyfriend come over to play after
school and invites him to stay for dinner, The guardian agrees,
and the boy telephones home for permission, but is told his
parents are going out for dinner, and he has to stay where he is
till nine-thirty, if that's not too late. (I play all three roles in
this, alternating.) The guardian again says okay. But after dinner,
he tells the girl she must go and take her bath, which she
does, Then he calls to her and says just to come out in her bathrobe.
She does, and then he says to her, “Did you wash your
roses good?” She says she did, and he says, “Come lie down
over here on the sofa, and let's see if you did.” She says no, she
doesn't want to show Toby (her little boyfriend) her roses. At
this, the guardian gets angry and takes down a little paddle off
the mantelpiece and says, “So you don't want to show him your
roses, do you? Well, we'll just show him your little bare bottom
then,” and he takes her over his knee, pulls up her Bathrobe,
and proceeds to give her a good paddling, turning both of her
cheeks pink. Then he stops and says, “Do you want to show
Toby your roses?” And she says, “Yes, yes, yes!” So he puts
her on the sofa on her back and brings the lamp over, so it can
shine very bright, and pushes up a stool for Toby. “Sit there,”
he commands Toby. Then he opens the girl's legs and examines
her minutely, opening the labia around the vagina and the
clitoris. Then he scolds the girl, who has stopped crying by
now. “You didn't wash very good. We'll have to do better than
that.” He tells Toby to put his finger in her vagina and hold her
open with his other hand while he goes and gets the washrag
from the bathroom. Toby is afraid not to do as he is told and
gets more and more interested in the process and asks the girl
if his finger hurts her, and she says no, it feels good, but will he
move his other hand a little, which he does. The guardian
comes back with a washrag that he has surreptitiously wet with
the raspberry-tasting mouthwash, and telling Toby to keep his
finger where it is, he sponges the clitoris and labia – which
turn pink from the mouthwash color and the heat its slight antiseptic
content generate. The girl tries to twist and turn and
says the water's too hot, “It's hot, it hurts! Oh, Toby, kiss it and
make it stop hurting.” And Toby bends his head and kisses
her. By now in this fantasy, I would have come about twice.
Sometimes the guardian spanks Toby after this.
By now, I haven't got enough energy left to tell you many
details about my daughter's slumber party she had when she
was in junior high. The buzzing would kind of quiet down, and
I'd think finally I could get to sl**p. Then I'd hear a “Whap!”
and little moans and giggles. Since then I've imagined planting
a tape recorder at one of those parties. Wouldn't it be fun to
hear what games they really play and who gets whapped and
 In the letters that follow, very early experiences are
brought to mind. While Claudia is clearly a very healthy and
erotic young woman, I like the way she gives herself permission
not to hurry into sexual experience before she is emotionally
ready for it. “I'm only f******n years old, so I haven't
screwed yet,” she says, adding, “but I do enjoy some sex with
my boyfriends.” Reading her letter, we get the feeling that
when she is ready for a full sexual experience, she will do it
confidently, easily, and well. She will probably be the one who
decides exactly when, where, and with whom it will take place.
The progress of Claudia's life toward full womanly eroticism
seems clear; the four next letters help us chart some of the pitfalls
that seem to have lain in the way for other women. The
difficult terrain is very clearly mapped in Janice's letter. “I
deeply love my husband,” she writes “(we have been married
sixteen years), but I have always been profoundly thrilled by
my fantasies, which go back to an episode in my adolescence
… . To me, now that I dare think about it after reading your
book, it seems only natural that women should be aroused by
incidents involving urination, given the fact that our sexual
parts are so close to our urinary parts.”
While the incident that Janice refers to in her fantasy happened
during her adolescence, her erotic interest in, and confusion
of, urinary and sexual processes most likely began far
earlier in her life. By the time “Aunt Bessie” came along,
Janice had long since been u*********sly prepared to find the
older woman's invitation enough to “drive me out of my mind.”
Denise's letter, too, reminds us that about the time mother began
our toilet-training, she also began telling us not to play
with ourselves “down there.” It is often a time of tension between
mother and daughter – perhaps the first of their lifelong
battles. All interest is focused on this one part of the body during
this period, the mysteries of sex and urination become intertwined
– because both seem to be forbidden. Eroticism and
excretion become emotionally combined – the vagina is experienced
as the seat of a double kind of excitement.
The woman Frank writes about is fascinated by anal play –
she calls herself an “anal-erotic.” I include his letter not so
much for what he tells us about himself, but because his lover
is such a clear example of Freud's dictum that the anal stage of
development precedes the genital. Frank's lover chooses to live
out with him those fantasies that are the outgrowth and expression
of early toilet-training experiences … as also seems true of
Lana, whose fantasy follows Frank's letter. Robyn daydreams
happily about the guiltless pleasure of her fiancé giving her an
enema. In these letters, I am struck by the marvels of human
nature, its recuperative power and above all, its overriding
drive for health and self-acceptance. Janice, Denise, Frank's
lover, Lana, and Robyn have all taken what might seem at first
glance to be behavioral hang-ups, but I have found in them
sources of erotic pleasure instead. I applaud them all. 
I have just finished reading your book. Thank you, for it
really opened my eyes to the way many women think. Some
parts shocked me, other parts disgusted me, but most of it excited
me. And I truly believe there are women who feel excited
even by the things that turn me off … and that's okay for them.
I find it exciting that we women are all so different.
I have never been ashamed of my fantasies, but I just didn't
know that's what they were. I'm only f******n years old, so I
haven't screwed yet, but I do enjoy some sex with my boyfriends.
I have had fantasies ever since I can remember. As a
little k**, I imagined I was a harem girl, or a slave girl on sale
at a public marketplace. I was always well-developed in the
fantasy, although I was actually flat as a board then and didn't
have a single pubic hair. In my fantasy, men would walk by me
and examine me, but only with their eyes. It wasn't until. I was
eleven years old that I even began to think and fantasize of
guys putting their fingers up me. When I was ten, I stopped
being the submissive one in my thoughts, and became the se32
ducer. At night, I would (and still do) think of a foxy guy I
know or a handsome teacher and imagine me telling him to
suck my tits, while I softly play with his cock.
I “cock watch,” naturally. I can't help it. To me, it's just like
guys looking at boobs. I sometimes wear sexy clothes, and it
excites me to know that I have caused a guy to get a boner. I
then imagine what his cock looks like, how large his balls are,
how erect it (the dick) is, if he's circumcised or not, etc. You
know, all the things girls who like guys enjoy thinking about.
I hope you can use this in your next book. It has excited me
just to write about it, because I have never told anyone about
these things, except when I was a k**. Thank you again for
your book I think I got my first orgasm while reading it and
masturbating myself, but I'm not sure. Thanks anyhow, because
it felt good!
I am so pleased your book opened up an area of discussion
which so directly affects my sexual life. Until reading
other women's fantasies of urination – the sexual pleasure derived
from such ideas – I had felt myself to be “unusual” or
worse. I deeply love my husband (we have been married sixteen
years), but I have always been profoundly thrilled by my
fantasies, which go back to an episode in my adolescence. I
have thought about this incident so often, and embroidered on
it, that I am no longer quite sure what actually did happen and
just what I have added to increase the pleasure thinking about
it gives me.
To me, now that I dare think about it after reading your
book, it seems only natural that women should be aroused by
incidents involving urination, given the fact that our sexual
parts are so close to our urinary parts. I sometimes think that if
I dared think about many of the things that frighten me, the
fear would be replaced so easily by self-acceptance; all that
keeps me, and others, from thinking of these fearsome things is
the thought that it is sinful to consider them; and yet what can
be sinful in just thinking about something?
Here is my fantasy:
I am visiting at the home of an older friend, someone I call
Aunt Bessie, although we are not related. One rainy day, during
the visit, as luncheon time approaches, Aunt Bessie and I
have two large martinis. Afterward, we sit down at the dining
table to eat. Lunch starts with a delicious thin soup, of which I
have two servings. Soup is followed by cold cuts, accompanied
by steins of cold, foaming beer. For dessert, there are crackers
and cheese, with refills of the steins to wash it down. About
half an hour after lunch, I get up from my chair and start to
leave the room. Aunt Bessie asks where I am going, and I reply:
“Sorry, but I have to pee.” To this, Aunt Bessie says,
“Nonsense, you just think you have to go. Come back here and
sit down, and we will split a bottle of champagne.” Although I
have some doubts as to my ability to retain any longer, all the
liquid I have imbibed nevertheless I comply. At this point, I
begin to suspect that Aunt Bessie has something “up her
sleeve,” but just what, I cannot imagine. We sit for a while,
drinking the champagne and smoking two or three cigarettes,
me feeling more and more uncomfortable by the minute. As I
finish the last drop in my glass, I say to Aunt Bessie: “I really
must go now, I can't hold it any longer.” Aunt Bessie replies:
“Well, if you must, you must, but I hope you don't mind if I go
with you.” Upon arriving in the bathroom, Aunt Bessie asks
me to remove my dress and panties and then sit on the toilet
seat, but without dropping even a tear for a few moments. Aunt
Bessie then kneels down on a cushion placed conveniently to
one side of the toilet seat, reaches across my nearest thigh, and
proceeds to manipulate my clitoris. As soon as I feel my
friend's fingers playing with my clitoris, the desire to void my
urine recedes. Aunt Bessie tells me: “Wait until the exact moment
of the climax I am going to bring you to, and then let the
freshet flow. I guarantee you will have the most ecstatic orgasm
any woman can have in this world – or the next, for that
Sure enough, just as Aunt Bessie's skillful fingers bring me
up to and push me over the edge, I let my piss come in a rush.
It is like coming in two places at once, and the hot piss flowing
down my slit and over the pulsating mouth of my vagina nearly
drives me out of my mind.
Thanks for doing My Secret Garden – one of the fantasies
electrified me, naturally: I saw myself in it. On p. 179, “Faith”
calls herself a “urologenic.” Obviously, there must be a lot of
us if someone put such a fancy label on us! What I want to
know is where I can find out more about us – also, I'd surely
like to trade fantasies with another like-minded gal – if at all
possible, I'd like you to forward my letter to Faith; if you can't
do that, it's okay, and I understand. Now maybe you'd like a
fantasy along these lines for your next book. I'm gay, by the by,
and ecstatically happy about it. Before I understood my fascination
with urination, I used to try to turn my fantasies toward
intercourse and ejaculation – I thought I had urination mixed
up with ejaculation, but I realize it's just not true. It's the accidents
people have, especially men or boys, that fascinate me.
My favorite fantasy takes place in a grammar school classroom.
Billy, a cute fifteen-year-old, raises his hand to be excused
to the bathroom. The teacher carelessly ignores him, then
puts him off with repeated “in-a-minutes.” At this point in the
fantasy, many variations work. A typical version now is that he
feels such pressure that he jams his knees together and scoots
forward at his desk, trying to “hold it.” It doesn't help, and
with his face burning, he finds it necessary to let go just a little,
every few minutes, to ease the pressure. Soon, the other k**s
notice, pointing and whispering at the growing puddle under
his desk. Billy always wears tight Levi's and has a very cute
behind. Sometimes he is made to stand in the corner at the
front of the room, where he wets himself in front of everybody.
I only wish I had a notion of how to look for information on
this “aberration.” Thanks a lot!
I'm a heterosexual male, and it would seem absurd for me to
comment on the sexual fantasies of women. In fact, I'm not
even interested in them to any extent; a I ran across your My
Secret Garden by accident and only thumbed through it idly.
However, I see you are collecting material, and I have a sort of
case history to give to you for what it's worth. This is a livedout
fantasy in which I participated, and frankly, I'm a bit troubled
about it in retrospect. It's rather extreme, or so it seems to
me, and I wonder if I have encouraged the woman in what may
become a harmful sexual aberration.
First, let me set the stage and describe the characters briefly.
I'm a middle-aged business executive and quite an ordinary
fellow, nothing special about me at all. The woman is nearing
forty, a rather intense emotional type but distinctly attractive,
married to a man she likes but who is totally impotent due to
illness. She is torn between resolve to remain at least technically
faithful to her husband and an urgent need for sexual release.
I like her, and am sympathetic to her in her problem. The
two of us compromised in a pretend affair limited to cunnilingus
and fellatio.
But this wasn't wholly satisfactory to either of us. For my
part, I enjoy this with an attractive woman, but mostly as only
a part of loveplay rather than as an end in itself. She felt guiltridden
and had difficulty achieving orgasm that way. It just
wasn't very good. Until we discovered something else, by a
quite accidental move on my part. I was caressing her vulva
with my hand preparatory to cunnilingus, when I inadvertently
let a finger stray into the crevice of her buttocks, and its tip
pressed into her anus. She stiffened and cried out, and almost
instantly went into orgasm.
Here at last we come to the fantasy itself. She was, in fantasy,
an anal erotic. Later, she confessed this to me. She
dreamed of having a man thrust his finger through the sphincter
of her anus and on up into her rectum. Going further, she
imagined his mouth on her there. And, in return, of putting her
mouth on him.
Later, we actually did this. I was personally a bit doubtful,
to tell the truth. There have been other women in my experience
who liked anal loveplay, and I am not particularly averse
to it. When I'm in the proper mood, an attractive woman's anus
can be exciting as a part of the whole of her. I like everything
about women, and although I have never done actual anal intercourse,
I often do caress a woman there during loveplay or
cunnilingus if she seems to want it. But it turned out that, once
released from inhibition, this woman was really avid about
this. It was not only the best but almost the only way she could
achieve complete orgasm. And for the ultimate experience, she
wanted it to be shared. So it became our regular custom to do it
to one another. Lying head to toe, I would fasten my mouth
over her anus while stroking her vulva and clitoris with the
fingers of a hand. She would tuck my penis down between her
breasts, hold my testicles aside with one hand, and suck with
lips and tongue at my anus.
The actual living out of this fantasy of hers seems to give her
a supreme experience. She goes quite mad in her ecstasy. Her
anus works in and out against my lips, her vulva positively
gushes fluid, she bites and sucks at my anus and crushes my
penis between her breasts, her climax when it comes is violent
and interminable.
All this is most enjoyable for me too, I'll admit. I'm something
of a voyeur, I like to look at an attractive woman in all
her intimate places, to see her vulva open pink and wet, her
clitoris swell, her little peeplace gape open at the touch of my
tongue, her vagina reveal its inner flesh to me, her anus stretch
and pulsate as I touch her there. I like to feel her, and smell
her, and taste her. And God knows it's a fantastic titillating
sensation to have a woman's lips and tongue sucking and probing
at me, to have her breasts caress my penis until it spurts
over them and her belly.
But all this, good though it is, somehow pales in comparison
to the real thing for me. I like giving her pleasure in this way; I
enjoy it myself. But it's all only play to me; I remain unaffected
in the ultimate sense. But for her, it seems to be rapidly assuming
the proportions of an obsession. She doesn't want it any
other way now. I'm worried – she's really a very nice person,
and I do like her – lest I may be encouraging her in a sexual
aberration that may eventually do her harm.
Oh, well, you've listened long enough. I don't expect you to
reply, and perhaps this report may be of no use to you at all.
But if you're interested in the sexual fantasies of women, here's
one that came to life. You're welcome to use all or any part of
this account as you like, no obligation. In any case, good luck
to you in writing more about this interesting subject of women
and their fantasies.
Congratulations on a sensitive piece which rightfully credits
women with a high degree of creativity.
After reading your book, it sounded like fun to write down a
fantasy I have been having – it seems a little more difficult to
share it. Actually, my fantasy does not materialize during sex,
but rather acts as kind of a “sl**ping pill” when I have had a
particularly tiring day at work.
It begins as I am sitting in a waiting room which is painfully
antiseptic and severe. I feel very uncomfortable being there, for
it seems it is somewhat against my will. Other girls are seated
around me also nervously shifting in their chairs.
Finally, my name is called by a woman who resembles an
old grade-school librarian. Very unchic and clinical. She shows
me into a huge office painted white, with a cold metal examination
table in the middle. She asks that I remove my clothes
and carry them to the corner of the room. When I bend down to
put them there, she tells me to stay in that position while she
prepares an injection to tranquilize me. She finally returns and
feels all over me for the correct site – usually on my rear. As
she is giving me the shot, three men enter the room. One is
deadly serious, and the others are his students. They are all
surprised at the position I am in. The teacher appears cross
with the woman for not doing a better job of relaxing me.
I am told to mount the examination table. I do and lie on my
back. But one of the students laughs and asks me to turn over,
saying he needs the relaxed end up. It is at that point, out of the
corner of my eye, with my head resting on my hands, that I see
a large machine being wheeled in with a tubular device attached
to a long rubber hose. One of the students asks me to
relax and spread my legs as far as they will go, while the other
student, amid sideways winks and donning rubber gloves, lubricates
my rectum with his fingers. The teacher then slowly
and with some difficulty (because I keep tightening my muscles)
inserts the tube into my rear and announces that this is an
enema designed with both an outflow and inflow suction.
Water swishes, legs are held apart, and I am constantly told
to relax. After a while, it is all over, and the tube is removed.
By then I am usually asl**p.
Should I need to fantasize further, I am prepared.
The teacher tells me I am to be the model for a mold or casting
of a dildo to better fit all women. Another injection, and
then I am turned over. My legs are spread on a t****ze affair
suspended from the ceiling. The students busy themselves with
a thorough douching of my vagina, while the teacher feels my
breasts and asks me if it hurts.
Then another machine is wheeled in with a larger tube inserted
into that clean vagina. The plaster oozes out of the tube
and seems to fill my whole body. It's warm and keeps expanding.
One of the students pushes his hand on my stomach, while
the other closes the slit with his fingers. Meanwhile, the doctor
inserts a lubricated thermometer in my rectum.
Others are called to help remove the casting – usually men
that I have never had affairs with, but have thought about it.
They enter the room slightly surprised to see me, but don rubber
gloves and aid in taking out the form.
The final bliss comes when it is tried out on the librariantype.
I am amazed that I wrote this, but really did have fun doing
it. It is a genuine fantasy.
I just finished reading your book, My Secret Garden, and I
must admit I enjoyed it very much.
To give you a bit of my background, I'm female, eighteen,
and am presently engaged to be married in one and a half
years. Please, no comments! I've had enough objections from
my parents and relatives already! John and I are very much in
love, although we've known each other only eight short
I've had sex with two other guys before John, but I never
really enjoyed it. With John, every minute we are making love
is heaven. I am the first girl John has ever fucked, and John is
the only guy who's made me reach a climax. We fuck about
three or four times a week (I'm on the pill), usually in his car,
occasionally we rent a motel room, although I have to be home
by 1:30 A.M. I guess I should tell you our favorite ways of
fucking before I tell you my fantasies. First of all, we both get
greatest satisfaction with me on top. He can touch my clitoris
when I'm this way, and I can fondle his balls. When in the car,
I kneel over him while he's sitting, and this way he can use one
finger on my clitoris, and another finger up my anus. I adore
the feeling I get when his finger is in my asshole. I come the
best this way. We use every possible word, while fucking. I
love to hear him say what he's doing, and really letting the
words flow. However, we never use these words any other
time. I also enjoy a good sound spanking on my bare bottom
before making love. (He can't stand me spanking him, though.)
It feels great when he puts a lotion on my fiery bottom afterward.
We both enjoy the sixty-nine position, with me on top. This
way he can also use his hand. I can't come when he's not using
a finger on my clitoris. Often, he'll go down on me before we
make love; I usually come while he's doing this.
Now, for fantasies. I guess mine are basic, not too unusual. I
often daydream of having sex with another woman, but I never
think of this while we're fucking. I'd really like to try it with a
girl, but truthfully, I don't know anyone I could do it with. By
the way, none of my girl friends, except one, know that John
and I fuck. If the opportunity ever arose, I'd definitely try it.
(And I'd never tell John.)
I'd also like to pretend that John was a doctor, and he'd have
to give me an enema. I can see him wearing the kind of white
gauze mask that doctors wear and leaning over me. I am on a
special gynecological table, with my feet in the stirrups, but
because he is going to carefully examine my anus before giving
rime an enema, I am lying facedown, so I am all spread open
for him, my cunt and my anus. First, he pokes his finger in my
asshole and tries to look in. But he can't see enough. So he
takes out a kind of surgical pliers and warms the cold metal in
a bowl of warm water. Then he inserts the pliers in my anus,
and when they are in good and deep, he slowly opens them so
he can have a good look in. For some reason of anatomy I don't
understand, he has to put his fingers in my vagina while he is
examining my asshole. Perhaps this helps open it up more.
Then when he has it figured out, he says to me, “Well, I will
have to give you an enema. That will fix you up.” But instead
of having me sit on a toilet, he puts me in a kind of swing, so
that I am supported under the shoulders, and from the knees
down, but my bottom is hanging naked down below. John
brings in an enormous enema bottle and hangs it up high over
my head. “This will really fix you up,” he says, and begins to
insert the rubber pipe into me. He is down below the canvas
swing, so I can't really see him, but he's shoving in inches and
feet of rubber piping, really shoving it in. And then as he turns
on the warm water, he leans over to kiss me. As he does so, he
puts his fingers on my clitoris and lovingly plays with it. I can
feel the water gently running up through me; John is holding
my cunt lips tenderly in his hands and telling me I'll be all
right soon. The feeling is very peaceful, but even as I write this,
I can feel myself almost beginning to come.
That fantasy may seem a bit gross, but I'd really like it to
happen. (Wherever could I get stirrups and the canvas swing
and such?) I don't know if I'll ever get enough nerve to ask
John to do this, but maybe if I get d***k enough … I'm sure he
would agree – he never refused to try anything. I'd also like to
shave all my pubic hair off, but he is repulsed by the idea.
We also masturbate together (I seldom do it alone), and
we've seen each other pee. It's most romantic in the dark deep
I hope I've helped you in some way. Please hurry and publish
your next book. I can hardly wait to read it.
Maybe, I'll invite you to our wedding! Remember – SEX IS
P.S. He also loves to suck on my large tits. He can't wait till
I'm pregnant.
P.P.S. I also get turned on by hard porno. (He doesn't.)
 In all the fantasies that follow in this chapter, the writers
themselves describe their fantasies as growing out of c***dhood
experiences – or else their early beginnings are evident in the
emotions they express. I always feel grateful to women like Ivy
and Sophie who write to confirm the value of sexual fantasies
in their lives; just as their own ther****ts have told them that
sexual fantasies do not mean they are freaks, so have several
other psychoanalysts written to me of the usefulness to human
health and happiness of sexual fantasy. As part of their the****utic
approach, these doctors have begun to encourage their
more inhibited patients to invent their own fantasies, often
beginning by having them read My Secret Garden first.
I especially appreciate the generosity of Dr. Harrison's letter,
not just toward me but clearly toward all his women patients.
The fact that he would also enclose his own fantasy makes him
even more dimensional to me, not just a doctor but a man too.
We may not all be able to afford, or want, psychotherapy, but
the experiences these women have shared with us – acknowledging
how difficult it was for them to accept and enjoy the
guilt-ridden early sexual pleasures of c***dhood – can help us
all. You were sexual as a c***d; the thrills and sensations you
felt then are still with you. You may have felt guilty about it
when you were six or ten, but you are grown-up now and can
understand how unnecessary this guilt is. More important, you
can put those early sexual experiences and emotions to work
for you. When we were c***dren, many of us were made to
memorize a passage from the Bible: “When I was a c***d, I
spake as a c***d … . When I became a man, I put away c***dish
things.” I submit that this is not entirely correct. We may
put away c***dish words and games, but our earliest sexuality
is the foundation on which our sexual maturity grows. These
women recognize this. Maybe you can learn from them. 
I've just finished reading My Secret Garden. For me, it was
one of many approaches I am currently taking to work through
numerous sexual hang-ups. Mostly it helps by confirming my
ther****t's statements that my fantasies and sexual desires are
normal, shared by many others.
I am thirty-one, married nine years, two c***dren, returned to
graduate school a year ago. Both my husband and I are in therapy;
hopefully this counseling, plus attending a clinic for sexual
disfunctions will enable us to remain married. But if not, I
think we will both be at the point that we can survive divorce,
and come through the whole experience with some positive
Fantasy 1: My ther****t (who is female) has arranged for
me to be sexually counseled by a male friend, also a ther****t. I
meet regularly with him, once a week, in his apartment. He is
very perceptive and sensitive; in the beginning, we only talk.
He is very slow to introduce sexual activities. The second time
I am there, he merely has me lie fully clothed next to him. It's
as though he always sensed at what point the fears I have regarding
sex negate the excitement, and always takes me on one
step beyond where I think it's okay, but one step short of what
would scare me away. This is my sweetest, gentlest fantasy,
and I haven't yet gotten us to the point of actually making love,
and orgasm (which I am only able to achieve while masturbating
in real life).
Fantasy 2: (This is wild.) The beginning part of this borrows
and adapts part of a science-fiction novel I once read.
There is some group of people who have instituted a colony of
“superpeople” … beautiful, strong, intelligent, etc. (Naturally,
they want me. Such egotism.) Anyway, they get their population
by k**napping desirable persons.
I'm k**napped, and awaken in a sparsely furnished bedroom.
For the next two weeks, someone comes each day and
takes me for different types of tests – a thorough physical
which I really enjoy, especially the rectal examination for cancer
(I never had this, but someone once described it to me), I.Q.
tests, physical stamina tests, tests for pain threshold, sexual
desire thresholds (i.e., they studied my physiological responses
to sexual stimulus à la Masters and Johnson). What is turning
me on, aside from the discreet experiences of pain, sexual
stimuli, etc., is the feeling of someone or something knowing
all of me in such intimate detail.
In the meantime, they are also carrying on at this place social-
psychology-type experiments. After a few days of testing, I
return to the room and see d****s parted so that I can see a
man in a similarly furnished adjacent room – apparently he
can't see me. Later (on a different day), we see one another and
try to talk through the glass; all we are able to communicate is
that neither of us understand where we are or what's going on.
Finally, usually the day I endure the pain threshold experiments,
I return quite shaken to the room, and see that now
there is a doorway in the wall, and I cross over to his room,
where he comforts me and holds me. Sometimes we screw,
sometimes not, but it is always a gentle act.
Sometime later, he returns from a similar experience, and I
comfort him. The sexual turn-on for me lies in the various tests
performed, but this man is still an essential part of the fantasy;
it occurs to me that maybe he is the safe place I can return to
when sexual feelings have become too strong and, therefore,
frightening to me (it is the loss of control I fear).
I have a couple of other remarks:
1: I think for me it's true that certain fantasies stem from
c***dhood. I can remember having feelings reading the parts of
Tom Sawyer where the schoolmaster switched c***dren. I was
raised a very strict Catholic and would never allow my “sexual”
thoughts in my head. But thoughts of spankings and pain,
which turned me on, didn't fall into that category, because I
was too young to recognize those pleasurable feelings as sexual,
or at least sensual. Likewise, a movie scene in which a
group of rough men were ordering a woman in a bar to undress
of they'd kill her male friend (knife at his throat) turned me on
at almost age twelve, and my ****-type fantasies have this
theme. The f***e is never raw strength, but psychological
domination, threat of what they might do to someone else who
is there (a male friend of mine) if I don't go along.
2: I would like to believe that the domination desire stems
from the freedom from guilt which that situation provides. I
very much identified with the woman in your book who said
that the domination thing grew as her involvement in women's
lib grew … the same thing happened to me, and it seemed like
such a contradiction: the more liberated I felt in my day-to-day
life, the more I fell back on and needed my domination fantasies
during sex. Perhaps women's lib helped me to believe in
my right to sexual feelings and experiences, but it's too difficult
to forget all that guilt at once … so domination lets me have
the pleasure without the guilt.
3: I liked the distinction you suggested between pain for
pain's sake and pain as an instrument of domination. As you
noted of other people, real pain turns me off; in fact, torture
scenes in movies, etc., have made me upset to the point of nausea.
I can't stand to hear people screaming, etc. But the thought
of my bare ass being spanked as a preliminary to sex really
turns me on, especially as the means by which a male f***es
me to suck him (which I have ambivalent feelings about, but
am really turned off at the thought of doing it till he comes …
something I've never done).
4: I found that fantasies of faceless people and unknown environments
never made me feel guilty. But thinking of someone
else I know while screwing with my husband still does,
possibly because our marriage is not all that secure right now.
However, I don't feel as cheap and shitty as I used to, having
read in your book how many women do think of other men.
Thanks. I don't have the nerve to sign this with my real
name. If any of the comments are helpful to you, let them be
my way of contributing something in return for what I gained
reading My Secret Garden.
Thank you for the first book. I couldn't believe how turned
on I could get. by reading, and ever since, I use your book to
arouse myself before masturbating. Sure, I've got fantasies, lots
of them! I'm twenty-one, lost my virginity at nineteen to someone
who fell in love with me, have had sex with maybe seven
or eight guys, no serious relationships, and over one hundred
forty “dates” and casual affairs. I discuss sex and fantasies
with my Mom and turned her on to your book (as well as
EVERY woman I know). I love sex, anytime, anywhere, and
am in the beginning of a beautiful relationship with an incredible
guy who is a fabulous lover and who is very open about
The one fantasy which started when I was about ten, has become
a well-developed, detailed, and (excruciatingly) arousing
little plot that I embellish whenever I want to. However, the
theme is always domination, and I always get spanked. One
important detail is that the guy is smoking cigarettes – I guess
this adds to his macho appearance. I only go out with very
sensitive men who are in the creative field, but they've all been
fairly dominating (but in a gentle, considerate way). I won't
take shit from any guy and refuse to be told what to do. However,
enough autobiography, here it is:
I am reading a book in his bed, wearing a fly-front skirt,
button-down shirt, and only underpants. He comes in wearing
jeans, a denim shirt, open very low down, and with a fitted
leather jacket (collar up, of course). He comes over to the bed,
sits down next to me, and tells me to put the book away. I refuse.
He puts out his cigarette and takes the book out of my
hand. Everything is done slowly, especially the stamping out of
his many cigarettes, which elongates the fantasy and arouses
me even more. I play innocent and do nothing except yawn or
consistently refuse. He lights up another cigarette and makes a
telephone call to his agent (he's an illustrator), and while on the
phone unbuttons my shirt and takes it off. He rolls me over on
my stomach and very slowly lifts up my skirt and pulls down
my underpants and leaves me like that while he leaves the
room to get a number for his agent. (As he puts the phone
down, he whispers, “If you move, I feel sorry for you, and you
can forget about sitting down for tonight.”) When he comes
back, I have sat up, pulled up my underwear, and pulled down
my skirt. He hangs up and makes me stand in front of him
while he sits at the edge of the bed and takes off my skirt. As I
stand in front of him in just my underpants, he makes another
phone call. While on the phone, he grabs me and puts me over
his knee (by this time I probably have come about twenty
times) and slowly pulls down my underpants. After the call, he
spanks me very hard, but I refuse to cry. Then he fingers me
while he makes another call, which lasts for maybe twenty
minutes. After that one, he spanks me again, always in between
each slap saying what a spoiled brat I am and how I've
had this coming to me for a long time He continues until I cry.
Then he tells me to lay down and wait for him. He goes into
the kitchen and comes back with rope and ties me up. He takes
off his leather jacket, and rolls up his sleeves (this turns me on
even more) and teases me for a long time (I love to be teased),
then he unties me, and we make love all night, but he NEVER
My thighs are locked together as I write this, and I'm trying
to figure out how to get my boyfriend to do it He has spanked
me, but not long enough and not slowly; he also said he would
act out my fantasies.
Hope this has helped, although I don't see how it could, it's
too typical! Thanks again.
P.S. I'm an art student.
Just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed your book,
My Secret Garden. I am twenty-five, single, and have had numerous
lovers, all male. I have a master's degree in French and
am a teacher by profession.
I have been fantasizing sexually since I was about five or
six, when I began to masturbate. I was always ashamed of my
fantasies – they were my private secret – up until about two or
three years ago, when I underwent therapy with a psychiatrist.
He practically had to drag these fantasies out of me – I didn't
feel comfortable enough to tell him about them until I had been
in therapy for close to two years. When I finally did tell him, I
felt great relief that he accepted them and didn't recoil in horror
and disgust when he heard them. Since that time, I have become
much more relaxed about masturbating itself, enjoying it
much more than before (now I can honestly admit that it is
pleasurable), and I now also realize that sexual fantasies aren't
dirty and disgusting, that indeed practically all women have
them. I still masturbate regularly and enjoy that sort of
“naughty” or even “dirty” feeling that used to repulse me. I
also like to feel naughty and dirty when I'm screwing.
I realize that if I had not undergone therapy, I might never
have discovered how pleasant and natural such fantasies can
be, and that guilt feelings are not a necessary psychological
“payment” for such pleasurable, but forbidden, thoughts. I
hope that by reading your book, other women will draw the
same conclusions about their fantasies, without the aid of a
Thank you for your outstanding contribution to the liberation
of the female sexual psyche.
I think I may attach some of my own fantasies to this letter.
You may use them as you wish.
P.S. I read your book while at work (I'm doing temporary
secretarial work during the summer) and beat off three times
yesterday during the day, right at my desk!! Once I almost got
caught, and it was ever so exciting!!
Fantasy 1: This one's an oldtimer – I used to use it exclusively,
but now I usually use variations on the same theme, two
of which also follow.
I am walking in the woods, enjoying the green scenery (I'll
bet the shrink would say this is like walking through pubic
hair), when all of a sudden I fall through a hole in the ground
into a sort of laboratory. Inside the laboratory are lots of men in
white coats (I guess they're doctors or something). I am undressed,
weighed, and then put on some sort of cart which
wheels me around to the various departments in the laboratory.
First, I am examined and proclaimed healthy (internally, that
is), and then the doctors determine that I am orgasmic and
suitable for experimentation. The last stop is a big room with a
kind of observation balcony. There are lots of men up there
watching me, all extremely interested in so lovely a specimen
as myself. The head doctor, or whatever he is, comes on the
loudspeaker and announces that the gentlemen will soon witness
a female orgasm. Then a large man comes in – he's usually
very strong-looking, and although he's not physically dirty,
he is perspiring and has a gleam in his eye that tells me he's
going to do a job on me. This man has been trained by the lab,
so that he knows precisely how to drive a woman into crazed
ecstasy. I am strapped onto a table, my legs wide apart. The
big man approaches me, explores me with his finger, smiles
wickedly, nods in approval to the head doctor and the men
observing the scene, then comes down on me, flicking my clit
with his tongue. The whole time this is going on, the doctor is
giving a blow-by-blow account of how I'm feeling and how
turned on I'm getting over the loudspeaker. He tells the men
that I'm getting very close to coming. Finally, the big man
sucking my cunt can't stand it anymore himself, and so he
drops his trousers, revealing a large, erect dick, and he fucks
me for all he's worth, while at the same time flicking my clit
with his finger, until I come, come, come, all over the fucking
Fantasy 2: This one has the same setting (sometimes I skip
the beginning part and just find myself in the large room I described
above). Now the men who were observing before are
taking turns trying to turn me on, all this happening under the
head doctor's watchful and approving eye. Each man tries his
own special technique for exciting me, and the all-knowing
doctor can tell who does the best job on me. The men try hard,
because they know what the prize of doing the best job is – me
(who else?). At some point, the doctor tells one of the men he
has won me. This man then wheels the table I'm strapped to
into another room, where he uses his technique to bring me to
explosive orgasm by sucking, feeling, and fucking me.
Fantasy 3: Again the same background, except that now I've
been at this laboratory for some time and know what to expect.
I have come to enjoy this experimentation so much that, this
time, the doctor announces over the loudspeaker, I have begged
him to let someone work me over again. Same scene, same
ending, except that this time I asked for it.
I just want to add that these are all fantasies that I use while
masturbating. I don't normally fantasize too much while fucking,
except that if someone's eating me out, I'll usually use one
of these old standbys. I love to be fucked from behind while
having my clit manipulated, either by me or my partner, and
lots of times I can't come unless someone's playing with my
clit. At any rate, I have my best orgasms when someone's fucking
me and playing with my clit at the same time.
Dr. John Harrison
As you can see by the letterhead above (which I must ask
you not to reprint, for obvious reasons), I am a psychoanalyst.
This letter is to tell you that your book, My Secret Garden, is
already having highly beneficial spinoffs in my the****utic
practice. For example, a young mother says, “I can't reveal my
sexual fantasies to you directly, but if you will look on page xx
in Nancy Friday's book, you will read one that is something
like mine!” As you might guess, by the conclusion of therapy, I
hope she will be able to talk to me directly about all her sexual
fantasies in complete detail. That would denote selfacceptance,
maturity, responsibility, and a giant step toward a
more fulfilling life.
Your book provides a most welcome generalizing example
that encourages people to come to terms with themselves and
perhaps seek some of the excitement of which they dream. It is
known, for example, that people with true psychosomatic illnesses,
such as ulcers, hypertension, etc., are sadly lacking in
the capacity to fantasize. If they can learn to fantasize, their
nervous stress, strain, anxiety, and frustration may be given an
outlet in that manner, and not have to be expressed as destructive
f***es within their own poor bodies.
One other comment: many neurotics are entirely u*********s
of their most important sexual fantasies. Psychoanalysis
helps them make these conscious and acceptable. Most people
are genuinely unaware of what really excites them, but from
your “catalog” (if I may use such a shorthand term), they can
find one very similar to their own previously unrecognized
fantasies. In psychoanalysis, we find again and again that this
basic fantasy had once been known and treasured, but then
repressed out of shame, etc. I would compare your book to a
jukebox with old, forgotten favorite tunes which, when played,
bring back all the feelings of yesteryear.
Please continue with your good work. I know it must be
pleasurable; I hope it is profitable. Now that you know that in
the experience of at least one psychoanalyst, it is the****utic as
well, you must feel you have found the best of all occupations.
Your photo on the dust jacket does invite me to tell you a
sexual fantasy of my own. You have an intimate, sexual, and
candid look about you. Perhaps your appearance invites people
to be candid with you in return. To tell such a fantasy is a mild
sexual experience in itself – but you asked for it.
It is this: On any given day in my office, when a woman
comes in with a brief miniskirt and no panties, she is rewarded
with a gentle, moist, caressing of her cunt with my tongue. It
would be important for her to sense that this would happen
only if she gave a sign of acquiescence by the way she dressed
and sat.
Freud talked about the sexual fantasies that patients had
about their doctors, and went on to posit and discuss the counter-
transference this developed in their ther****ts. Which is a
stuffy, polysyllabic word for what amounts to a little cuntlicking
in my case.
I am sure you understand why I request that while you let
the fact that I am a psychoanalyst stand, I ask that you assign
me a fictitious name.
I'm writing this because I think I may be a lesbian – I'm not
sure. I think it all started when I was six or seven years old. My
playmate and I used to take off all our clothes. Then I would
climb on top of her (I'm very aggressive), open her pussy lips,
and grind the hell out of her. Then I met her older s****r, Tish.
One day, Tish was alone in the house, and asked me to come
over. She had on a nightgown, but with nothing underneath.
She raised the gown and told me to rub her pussy. I did it, and
in my fantasies even today, I am often still seven years old. I
like to remember how I opened her lips and tickled her clitoris.
Even as I write this, I can imagine how she looked when she
reached climax. The reason I think I may be a lesbian is that
she didn't tell me to open her pussy lips and tickle her. I did
this all on my own.
When I became eight years old, I gave up my playmate for a
boyfriend named Teddy. Teddy and I used to go down into the
basement and take off all our clothes and fuck all day. (I know
that isn't the way it could have been, but that's how it seems in
my memories.) But he soon told his pals, and they joined us.
One day, seven boys pulled a train on me. I didn't tell my mom
or dad, because I enjoyed it so much. But I think that incident
is what made me dislike boys and want to go back to women.
When I say “Go back to women,” I mean, thinking about
them, fantasizing about them. I often find myself wanting to
have an affair with a woman rather than a man. As I've said
earlier, I am very aggressive. When I go out with a nice man, I
find myself being bossy. I like to make up fantasies about girls
with blonde hair and blue eyes. (I am black.) In my fantasies, I
always see myself going up to them on the street and propositioning
them. But in real life, I never do. I also want to **** my
best friend. I think I'm waiting for the right moment. She doesn't
know the real me. I've never told her how I feel about her,
and the part she plays in my fantasies. Perhaps I will grow out
of this phase. Maybe I don't know very much about life since
I'm only s*******n, and want to shock my parents. Am I really
mixed up, or is this a super, superfantasy?
P.S. To show you what thinking can do, even though I have
not described my fantasies in any complete way, I have been
thinking about them while writing this, and my cunt is dripping
The idea of “innocence” being initiated into sexual pleasure
and orgasm is something I love to use in fantasies, my favorite
having to do with a “religious” experience. (Oddly enough, I
had no religious upbringing, and no religious experiences of
any kind.)
In the fantasy, I am a young girl who has been raised without
any sexual knowledge. My f****y are churchgoers; I am
meant to be pure and virginal. When I reach the right age (late
puberty), my parents take me to church for some special religious
instruction from the “priest.” He takes me alone into the
room for initiates. There are candles burning around a cushioned
table that is covered with purple velvet. The priest wears
long robes. He is a man in his thirties or forties, with a quality
of masculine virility, despite presumed celibacy. He has a deep
voice. He explains that I am now to undergo a very holy condition
– the supreme ecstasy of God's greatest power. I will experience
extraordinary sensations, quite beyond anything I've
ever known, but I must freely open my will, and my body, to
the Holy Spirit. I must allow myself to react without fear to
whatever frenzied state the Holy Spirit ordains when it takes
possession of me. And I must be in the pure state of complete
nudity. “Don't be embarrassed now; this is a holy thing that is
about to happen to you….” He helps me remove my clothing
and instructs me to lie down on the cushioned table so that he
may prepare both my soul and body. While I lie naked on the
table, he anoints my breasts, belly, thighs, with perfumed oil,
and intones prayers and chants. “Let this young woman be
filled with the Holy Spirit. Enter her body and soul and encompass
her in the greatest ecstasy. Fulfill her in joyous holiness….”
His touch is pleasant, strangely provocative, and mysterious.
His voice is hypnotic. I lie in an entranced stupor. He
waves a scepter over me. It is made of gold, with a rounded,
bulblike tip. “Let the holy scepter find the entrance to her soul
through her body…” he murmurs. He lays the round gold top
on my throat, my shoulders…. Every place he touches produces
a magic tingling – probing my breasts, nipples, stroking my
belly. It moves toward my loins. Cool metal stroking between
my labia. The sensation produces a soft moan from me, an
uncontrolled lift of my torso. “Ah,” says the priest. “This must
be where we will find the magic orifice … the pathway of the
Holy Spirit.” He opens my body with the metal scepter. It
slides into me, filling an orifice of my body that I never knew I
had until now…. “Yes, it is here!” he cries. “Do you feel it …
the beginnings of your experience of ecstasy? Is the Holy Spirit
beginning to work in you?”
“Yes … yes. I think so…’
“You must give in to it, my dear. You must give in completely
to whatever feelings the holy spirit creates as it takes
possession of you…. You will give in?”
I nod, and groan. The scepter slides in and out; as it slides
in, it fills me with unexplainable excitement. My body moves
in reaction, out of my control.
“Do you think it is coming? Do you feel the Holy Spirit,
coming to you?”
“Yes … yes!”
“Let it come … however it wishes….”
The priest is doing something unexpected, but I am too
overcome to be concerned at the moment. The table has a drop
leaf at the end, which he lowers so that he can move himself up
closer to me, between my legs. With a quick movement, he
opens the lower front of his robes, and brings out another scepter.
As the metal scepter pulls out of me, he pushes the other
one in, leaning over me, his face contorted with ecstasy, too, it
would seem. Perhaps we are both meant to be fulfilled with the
Holy Spirit together. He presses his other magic scepter deep
inside me. It feels smooth and warm, and extraordinarily tantalizing.
“Is it coming?” he cries.
“Yes … something is happening to me!”
“Let it come! Do what it wants you to do!”
It is making my body writhe and undulate. My orifice swallows
and squeezes his scepter with a sensation that is driving
me into a wild, delicious frenzy. Never have I felt anything like
this…. The Holy Spirit is about to overcome me. I can feel it!
He acknowledges my groans and thrashings with, “Yes … yes!
That is it! Here it comes! It is here!”
(Amen and hallelujah! You bet your sweet scepter, your holiness
… you have made it come, and it has come to you, too,
you devil you…. )
I return to the priest and the room of initiation time and
time again. I receive more instruction and more experience in
the ways of being entered and fulfilled by the Holy Spirit. I am
a devout young woman…. With the candles burning and the
scepter sliding into me, I experience, time and time again, the
greatest of all religious ecstasies. The priest and my parents
rejoice in my religious gifts. Sometimes the priest shows me
paintings of the saints having religious experiences – naked
bodies in the midst of ecstasy – arched backs, contorted faces. I
may wonder how these physical experiences can actually relate
to the soul. Secretly, I begin to doubt the authenticity of the
priest and the validity of this “church.” I think he is a bit of a
fraud. Even the most innocent have some concept of sexuality.
But I never let on; never mention my suspicions. I am having
far too much fun to give it up; and everyone (except perhaps
the priest himself) believes me a thoroughly pure, devout, innocent,
and religious young woman…. We pretend, and fool
each other, and continue to have glorious orgasms on the purple
Having read your book, I decided to write to you and tell you
my fantasies.
First, let me tell you a little about myself. I am a thirty-fiveyear-
old virgin (also Virgo!) and relatively happy under the
My divorced mother and twice-divorced grandmother live
with me – my mother is sixty-four (today!); and my grand55
mother, who cannot walk, is eighty-six. Both are in poor
health, and I don't expect them to live long.
My mother hates sex, and her attitude caused her twentyyear
marriage to come to an end when I was ten years old. I
was “word blind,” but overcame this and finally graduated
from the University of Ohio.
Presently, I work in a library where through reading have
“liberated” my own attitude toward sex. Actually, I realized
how sick my mother's attitude was long ago.
As a c***d, I enjoyed sex-play with several boys who lived
close by me, and recovered from my guilt while studying Freud
in high school.
I am a Methodist and a Republican, and I do believe more
and more in the new morality.
I attend church for social reasons, but disregard the Pauline
letters and believe in the occult sciences (I love to cast horoscopes!).
Starting with my present fantasies – I found in my student
teaching that I was VERY attracted to young boys. One of
them, a bisexual, used to come to my house (before my grandmother's
illness) while my mother worked. We spent the day in
bed “necking.” I gave him photos of nude people from Playboy
on which I glued male sex organs – aimed at the females. I got
these pictures from Sexology magazine.
We would look at the photos – he was s*******n and I was
twenty-eight – and become aroused. We would kiss and
breathe. Then he would masturbate under the covers or go to
the bathroom. Finally, he would leave – go to the bus station
and “make it” with a boy. We played this game day after day.
Our pleasure was to hold out. He wouldn't even bring a rubber
so I would be afraid to “let him” in case he would get me pregnant.
He and I both loved to know how much we wanted each
other – but neither would give over to the passion.
Many times when I was breathing hard, he would lie on me
and watch me struggle to not give in. Sometimes, I was on him
watching his face while he tried to get his hands to his penis in
order to jerk off.
Finally, we both got tired of our game and just drifted apart
with No hard feelings.
I believe we BOTH enjoyed being wanted by another and
JUST leaving it that way.
My fantasies stem from this experience.
Fantasy 1: We do live together, as my “f****y” have all
died. He discovers I need more sex, and I want it from boys in
their early teens and inexperienced. He loves money so he
gathers heterosexual boys once a week to come to “our” house
(they pay him).
I am now completely nude with my legs wide and far apart –
there are about six boys partly dressed (pants on) standing
around the bed.
George (my lover and former student) helps a boy about
twelve “mount” me.
I can feel his young penis move into me – then he starts to
move faster and faster. The room is silent.
One at a time, these boys “learn to be men” using my body.
But only until George enters me do I have a climax.
Fantasy 2: A short fantasy – I set up a movie camera, and
we have home movies of ourselves having intercourse.
Fantasy 3: I bathe George in the tub and then rub him down
with powder and oils. We then have intercourse.
Fantasy 4: George has a date with a young girl – she won't
let him sl**p with her – he comes home to my front door – it is
dark and his penis (very large) is out of his pants – we make
love on the sofa in the living room. He never leaves me again.
Fantasy 5: We decide to have a c***d, so I hire a real good
prostitute to live with us to take care of his sex drive. After he
has had intercourse with her, he comes to bed with me, and I
examine him to see if he is relaxed and soft. Then we go to
Fantasy 6: Sometimes he has to have a boy for sexual release,
so I give him money to go to the bus station to get what
he wants.
Fantasy 7: Most of my fantasies are just having relations
with him.
Fantasy 8: Sometimes I think it would be fun to go to the
basement of the library and have oral sex with him – while
everyone is having a coffee break in the next room.
Fantasy 9: Sometimes I dream (awake) of having oral sex (I
don't care for it performed on myself) with him lying on his
back. I watch his face as he feels great pleasure.
Whenever I am interested in someone or date them, I have
fantasies about them – I do NOT masturbate with my fantasies
– (much) maybe twice a year! I always wonder about the size
of a man's penis – almost EVERY man I meet. Yet I have
NEVER seen a man's penis except in photos (to me they are
My fantasies take place normally in the morning!
Sometimes at night (I usually go right to sl**p!) and many
times at the library.
My sex drive is stronger a day or so before my period. Just
being around young men (in their twenties) will “turn me on.”
I almost always respond to my fantasies and photos of nude
men by getting very wet.
If I am around “George” – a few days before my period,
have been looking at photos (nudes), the wetness goes down
my legs, and I pull and tug.
People would be surprised to know that while I speak to
them on the street – I am “opening up” and ready to have relations.
As a young teenager, I dreamed of having relations with
black men and a****ls. Just recently have tired of the thought
of having relations with monkeys.
I have tried fantasies with women, but it seems too silly to
Ms. Friday, I don't believe in marriage – I think it is rotten
for all concerned. I plan to live with men, whom I really want,
at the death of both mother and grandmother.
I get along very well with men and am popular!! So don't let
Helen Gurley Brown tell you that virgins are not attractive nor
popular. Nuts.
I allow men to discuss sex with me. But I refuse to be insulted
with dirty jokes.
Because I really like men AS PEOPLE and accept their sex
drive – I am a popular virgin.
Many of the non-virgins have made fun of me at work (I
never say I am a virgin to anyone, but they seem to know it)
only to have the new men and boys employed at the library go
AFTER me. It serves them right! Ha.
Also, I accept my own sexual drive – enjoy it – BUT I refuse
to let it destroy my life.
I am enclosing my photo so you can SEE a thirty-five yearold
virgin! And a FAIRLY happy one at that.
Good luck with your research – because of people like you –
I know I am not alone with my “dreams.”
 In Brenda's fantasy, which follows, she uses words in a
very special way: to heighten her erotic moments. While the
sexual act is going on, Brenda verbally describes it to herself,
making a running commentary on events that one would think
are so vivid they would leave nothing to be described at all.
This internal monologue is, I feel, another layer of sexuality:
while her lover is exciting her body, Brenda's verbal description
to herself becomes a fantasy that excites her mind, making
sex itself more real to her … one more example of the idea that
the mind is the most powerful sexual organ of all. 
I am twenty-one, a musician, and gay.
I loved your book, My Secret Garden, and congratulate you
on your bravery.
The first sexual fantasy I can remember is vague, but it had
something to do with bugs (the little black pill bugs that roll up
when you poke them) crawling on my clit. (I was only about
two or three). When I was sixteen, and was in love, I used to
dream of sucking his cock all day at school! And I would suck
it every chance I got in reality. After about a year, he was gone,
and I began to fantasize about my best girl friend who was
twenty-two and was a “bad girl.” (She had a couple illegit ba59
bies, abortions, etc.) When I slept with her, I couldn't sl**p at
all, thinking of how beautiful she was, and how any guy would
love to be in bed there next to her. (My real sex life was limited
to hetero.)
We went our separate ways, and when I was nineteen, my
new best girl friend would come to see me, and we'd talk about
sex and get ourselves all worked up, and then we'd have a hard
time sl**ping. I would think of how I'd like to run the tips of
my fingers lightly over her vagina walls and clit! And touch her
clit lightly again and again with my finger.
Eventually, we acted out our fantasies, and she swears it
was the best orgasms she ever had; however, she is now back
with men (for social reasons, strict upbringing, etc.).
I have had five affairs with women (from fifteen to twentythree)
that have lasted longer than my heterosexual affairs
lasted. (I have had about thirty men before discovering my
I found my hetero experiences sexually unsatisfying. While
my girl friends get me off every time. Though once when this
girl I dug was going down on me, I had to envision the one girl
I wanted more eating me before I could come.
I like young girls (not really young, about sixteen), and
when they go down on me, I think “That beautiful long hair,
and lovely graceful body; she's sucking me. Now she's inserting
her fingers in and out of me, and it feels better than the
biggest cock.” When I am the aggressor, I think of what will
make her feel good; what I like, or if she'll tell me and show
me what she likes, I concentrate on this.
I wish first to compliment you on My Secret Garden. It is
truly what I believe to be the first book to take the giant step
toward really understanding female sexuality. It deals candidly,
openly, and honestly with women.
I should acquaint you with myself before I make my own
contribution to your next book. I am nineteen, married twoand-
a-half years, and soon to be a mother for the second time. I
consider myself oversexed – if there is such a thing! – and bisexual.
I hope I have gained a wider-than-average acquaintance
over the past few years with life, love, sex, and the selfimprovement
I can remember that my fantasies began at an early age; five
or six. At this age, I would often think how very nice it would
feel to have someone older do these “naughty, but oh so nice,”
things to me … as I lay in my bed, night after night, riding a
tightly stretched piece of sheet with my tiny “cunny.” In particular,
I hoped it would happen with a s*******n-year-old boy
who was a neighbor. I also couldn't wait to know what a boy's
“thingy” looked and felt like. Then one day, in the spring following
my seventh birthday, all my fantasies were answered.
Terry (I remember him well) asked me to join him in “listening
to some music.” The stereo was in his room, which was actually
a bunkhouse well away from his parent's house and the
rest of their farm. When we began talking, I soon felt we had
become close, and so I thought it would be “proper” for me to
ask him some pretty personal questions. He seemed to get a
strange gleam in his eyes and said, “Shoot!” I remember the
first and only question I had a chance to ask that day was,
“What do boys look like down there?” He made me promise
not to tell a soul, and then asked if I really would like to see for
myself – that would be easier than trying to explain, he said. I
very anxiously said yes. He took down his clothes and stood
before me. I remember staring at his penis and wanting so
badly to touch it. He sensed it. “You want to touch me, don't
you?” he said. “Take off your jeans, and I'll show you how nice
we can feel.” Again, I anxiously did so. He then “felt me up”
until I almost died because it only kept feeling better and better.
Then he showed me how to “bring him off.” How delightful
that first experience was, and I doubt it will ever be forgotten.
Through age ten, I continued having more and more sexual
adventures, but about that age, I began to have fantasies about
what it would be like to hold and be held by another of my own
sex. At age eleven, I found out.
My parents were good friends with another local dairy f****y,
and the c***dren of both families got on well.
In fact, they were the favorite playmates of my b*****r, s****r,
and myself, and we would often spend entire weekends
together. They were our ages exactly. Marie and myself were
the eldest at eleven, R. (my b*****r) and Ted were nine, and C.
(my s****r) and Rosalie were eight.
Both Marie and I felt funny in the world of c***dren by then,
as we were both wearing size 34B bras, and each had a healthy
bush. We had often told one another about out sexual encounters
and curiosities on the subject. So one evening when we
were in bed in her room (during one of our stays), I initiated
our mutual “female body” curiosities. But I did it only after I
thought she was asl**p. I reached around to her breasts (she
was lying with her backside to my tummy) and began touching
them ever so gently so as not to awaken her. But soon she was
breathing heavily and moaning softly. I froze, knowing these as
a sign of sexual excitement. Softly, I called out her name. She
answered with “What?” in the same soft voice. All I could say
were what turned out to be the two most beautiful words I
would say for years to come: “Touch me!”
She did it, and we then proceeded and spent the rest of the
night caressing one another's bodies with both hands and
mouths, although we did not know about cunnilingus; that was
the only act we did not perform on one another.
I grew to puberty with fantasies of lesbian affairs, but also
what it would feel like to have a man. Then in 1969, I met the
men who is now my husband. We lost our virginity to one another.
When I got married, my fantasies stopped until September
or October of 1972, after six months of marriage and the birth
of our daughter. Our marriage began to fall apart, and we separated
a year later. He left me with our daughter and went back
to Washington State where he was born, and where we had
made our first home. I remained in Arizona, which had been
our second home.
The fantasy that I began having in October of 1972 would
be to think of meeting one of two types of fellows. One was
Indian, easy-going, very considerate. He would be willing to
learn and experiment in sex. Above all, he would have great
control, so our sex could go on for hours. We would have no
problems, no jealousy or embarrassments.
The other fellow would also be an Indian, but very rich,
huge in structure, and very carefree in a kind of crazy way. I
would be satisfied with him sexually because of his willingness
to give wholly of himself, and his size; also because he
would introduce me to sexual trios.
As fantastic as it may sound, in the two months that my husband
and I were separated, I did meet these two types. I formed
a very loving relationship with them both; yet it was definitely
not the kind of love I had for my husband.
When my husband and I reunited after our separation, I felt
better, because I had lived out my fantasies, fulfilling them. I
had my shit together, and we both felt our relationship would
be better than it had ever been. We have become much more
open and honest with one another and are now expecting the
result – our second c***d.
I now see my husband in a new light sexually, physically,
and mentally. I bring myself to a mind-blowing climax in masturbating
or sex with him by thinking about his beautiful body
and how good he is to me. I can honestly say that with him life
couldn't be better!
Although I am satisfied with him as I've just said, honesty
does make me admit that I often fantasize still about other
women (and truly wish it would happen on a more adult basis).
I have a friend who might share these wishes for a sexual encounter,
and I often wish she would, but I never talked to her
about it at any length. I think of giving her as much pleasure as
I possibly could with both my hands and mouth. The idea of
going down on her excites me tremendously! Then after I have
fulfilled her completely, she would in turn give me the same
beautiful pleasures. It would be so good for both her and me,
because who could possibly please a woman better than another?
Who knows better what it feels like? I would definitely
do it if the opportunity arose.
Much good luck to you on your second book.
I've just completed reading your book, My Secret Garden.
When I saw your address in the back of the book and the request
for comments, I felt compelled to write. I'm now a college
grad, age twenty-two, and was first turned on to the wonder
of having sex only one year ago. My first and still current
lover is a sexual dynamo. He can keep it up and going strong
for as long as one hour, in which I have so many orgasms that I
lose count. I don't fantasize while we're fucking, because I have
such a tremendous time enjoying the good fuck. Basically, I
read your book for more ideas to vary my sex life, and to bring
more enjoyment to my lover and myself. Whatever I think of, I
make a point of putting into reality, but tonight, my lover is out
of town on business, so I must resort to fantasizing in memory
that we are doing some of the things together we have done in
the past.
These are the fantasies I had tonight. My middle name to my
boyfriend is Linda Lovelace. Needless to say, I am now considered
a pro at this technique, and I imagined that I am eating
his whole cock by getting it down my whole throat as far as I
can to overcome the gagging reflex. I have a beautiful mouthful
of saliva which I use to further wet his lovely cock, balls, and
inner thighs. I also thought of a scene in which he was fucking
me from behind. While in this doggy position I bend my head
so as to watch him fuck me. He is doing various things too,
like, “Look, ma – no hands.” He is also fondling my breasts as
I massage his massive balls, and I can see and touch his beautiful
cock as it moves in and out of my cunt.
My boyfriend is also the greatest lover for me (I have had
three other men, by the way). For example, he will lick and
kiss my cunt and suck my clitoris. Then he sticks his tongue up
my wet, juicy cunt (that's what he calls it, “juicy”) and makes
like he's fucking me with his tongue. I just love this.
Writing all this down has resulted in my cunt becoming
soaking wet and ready for action. But alas, I must hold tight
until I'm with my lover again, and we can make up for lost
So to all of you out there – Get Fucked (and have a Ball doing
P.S. I think that what makes all my sexual activity so enjoyable
to me is that my parents were so strict with me when I
was growing up. I was the last virgin in my crowd of friends,
and was always very fearful of what people would say if they
“found out.” So you can imagine what great pleasure I felt
when I came to sex, late as I did, and found it was so marvelous,
instead of being the frightening thing my parents wanted
me to feel.
 With the advent of menstruation, c***dhood ends, adolescence
begins. We are suddenly thrown into a larger world than
we feel prepared for, given more choices than c***dhood ever
offered. Much as we longed to be thought mature and adult,
now that it has begun at last, we suffer role and identity confusions.
“What are you going to be when you grow up?” – the
question throws us into despair. We wanted to do one thing
yesterday, but that's no longer true today, and we suspect we
will change our minds again tomorrow. Above all, we want to
say, “I don't know. I'm too young to make up my mind.” But
that's not allowed. Only k**s can say that. Instead, we lapse
into sulky silence or give top-of-the-head answers. The pressures
of f****y and society, the mandates of an educational
system that rushes us on express rails into the future seem to
give us no pause to rest and think about who we are.
It is at this age that we begin to fall in love – over and over
again. While this is obviously an expression of our growing
sexual maturation, it is also an expression of our search for
identity: one of the great wonders of first love is how each new
man seems to help us find a new person within ourselves.
For this reason, I think it is unfortunate that contemporary
mores demand that love be certified by sex. It may not really be
what the young girl wants yet. Sex itself can become one more
f***e pushing her ahead too far, too fast, in a direction she is
not yet sure she wants to take. “I love you,” she wants to say to
him, but is afraid: it may be the final signal he needs to open
the door to the bedroom. Put up or shut up. She may or may
not want sex right now, but what, she does want, desperately,
is for him to speak. She wants him to say he loves her too so
that she can ask him to describe this woman he loves. Who is
she? What is so wonderful about her? Is she really me? She has
a sense of unreality about herself; she needs to find herself
reflected in someone else's affectionate eye, shaped and formed
there into an image of herself she can see and understand. She
has been looking into mirrors too long. “Tell me the kind of
girls you like,” we ask the young men we know. Tell me how
to be. A little shiver runs through me every time I hear that
request in a young woman's voice, no matter what the actual
words are. It is the ontological question, a search for a base
upon which to build our being. We look to each other for clues,
but it is a question we all must answer in our own time, in our
own way. What makes “plastic people” not ring true is that
they have not listened within for an answer; they have built
their conforming, counterfeit selves out of the meretricious junk
that society has handed them. Dr. R. D. Laing (The Divided
Self) finds this question at the very heart of schizophrenia – or
perhaps, the lack of an answer to it. The job of creating our
authentic identity is one of the great tasks of adolescence.
It is why teenagers spend so much of their emotional energy
and time in talk: it is all work toward definition. In their endless
speculations about eternity, truth, beauty, good, and evil –
just as in their giggly bits of gossip – they are uncovering layers
of personality, assaying for the gold of their true selves.
One of the most hopeful developments of our time, I feel, is
that young women no longer listen only to young men for clues
of who they are. We ask that question today of other women
too, each one of us strengthening every other in our determination
to define our sex for ourselves – and not merely in terms of
what it is supposed men want. The Great Male Buyer's Market
is over; we will no longer sell ourselves out.
Fantasies that arise out of the crises of adolescence are characterized
by trying on different personalities, testing various
likes and dislikes, rehearsing our sexuality for events that are
yet to come. s*s proudly tells us in her letter that she is an Astudent
in school. But immediately she feels she must fight the
goody-goody definition this seems to bestow upon her by telling
us she has “a very strong sex drive and wants to make
love.” Does she? Or is this merely one of the okay things girls
of her age feel they must say? (Just as their mothers, a generation
earlier, felt they had to say the opposite.) When the opportunity
for sex is actually presented to s*s by a boy she knows
well and who promises to be “very gentle” with her, she literally
jumps up in alarm and cries, “I won't!”
I am very sympathetic to young women like s*s. Despite all
their brave talk, something deep within them knows they aren't
ready for sex. s*s doesn't know why this is true. She is not reinf***ed
by her peers – everyone around her seems to take sex for
granted. She is alone with only her feelings to guide her – but
they are enough. She doesn't have to know why she is not yet
ready for sex; she only has to be in touch with her feelings: her
body informs her mind, and her answer is no. I applaud her for
going along with her gut reaction, particularly so because it is a
self-determined response at odds with what seem to be the
accepted slogans and ideas of her friends. Our lifelong struggle
is to teach our reason and emotions to move in tandem on the
same tides. Just as I believe every woman has the right to say
yes if she feels like it – and is willing to take the responsibility
for her actions – so has she the perfect right to refuse, if the
mysterious ebb and flow of desire is not yet upon her.
In the fantasies that s*s sends us, we see that she is getting
ready for the truly sexual time she knows lies ahead. But that
time is not yet.
For Beth Anne, too, fantasies are exciting strategies for getting
used to an idea about which she is still ambivalent. She
tells us she is a virgin, and too shy to buy My Secret Garden at
the bookshop where she works, even though she could get it
there at a discount. In her fantasies, we see her other side: she
is a woman who would like to have sex with “a customer, a
stranger in the street, someone I don't know too well.” And
then she adds a sentence that reminds us how much she is like
s*s. “Boy,” writes Beth Anne, “when it does happen, I'll be
really ready after all these rehearsals in my head.”
Penelope's letter shows us another exploration of sexual
identity through fantasy. The c***d of intelligent, permissive
parents, she felt free enough with her mother to ask to be
taught how to masturbate, after reading Masters and Johnson
brought the idea to mind. In her letter, we see that she has
grown into the kind of young woman we would expect from
such a f****y: she is sexually knowing, sophisticated, one who
feels free and secure enough to ask men out herself “occasionally,”
instead of always waiting passively to be asked. But in
her fantasies, she explores a totally opposite identity, “the
woman I can't let myself be (dumb, naive, unaware of my
sexuality) … .”
Even if we had parents like Penelope's, something in us still
wants to establish ourselves as people in our own right by rebelling
against them. But when the parents are decent, reasonable,
and intelligent people, rebellion itself becomes unreasonable;
their very permissiveness is frustrating, giving us no firm
base to push off against. But our negative emotions want to be
expressed anyway. In fantasies like Penelope's, the problem is
solved. She is the woman she “can't let myself be.” That is, she
is the dumb broad that her parents' training has made it impossible
for her to be. She has circumvented them in her imagination:
rebellion at last. 
I am young (fifteen) and a virgin. I have met many boys I
like, but have never had sexual relations with any as far as
making out. I think the reason for this is I am very shy, and I
worry that boys are going to tell my friends what we do. I am
an A-student in school and popular, and I don't want to spoil
that, but I have a very strong drive and want to make love.
The latest turn down I made was while visiting some friends
that live a long distance from my house (we have known them
since they were small). One of their b*****rs' friends was my
age and came over to see us. The b*****r's friend has a swimming
pool, and they go there often. He invited us to go swimming
that afternoon. So we did. When we were fixing to leave,
they said they left a towel at the pool and for me to run and get
it. The boy my age was there and no one else, while getting the
towel. He said he liked me and to ask my friends that I was
staying with to let me stay awhile to swim some more. They
said yes. We swam awhile, and then we got out to get some69
thing to eat. His mother was on a trip, and he was staying by
As we walked through the door, he put his arms around me
from behind and began kissing my neck; I turned and kissed
him and we made out on the sofa about fifteen minutes, but he
was not satisfied. He e****ted me upstairs to his bedroom and
pulled off his swimming trunks while I was laying on the bed.
I jumped and said, “I won't,” and he said that he knew how I
felt and would be very gentle with me. He said that all he
wanted to do was show how much he liked me and only
wanted to explore my body with his fingers and mouth and for
me to do the same to him, that he didn't want to fuck unless I
wanted to. I ran out of the room and called my friends to come
and get me.
I often fantasize what would have happened if I hadn't run
out. Here is the best one:
After long persuasion, I would not let him touch me. He
says, “What if we go to the pool, get in up to our neck, then
you take off your swimming suit, and I feel you, that way I
won't be able to see you … .” I say okay.
We get in up to our neck, and he unfastens my top and slips
it off, the same with the bottoms. He kisses me once and then
slips his hand between my legs. He watches the expression on
my face as he does. He clutches one of my breasts. He then
separates the lips of my pussy and rubs his finger back and
forth over my clitoris, stimulating me out of control. Then he
takes his cock and slips it in between the lips rubbing it
quickly as with his finger. I can't stand it any longer and beg
him to suck me; still in the water, he lifts me up onto a raft
with my legs hanging over in the water and my pussy at the
edge, he sucks me vigorously and then slides his tongue as far
as possible in my vagina. I then change places with him, this
time he is on the raft. I take his cock in my mouth and suck
hard. THE END.
When I was little, my cousin, a male, lived beside me. One
day, he said he would check me himself so I wouldn't have to
go to the doctor. I agreed because I hated to go to the doctor.
He took off my clothes and did everything possible he could.
He opened the lips of my pussy and felt, sucked, and licked
them, then he made me do the same to him. He put an ice cube
between my pussy, which drove me crazy. Then I told him I
had to use the bathroom, so he stood me up, placed his mouth
over my pussy, and I used the bathroom in his mouth. This
delighted me more than ever. We did this many times up until I
was eight. The first time he did it, I was four and he was seven.
Now the way I meet my sexual urges is to vibrate myself. I
lay on the bed, pants off, vibrator between my legs for two to
three minutes, and I stimulate myself to orgasm. It's a wonderful
feeling; I think when I get up the courage to let a man do it,
I will love it.
Beth Anne
Hello. I was already in bed (alone) and almost asl**p when I
got this urge to write to you!
I have just finished My Secret Garden, and I would like you
to know that the book was one of the most informative and
interesting ones I've ever read, and believe me, I read a lot.
I work in a bookstore here in Philadelphia. Your book arrived
last week. Our manager, who was very staunchly and
religiously brought up, was on vacation, so we all took turns
leafing through the book. Our assistant manager (who incidentally
is homosexual) told me the book was filthy. I'm s*******n;
he's thirty-three. I picked the book up occasionally, halfway
on the sly for a few, days, and then last week, I bought it
from a “rival” store, because I was too embarrassed to ask if it
could be “stripped,” or to write up the sale in the employee
discount tablet.
What follows now is a conversation that took place between
myself and the other salesperson, Tina, who is twenty-three,
married, no k**dies. It took place when we were sort of slow
and didn't have anything better to do than stand around and
Tina: Have we sold any M.S.G. yet?
Me: Yeah, a few, considering we just put them out.
Tina: Hmmm….
Me: I bought a copy today downtown, 'cause I was a little
nervous about buying it here.
Tina: Really? I'd love to read it when you're through. I said
it was filthy because Jim [Asst. Mgr.] was there; and I figured
he might get upset if I showed an interest…. I was also afraid
Mary [Mgr.] might walk in, and I'd REALLY be embarrassed.
So you see, it's something that just about every woman is interested
in, although it's probably considered more socially
acceptable not to be.
The sexual fantasies I have now occur usually at night when
it's quiet, and I have time to elaborate without being interrupted.
I'm still a virgin, although I'm not so sure I want to be
one that much longer. Just reading your book and thinking
about the guy I'm in love with have made me think twice about
resisting his advances. He's twenty-five, and really supernice,
although I'm not sure if he'll be around much longer, and I'd
kind of like my first sexual encounter to be with someone I
truly love.
The funny thing is, when I'm dating someone I really care
for, I never fantasize about them. It seems rather unfair to fantasize
about them when I don't even know if they could live up
to my fantasies in real life. I think I’d like to be surprised.
Usually, my thoughts center around a man I find fantastically
attractive and very nice, i.e., a customer, a stranger on the
street, someone I don't know too well. I can imagine him doing
all sorts of things to me, all the things I've ever read about.
And I can respond to him wholeheartedly, because there's no
problem about what will happen afterward (he'll probably go
away and just leave me totally satisfied). But, of course, what I
really want is that these fantasies happen with a man I love.
Boy, when it does happen, I'll be really ready after all these
rehearsals in my head! When I meet that man, I can be d***k,
stoned, angry, or happy, and so can he but as long as we love
each other it will be all right. I suppose this is all because I am
a basically insecure person and need to be assured of my attractiveness
All luck in your next book. We need it! Take care. Peace.
At the end of your book, My Secret Garden, you ask for
suggestions, comments, or more fantasies. I'd like to share
some of my garden with you.
My earliest memory is when I was probably ten, or eleven.
A friend and I had somehow discovered that her f****y's electric
toothbrush when placed on a certain area, caused mysterious
sensations. I didn't know what I was feeling, but I remember
always taking the device off me when the extreme tenseness
began. I never continued to what I know now as an orgasm.
Aside from the few weeks my friend and I escaped into the
bathroom, I remember nothing sexual until I was fifteen. I was
attempting to read Masters and Johnson's Human Sexual Response
and asked my mother how to masturbate. She told me,
and ever since then, I've enjoyed myself almost every night.
That was seven years ago.
My early fantasies often started with me dancing around the
bedroom, performing for a hidden audience of aroused men.
Once in a while, a few were allowed to participate, and I'd rub
my breasts against the cold mirror and manipulate my clitoris
and eventually get back to the bed to come and collapse. Sometimes,
especially when I first began masturbating, I'd time the
“session” and see how quickly I could come.
Up until just a few months ago, I always stimulated my
clitoris only. I never enjoyed simulating intercourse, because
until recently, I never enjoyed it in reality. Even now my clitoris
is the focus of my masturbating.
My present fantasies are very varied. (My Secret Garden
helped me expand my nightly choices!) Sometimes the woman
is aggressive, but mostly she is what I refer to as “the dumb
broad.” She is busty and naive. She wears low-cut tops, but is
unaware of the lustful glances she gets. Usually, she is conned
into drinking more than she should or smoking some powerful
pot. She bends over and more boob comes out or a strap slips
down, and the man continues to move in, slyly. Eventually,
things get too hot for her to want to stop him. I never see my
face in these fantasies. I either make up unknown people or use
scenes from movies and the stars from those scenes. When the
fantasy begins, the woman is not thinking SEX. The man is.
And what first begins me getting high, my climb toward orgasm,
is seeing the woman's chest; I am the man at this point
in the fantasy. During the man's approach, I am both feeling
the sensations of the woman's body and, also getting excited as
the man because of the progress toward and anticipation of
getting this woman. When the actual fucking is about to begin,
I and solely the woman, raising my hips, desperately anxious
for that cock to enter and satisfy me.
You spoke often in your book of how fantasies are often expressions
of what one would like to experience in reality. In
analyzing my fantasies, I found it really interesting that the
woman I can't let myself be (dumb, naive, unaware of my
sexuality) is exactly the woman who dominates my daydreams.
In reality, I am never passive. I ask men out occasionally. make
love when I want to (if the opportunity is present), and present
myself as a whole person rather than a game-playing female. In
some ways, I hate the fact that I get most excited when fantasizing
the “dumb broad” role. I'm hoping someday to be close
enough with a man to feel free and act out some of these fantasies.
I'd like to see if they get me more excited, quicker than I
actually get in reality. I'm usually too conscious and aware to
let go and enjoy myself. Actually, in three years of fucking (not
regularly all that time), I have come a few times from oral sex
and once during intercourse, only when my clitoris was stimulated
at the same time. I've rarely fantasized when with a man.
(I plan to start though.) I always come when I masturbate.
I'd also just like to support your comments regarding the
sharing of fantasies. Because of my f****y's openness, I never
felt strange or bad or guilty about my fantasies or masturbating,
But I've talked to many friends who had never shared their
experiences of masturbation or fantasies. And what a great
experience to be talking to a friend about fantasies and find
that we use the exact same scene from a book!
I thank you for your first book and hope your next is successful.
Please feel free to use any of what I've written. I've
enjoyed sharing it with you, and if there's anything else I might
be able to write about to give you more material, please send
me a note, and I'll get something to you. I enjoy thinking about
sex and talking about myself.
Good luck.
 During the turmoil of our adolescent years, we try to find
our own identity and often over-identify with pop heroes or
movie stars. We become rabid Mick Jagger fans, we collect
photos of David Bowie, we join fan clubs for this or that television
idol. This is a particularly feminine attempt at the solution
of the problem of identity: young boys do not have our capacity
for loving identification, and so there are no female equivalents
to – let's say – David Cassidy. This was true of our mothers
too: there never was a female Frank Sinatra. Collecting photographs,
concert programs, and LP records, we lose ourselves in
being in love with someone whom everyone else loves too. For
the moment, we find our identity by losing it; if nobody else
screamed at a Sly concert, we would not scream ourselves. We
do not want to be uniquely in love with him; it is our joy to
submerge ourselves and our flickering sense of identity in that
powerful mass that adores him, but whose sheer numbers give
us power over him: he must please us.
In our fantasies, we go one step farther: the beloved idol,
whose fate and fortune are made of enormous numbers, sees
only one: us. Errol Flynn picks out
Katherine to dance with, among all the other beauties at the
ball. Elvis “picks me out of the whole crowd to come to his
hotel room,” writes eighteen-year-old Jenny (who is a virgin),
“and I end up going off to live with him … .” The star picks us
out to love; he seats us beside him at his table, takes only us to
his bed. Not only must we exist, but we must be beautiful,
exciting, lovable over all other women. In these fantasies, the
star gives us part of his magic and charisma. He shares the
plentitude of love he gets from his fans with us. We grow rich
on other women's envy; we are excited in ourselves by his
fame. He is the sun, and we are the moon, shining beautifully
in his reflected light.
All of which is enough – plenty – when we are in our teens.
When we are women, these fantasies come to an end. We want
to be seen in our own light. 
I enjoyed your book, My Secret Garden. It's for, by, and
about the female sex, and we need more books like that. I must
admit that I was shocked at first by some of the fantasies –
mine are never that explicit or far out. But perhaps they will
become more so as I grow older. They've given me some great
ideas, and I must admit that the pieces on a****ls fascinated
I am eighteen years old, and a virgin. Perhaps this is why
my fantasies are so “mild” compared to the ones told in your
first book. I fantasize going to a Hollywood party, and there
meeting someone like Roddy McDowall or Gene Kelly (older
men really turn me on). They immediately fall for me, and end
up marrying me, or living together.
Sometimes I fantasize that I am at an Elvis concert, and he
picks me out of the whole crowd to come up to his hotel room,
and I end up going off to live with him at his home in Graceland.
Another fantasy I have concerns Mr. Spock from “Star
Trek.” He is very unemotional and calm, but I could be the one
to arouse him, and we'd end up making love, in a very dignified
manner, however.
I also have the “classic” fantasies – being a k**napped
maiden, tied up in scanty rags, and just as the evil henchmen
are about to attack me, the hero comes and whisks me off, but I
assist him in fighting off the bad guys, with karate, etc …. No
“weak damsel” for me!
I never plan on marrying, that's not the life for me – I want
to be someone, go places, and see things. But I am also a
Catholic, and that puts pressure on my moral beliefs. I would
like to feel free to go to bed with anyone I like, but my religion
forbids this. I don't want to be forever damned, but I don't wish
to become a hermit, either. It's a bad scene.
Once again, thank you for the work you are doing. I hope it
serves to show women that they're not alone in their dreams,
and to encourage them to fantasize more. I truly believe that no
man can ever have as great fantasies as we women have!
I have read and reread your book, My Secret Garden, about
a hundred times now, and I would like to make a contribution.
Before I start, I want to tell you, that book is the greatest. What
a relief when I learned that other girls fantasize too.
Now, about me. My name is Veevee. I am eighteen, I want
to be a rock singer-costume designer, and I am very horny. I
lost my virginity only last year to my boyfriend, who I am still
dating. We have sex regularly, every weekend, even during my
period. It's kind of messy, but he likes it, because he doesn't
have to use a safe.
The men in my fantasies are neither black nor white, but
Oriental. I find them extremely sexy, and I simply cannot warm
up to any other kind of man (I'm not Oriental, though, myself).
I detest hairy chests and faces … pale hair, eyes, and skin are
too milky to be erotic. I adore slim bodies, smooth golden skin,
and cute asses, and Orientals have it all. Japanese are my favorites,
and my boyfriend is a Japanese. I have also slept with
a delicious Korean boy whom I met in another city recently. I
haven't had a chance to lay out a Chinese yet, but I'm working
on it.
The star of my fantasies is in fact a star, a Japanese rock
singer superstar. He is incredibly gorgeous, with a mane of
dark hair, great big black eyes, a complexion that a girl would
envy, and a sensuous mouth just right for long deep kisses.
And, wow, what a body! Not skinny at all, but smooth and
well-muscled. I have some pictures of him wearing only shorts
and track shoes, and I don't know how many times I have masturbated
while looking at these photos. Anyway, I can fantasize
him onstage, wearing a white leather outfit, with high boots
and gloves, all studded with rhinestones. The pants and vest
are really tight, and the vest is low cut. He is sleeveless, and
his golden skin is gleaming with sweat under the lights. His
hair is wild, and his eyes are flashing as he writhes and gyrates
to the heavy throb of the music. Thousands of girls are screaming
around him, but I watch him triumphantly, knowing that I
am the woman who will possess that beautiful body, straining
against the leather. Of all the women in the audience, only I
can close my eyes acid remember the exact shape of his cock –
something no one else in the audience has ever seen, except
tantalizingly when the excitement of his singing makes his
erection show to the audience of screaming women through his
tight trousers. Now he is taking his final bows, and I move off,
out of the crowd, to grab a taxi to his apartment. As I walk
through the crowd, nobody turns to look at me. They are all
straining for a glimpse of him, but I have the secret power of
knowing that if only they knew where I was going, and who I
was soon going to be with, they would be clutching after me
Once in his apartment, I relax on his huge double bed.
It has satin sheets and a canopy with embroidered quilts. I
sip a drink, until I hear the door open. He strides in and regards
me for a moment through narrowed eyes. I can see that all that
heavy music and dancing has had its effect, and I quiver with
anticipation. I can feel the moisture begin between my legs.
Without bothering to take anything off, he seizes me in his
arms and kisses me firmly and urgently, meanwhile stripping
off my clothes. My panties get snagged, and there is a satisfying
sound of tearing, as he rips the cloth off my hips.
Now he removes his gloves and begins to caress my body,
his golden hands moving from my breasts down to my belly, to
my cunt (which I keep clean-shaven). He stands right in front
of me, one arm around my neck, pulling me closer to him, the
other hand down between my legs, his middle finger inside me,
stirring up the juices as his tongue inside my mouth licks mine.
I can hear myself sigh as I take a step with one foot to open my
legs wider for him to put in two fingers.
His kisses become more insistent as they now begin to fall
on my naked flesh lower and lower down, down, down, and his
tongue in my hot cunt is just too much, and I heave and writhe
in the most wonderful climax I have ever had – the cunt juices
just flowing out of me and making a river down the crack of
my ass.
This drives him wild, and he leaps on me and drives his
long hard cock in so deep I moan with ecstasy. He is still wearing
the leather vest, and I can see him thrusting and my legs
wrapped around his ass in a mirror. He sees that I like looking
at us in the mirror, and with a strong lunge of his cock, while
he is still inside me, he pushes my ass around so that now we
are parallel to the mirror, and I can actually see his long cock
sliding in and out. I put my hand around it, as if to make my
cunt longer and more firmly gripping. It excites him even more
to be held by my hand and my cunt at the same time, and just
as I slip my hand between his legs and shove a finger in his
asshole, he shrieks as if he's being murdered, and he comes!
He is thoroughly exhausted by now, and I roll him on his
back and gently undress him. I go to the washroom and clean
myself up and fetch a cool towel to wipe him off with. I rub
him with the towel on his back and chest, while he lies there
watching me through half-closed eyes and smiling. Then I
massage his legs and back, and he sighs contentedly. I crawl
back into bed with him, and we snuggle together and go to
sl**p in each other's arms.
This is one fantasy which I hope to make come true, but I
don't know …. I intend to go to Japan this year. We'll see then.
I get a real thrill out of pampering a guy and being pampered
by him too. I like to be dominated somewhat. Because I am a
big girl, I do most of the dominating in real life, but I'd like to
take the passive role – in sex, anyway,
It was also great to find out other girls like to look at guys
too. I enjoy supertight hiphugging pants with button flies on a
guy with a pert, round ass and tapered thighs. I also like the
curve between the shoulder and hip to be well-defined, and
shirts to be unbuttoned at the neck. Tight high-waisted pants
are great. I find boots very sexy, while shoes for some reason
really make me cream my jeans. When my boyfriend wears his
white shoes, it takes all my willpower not to take him then and
there. White boots are superdynamite! I met a Chinese singer
in a rock group who wore them, along with a tight jumpsuit
unzipped almost to his navel. Zowie! I would have given my
eyeteeth for just one round between the sheets with him.
Well, enough of what makes me horny. I hope you can use
my fantasy. I know it is nothing fantastic, but when I am feeling
low or nonsexy, all I have to do is imagine it, and I feel full
of zip again. It is especially good to imagine it on nights when
I am with my real boyfriend – it brings me to orgasm in ten
seconds flat.
My fantasies are nearly always about public figures – movie
stars, baseball players, etc. I am twenty-two, pretty, single, in
love twice, both times disasters, now cautious about men.
I have one fantasy wherein I am a fifteen-year-old girl
named Marjorie, and Christopher Lee (the English actor) is my
godfather. He is visiting my parents, and I somehow spirit him
into the wooded area of our estate. I tell him I have a surprise
for him, and he should turn his back to me. Soon I tell him to
turn around, and he sees I am standing nude, smiling mischievously
at him. He tries to think of a gentle let-down, but I
throw myself at him, and he takes me there, in the middle of
the woods.
Another fantasy is one where I seduce Basil Rathbone as
Sherlock Holmes at 22B Baker St. In it, I am his twenty-yearold
niece. Dr. Watson (Nigel Bruce) is amazed his aloof pal
Holmes finally fell for someone.
I have another fantasy in which I am dancing at a ball; all
the women are in flowing gowns and everyone is waltzing. My
gown is so low-cut that my partner can look down and see my
rosy nipples. Since it is Victorian times, I am a real virginal
prude. My partner (let's call him Errol Flynn) takes me to a
dark stairway outside the ballroom and pulls the top of my
dress down. I object feebly as he massages my breasts. I get so
aroused I can't fight it, and he lifts my long dress up and puts
his fingers into me. The fear of being seen by the other guests
adds to the excitement.
I have fantasies wherein a man fingers me under the tablecloth
in a crowded restaurant.
Another one is that I am really d***k, too d***k to know
what's going on, and I'm parked in a car with, oh, let's say
Robert Taylor. He lays me across the front seat, lifts my dress,
and pulls my panties down. Then he puts an empty wine bottle,
thin neck first, of course, into me and moves it in and out really
fast. I writhe in d***ken ecstasy!
Well, those are a few of my most popular ones. I just LOVE
those public figures! I often wonder how I'd react if I ever met
one in the flesh; oh, I know some are already dead, but Christopher
Lee, David Carradine (“Kung Fu”), Leonard Nimoy and
William Shatner (“Star Trek”), and many of the N.Y. Mets,
Nets, Jets, and Sets are still around. Sigh! I wonder what their
wives fantasize about – or if they have to fantasize at all!
I know the will sound stupid, 'cause I'm not a silly teenage
groupie, but rock singer Cat Stevens turns me on something
fierce. I once stayed up until 3 A.M. watching a concert of his
on television and masturbating myself senseless.
I fantasize that he and I are on a deserted beach laughing
and running, naked. I trip and fall, and he rushes over to see if
I'm all right. His hand on my naked back makes me burn, and
with a moan, I roll over and pull him onto me, holding him
gently, kissing his face and his eyes, his lips, and then burying
my head in the soft hollow of his shoulder.
His caresses are gentle, like a thought, and his eyes are loving.
Then without speaking, my legs open, and he enters me,
pushing his cock against me easily, as if asking permission.
Then we are fucking, and it seems like we are one with the
sand, the sea, and the moon. When we finally come, it's graceful,
unhurried. We fall asl**p still entwined; when I awaken at
dawn, he's gone, and I find a beautiful seashell in my hand,
and it seems to be smiling at me.
I have really enjoyed being able to put the private me into
words, so thank you. I am trying to get my friends to write you,
but most are wrapped up in their garden clubs and dinners.
Telling a fantasy to me and writing to you are worlds apart.
Maybe one day they can be really free.
God bless you, Nancy. I'm glad someone cares enough to
undertake understanding the whole woman.
I read your book and enjoyed it very much. Thank you for
bringing out into the open that women think about sex more
than some people realize. Here is a fantasy of mine for your
new book.
First off, my name is Carina. I'm eighteen and live with my
mother and two young b*****rs. My fantasy always takes place
in the shower when I stand in a certain was so that the water
hits me in the right spot of desire. In the fantasy, I'm washing
in the shower and don't hear the doorbell ring. James Caan, the
movie star, is at the door, and he walks right in (because he
finds the door is accidentally unlocked). He's there because he's
met a friend of mine who told him all about me. Well, he
comes (I mean he pokes his head through the shower curtain)
right into the shower, shedding his clothes and says: “Your
friend was right. You are as marvelous as she said you were!”
We make love while the water trickles over, around, and under
our bodies. By this time, I have an orgasm and the fantasy
I hope it is one that you can use.
 Though June is nineteen and married, she fantasizes
about a girl friend she has known since she was thirteen. “In
real life, as far as we got was to hold and kiss each other,” she
writes in lament about the c***dren's sexual games they used to
play in early adolescence. It seemed so easy then, so comforting
to our loneliness, to see our friends as our other selves. We
clung to each other for reassurance in young fear and bewilderment
of our burgeoning sexuality. In exploring our friend's
body, we explored our own.
This element of narcissistic identification seems clear in
June's fantasy: she does not see her friend as a rival in the triangle
she wants to set up with her own husband; she is not
“the other woman” – she is an accomplice. Her fantasy reminds
us of those days when doing anything was much more
fun when we shared it with a girl friend … those early days
when the true excitement of a date was not so much when we
were with him but when we could describe it afterward to our
One important point remains to be made about fantasies like
June's: it is as common for women to have sexual fantasies
about other women as it is rare for men to have fantasies about
other men. The bugaboo of homosexual fear does not haunt our
sex the way it does the other, but this does not mean that every
woman who has a sexual fantasy about another woman is a
lesbian. (The phrase “latent lesbian” has no meaning. We are
all “latent” – it is imaginable for any human being to do something
sexual with any other human being in the right time and
Some women who have fantasies about other women describe
themselves as lesbians. Many women who have similar
fantasies do not. You know yourself better than I do. Having a
fantasy in your mind is a very far cry from meaning you have
done something in actuality … or that you “really” want to do
it. June has sexual fantasies about other women, but does not
for one moment mention the idea that she might be a homosexual.
Tina writes about her attraction to Barbara in terms that
may well mean that in time she will enter a homosexual relationship.
s**ttered throughout this book are fantasies by other
women who have erotic reveries about sex with other females
… some letters are from women who have put this idea into
practice. None of these sexual paths is better than any other,
none is right or wrong. All that matters is how your sex life
makes you feel. If you feel whole and happy, released and vital,
it is nobody's business how you reach that goal. Some of the
women concerned call themselves lesbians, others do not.
What you call yourself is your business too.
In general, it can be said that sexual fantasies of other
women can usually be traced back to feelings and emotions of
babyhood, when our mother was our first love object. In time,
as we grew up, we made the crossover to men – starting with
father, who we took to be our first model for all men. But some
leftover emotion about mother, some u*********s image of
how she smelled, touched us, and gave us our first idea of love,
is often still buried somewhere within us, just as there is a little
bit of the c***d left over in every adult. 
I have just finished reading your book. I have really enjoyed
it, and am glad someone has finally written about women's
I have a few, but this is my favorite. This fantasy is always
about a girl friend I've known since I was thirteen years old.
I've always wanted to make it with her. In real life, as far as
we got was to hold and kiss each other. I have had women
make love to me, but it's always turned me off. I know that (I'll
call her Sue) Sue would be the only one that could turn me on.
I am nineteen years old and am married. I have told my husband
before about my fantasy, but after I read your book, I got
really excited and decided to really describe to him my fantasy
and how I'd like him to be making it with the both of us. It
really turned him on. We had the best time in bed than we've
had in a long time.
We both hope someday our fantasy will come true. I think
then I would be the happiest. We live far from her now, but
plan on moving back soon.
Well, thank you for the book you've written. I'm looking forward
to your next book. I hope this can help you in some way.
I am thirty-seven years old and have been with my husband
for fifteen years, the last ten of which I have known Barbara.
My husband is sexually okay, but not passionate – his value as
a husband is based on other qualities. My strongest emotional
need has been to be able to be open, to share all my thoughts
and feelings (including sexual fantasies). I have done this not
with my husband but with Barbara. She has also shared more
deeply with me than with anyone else until recently, when
someone new entered her life.
I have had sexual fantasies about her and other women for
as long as I can remember having sexual feelings at all. The
reason I am writing to you now is because of “the change” in
me – none of the fantasies in your book seem to cover that part
of me.
As time has gone by, the outward sexuality between Barb
and me has grown from no touching at all to spontaneous
kisses and embraces and back rubs that take me close to orgasm.
(I think the next time I will ask if she minds for me to
masturbate in her presence. I will have to think about this for a
while since we live in separate cities, and our direct contact is
only once or twice a year.)
Until last year, Barbara said that she wasn't sexually attracted
to women. Now she is living in a lesbian relationship.
You can imagine the mixture of joy for her and pain I felt for
myself when that happened. Until the beginning of that relationship,
my fantasies about women had always been about
Barbara. I would imagine her saying “Yes, I do have sexual
feelings for you,” and going down on me, hugging, kissing,
etc. Once I imagined Barb walking in while I was masturbating
and sitting down beside me and holding my left hand. Last
winter, I visited with her and her lover and had the deepest
back rub yet. The whole time she was much more open and
affectionate than ever before, but still clear that I wasn't to be
her bedmate. The next night, we three women did pot together
(my first time). Eventually, they went to the bedroom, and I lay
down on the couch. I felt like I was with them, part of their sex.
And then suddenly switching from explicit masturbatory images,
I was talking to Barb, sharing with her words of love and
deep feelings, some of it even admissions of jealousy. But even
though what I was telling her was not all positive feelings, I
could sense Barb's understanding and love. Her nonsexual but
deep love for me wanting me to feel good and enhancing my
sexual intensity. Since then I have often incorporated this sense
of feeling close with a woman, feeling her love with my masturbation.
I told Barbara the next day, and she felt it was a
beautiful thing. I shared all the feelings too that I had verbalized
in the fantasy when I had imagined the two of them making
love in the other room, and she understood all of that too. I
suppose you might not call this a sexual fantasy, but it turns
me on deepest of all when I masturbate to imagine how deeply
a woman (Barb) understands me, accepts and loves me. Sometimes
I try to incorporate this feeling into my time with my
husband (but I do feel guilty thinking of someone else when I
am with him). I have since last winter slept with three women.
One of them touched my deepest feelings along with my body.
I fantasize about her both ways at once – the feelings that we
share, plus the memories of our sex. Love and sex together can
be a very powerful stimulant.
I see myself as bisexual, by the way, and have been working
within my religious denomination to spread understanding of
homosexuality and bisexuality. I initiated a consideration of
these issues in Barb's state last summer, before it was an active
concern to her. This summer, she stood where I had stood with
the others and carried it through, while I stayed in my own
territory. I am more than pleased by the feelings of togetherness
and s****rhood I get from these activities.
I told one of my lovers about this kind of fantasy, and she
tried it and really liked it. I hope I have explained it well
enough so that you understand. It's the strength of emotional
intensity and general closeness that heightens sexual feelings.
Also, one of my explicit fantasies wasn't mentioned until now.
I'll say it quickly before I lose my nerve. I am drinking breast
milk and eventually floating in it, and as I approach climax, I
feel myself drowning.
 Toby's first fantasy, like most in this chapter, stems from
a time in her life when she was not yet ready for sex. She was
fifteen, she writes, when she began to fantasize about the man
who lived next door. He was “about forty-five, with sexy gray
hair (sophisticated-looking).”
Ah, these sophisticated-looking, gray-haired older devils!
How often they populate the erotic reveries of women young
enough to be their daughters. The ambiguous mystery they
bring with them, of having slept in many beds, surrounds them
with an almost mystic, golden haze of romance. Sexual but
fatherly at the same time, the older man promises to guide us
safely into our sexual life, initiating us with his great skill,
forgiving us in his wisdom by joining us in the forbidden act.

I'm eighteen, white, single, and reasonably sexually liberated,
surrounded by people who frown upon sex. Right now,
I'm having an affair with a guy called Lou, who is twenty-six.
His divorce comes through in about one month. He's really
My first fantasy was of a man who lived next door to us. At
our summer cottage. I was fifteen at the time. He's about fortyfive,
with sexy gray hair (sophisticated-looking).
My parents have one cottage while I have my own.
At about one in the morning, a knock would come at the
door and V., the man next door, who had k**s older than I,
would come in and immediately we'd be locked in a mad embrace.
He was the best married man around.
Whispering gentle words, we'd fall on the bed and make
love. He's gentle and I get horny thinking about him. We'll
screw and talk until five A.M., when he returns home and
leaves me with memories.
Another fantasy I have is having a huge dog (German shepherd)
make love to me (doggie-style, of course). I would be
held down, and the dog would be f***ed to sniff between my
legs and lick me out. Then he'd put his hard, moist penis inside
me, and we'd rock on to heaven.
Just the thought of his big nose probing between my legs
excites me.
Nothing really excites me as the thought of making love to
two men. Both of whom are familiar to me.
One to perform cunnilingus on me while the other (after the
first) can screw me.
While on a train, Lou and I made love on the seats of our
car. It was dark, at night, so no one really saw us (I hope). The
seats across from me were vacant, but there were people ahead
and behind me. We played with each other until that crucial
moment came. He pulled down his pants and put a blanket
over him. I had on a dress with no pants, so I just hopped on
his knee, and when he put his huge prick inside me, along with
the movement of the train, it was heaven. It was good! I experienced
my first real orgasm with him.
We fucked for about two hours, all the way to Boston, where
we had an engagement to play the next day.
I'll often fantasize that again he's home, and I can screw
him again and again and again.
Everytime I see a guy in tight pants … look out! I could just
grab him and wow!!
You seem like a fantastic lady, and I hope we could meet
When I first became aware of my sexual fantasies, I was in
my early teens. They used to threaten me sometimes, particularly
the ones involving other women. I have not gotten to the
point even today where I can, or want to discuss them with my
husband, even though my best friend and I swap fantasies. Our
latest mutual fantasy is telling our men that we're going to
Memphis for a weekend shopping spree, but actually going
there to get fucked. As you can see, I have come a long way
with my fantasies, and can now enjoy them. In fact, I don't like
to read My Secret Garden while I'm at work, because it gets
me too turned on, and that's not a state I want to be in at the
One of my favorite fantasies when I was a k** was walking
along the superhighway near the school I went to. The people
weren't in cars – I would imagine them moving together in
small clumps or groups, but walking. As I moved into the left
lane to pass a slow-moving f****y, I had to turn sideways. I
passed close by a man with a hard-on. I smiled and said mmmm-
mm … as in mm-mm-good. He took my arm and tried to
get me to go with him. I smiled sheepishly and answered that I
really couldn't, because I was too young and inexperienced. He
tried to convince me again, and I said, why not. We got out at
the next exit. I had no pants on. We were sitting near the
school. Someone (I think the hard-on man) was twiddling my
clit. It felt good. Then I was in a room. I decided I had to get
out. So I sheepishly asked him if I could please have my pants
back. He gave them to me, and I hurriedly left the room. There
was snow on the ground; then the man was after me. All of a
sudden, I saw a train arriving. I yelled out, “Thank God for the
Southern Pacific!”
That was the end of that particular one. One of the first fantasies
I can remember in my whole life was a man lying down.
I opened his zipper – I thrust my hand inside his pants, but into
pitch blackness. At that time, I had never seen a cock.
A couple of years ago, when I went through the phase I described
of having fantasies about' other women, my sexual
images were very exotic. I would imagine myself grabbing
Miss America's tit, watching a pregnant lady undress. Many
times, I have had dreams about being bare-chested in public, in
which I usually tried to cover myself. Recently, I had celebrity
week. One night, I was part of the M.A.S.H. unit, and Alan
Alda was after me. The next night, Frank Langella (Diary of a
Mad Housewife, Twelve Chairs) was fucking me and said,
“The only problem is that I have a small dick. So you will have
to flex your muscle.” I remember in my dream feeling my vagina
tighten and loosen, tighten and loosen.
If you like, I can ask the friend I swap fantasies with to send
you hers. I hope I have been of some help.
I love you, I love you, I love you!!!!
Your book was sensational and quite a turn on at times – a
turn off at others, but always devilishly good fun. I'd love very
much to submit a fantasy or two of my own. I'm s*******n, and
have fantasized (in one form or another) as long as I can remember.
My favorite (current favorite, that is) concerns this boy I
went out with several times (but unfortunately never slept
with). This was while I was still a virgin – but should I run
into him again, am sure I could get things to happen!! The fantasy
starts that we're in his bedroom, alone together, and I walk
over to him and just start to kiss him quite passionately while I
unzip his fly. I take his huge throbbing cock into my hands and
start caressing, fondling it, etc. He slips his trembling hands up
my sweater and starts to massage my breasts. He has to unzip
my fly and slips his hand right on my dripping pussy and sticks
a few fingers up my cunt.
We both undress each other (I stop while pulling off his
pants to fellate him). He lays me on his bed, props my legs up
and open, and his full red lips unite with my red cunt and
Zowie! I pull his head into me, and that tongue of his licks the
hell out of me. We have intercourse and both end up quite satisfied.
My next one concerns a girl friend of mine. I decide to sl**p
over her house, so we smoke some grass and are feeling rather
free with one another. We decide to take a shower together,
and that's when the fun begins. We offer to wash one another's
backs and naturally that's not all we wash of one another. We
get into her bedroom and first I towel her off, then she does me;
she has me sit on the edge of her bed so that she can dry my
feet and legs. She starts feeling my thighs and starts to kiss and
lick them. She opens my legs wide and starts to lick, suck, and
kiss my cunt. She works her way all over me, and we end up
69ing it all night.
I've told my lover these, and he enjoys them also.
I too am an avid crotch- and fanny-watcher. I always enjoy
visually undressing men and imagining screwing with them.
Can't wait for your next book. Much love to you.
I just finished reading your book called My Secret Garden,
and I liked it very much. I especially liked it because it made
me feel better about myself. I think about sex a lot, and I fantasize
about sex so much that I was beginning to think that I was
perverted. It makes me feel better to know that other women
fantasize about sex just as I do. I am going to be a sophomore
in college this next school year, but I am home for the summer
right now. I want to tell you about my fantasies, but I must
keep this letter anonymous, because I live in a very small town,
and I do not want anyone here to find out about me. As I said, I
have a lot of sexual fantasies, and I would like to tell you about
some of them. Although I have sexual fantasies almost anytime,
I have my most developed sexual fantasies when I masturbate.
I think I masturbate more than most girls. Almost
every night before I go to sl**p, I masturbate, and I often masturbate
at other times during the day when I am aroused and
can be alone for a while. Masturbation is the only kind of sexual
activity I have ever had. Although people say I have a
pretty face, I am overweight. Being overweight makes it difficult
for me to get dates with boys, so I have had only a few
dates with boys in my whole life. To be honest, I am a little
afraid of boys. I am afraid I might be frigid if I ever did have
sex with a boy. That's enough about me though. I had better
tell you about my fantasies.
I think I am the female equivalent of a “peeping Tom.” In
my sexual fantasies, I almost always imagine myself secretly
watching other persons engaged in sexual activities. One of my
favorites is to imagine an attractive boy undressing while I am
secretly watching him. I have never seen a boy undressed, so I
am not sure if what I imagine is completely accurate. I am
aroused by the thought of seeing a boy's sexual organs, but the
thought of actually touching them kind of scares me. They kind
of attract and repulse me at the same time. When I have this
fantasy, I also like to imagine this boy masturbating himself
after he undresses. I am not sure how boys really do masturbate
themselves, but in my fantasies they do it several ways. My
favorite right now is to imagine a boy lying facedown on ,his
bed and moving his hips up and down so that his penis rubs
against the sheets. I like to imagine that when he ejaculates he
calls out my name as though he has been fantasizing about me.
Another of my fantasies is to imagine a couple having sex
while I secretly watch. The couples are usually persons I know
personally; when one of my girl friends gets married, I like to
lie in my bed on her wedding night and try to imagine what she
and her new husband may be doing. I imagine that I am there
secretly watching when she sees her husband undress for the
first time and when she undresses while her husband watches.
The thought of undressing in front of a boy scares me, but it
arouses me too. After fantasizing about one of my girl friends
and her new husband undressing, I imagine that I am secretly
watching them when they have sex for the first time. Unless I
know otherwise for sure, I imagine that she is a virgin. Her
husband's penis is very large, and she cries out with pain when
he pushes it into her for the first time. It hurts so much that she
starts crying, but in a few minutes, it starts to feel good to her.
This, too, is a part of sex that scares me, but also arouses me.
Besides newlyweds, I fantasize about other couples I know
too, both married and unmarried. I think about what they
probably do when they have sex. I like to try and imagine all
the things they might do when they are having sex together. In
my mind, I try to picture them having sex. One of my favorite
things is to imagine them having oral sex. Mostly, I try to picture
whatever girl I am fantasizing about sucking on her partner's
penis. The idea of doing that to a boy repulses me, and yet
it fascinates me too. I sometimes imagine that he ejaculates in
her mouth and that she swallows it. Thinking about that
arouses me very much, but I do not think that I would ever
really do that myself. I also like to picture in my mind couples
masturbating each other, and I get very aroused when I try to
picture the boy sucking on the girl's nipples.
Most of my sexual fantasies are of the types I have already
described, but I do have a few other kinds of sexual fantasies
sometimes. Almost everytime I see a good-looking boy, I try to
imagine what he looks like with his clothes off. When I do this,
I kind of play a game.
I try to guess the size and shape of his sexual organs, although
having never seen a boy with his clothes off, I am not
too sure what his sexual organs ought to look like. Once I saw
a boy whose pants were bulging as though his penis were
erect, and it arouses me when I think about how he looked. I
really wish that there were a magazine for women that showed
photographs of good-looking men with all their clothes off.
Another fantasy that I have had a few times concerns two girls
I know at college. They have an apartment together, and I
found out from some of my friends that they are lesbians.
Sometimes when I masturbate, I try to imagine that I am secretly
watching when these two girls are having sex together. It
worries me, but I do get very aroused when I think about them
having sex. Sometimes I get, aroused thinking about some very
feminine and slim girl with all her clothes off, and occasionally
I fantasize about secretly watching a girl like that undress and
then masturbate. Sometimes I think that I would be less afraid
of having sex with another girl than I would of having sex with
a boy.
In almost all my sexual fantasies, I am just a secret' observer
of other persons' sexual activities, but in a very' small number
of fantasies, I do play other parts. Most of these fantasies have
a similar format. I imagine that I am trapped and am f***ed to
have sex with a good-looking boy. I will give you an example
of one of these fantasies. I imagine that I and a good-looking
boy, who otherwise would pay no attention to me, are snowbound
alone together in a mountain cabin together or some
other place like that. We have food and logs for the fire in the
fireplace, so we are comfortable. When night comes, we prepare
to sl**p in separate rooms, but when I begin' undressing,
he bursts into my room. He already has all his clothes off, and
he forcibly removes the rest of my clothing. When he sees me
with my clothes off, he gets even more excited, and his penis
becomes erect. It is very firm and very large, and I am scared
by the sight of it. He f***es me down on my back on the bed
and gets on top of me. Right away he starts trying to push his
penis into me. It hurts so much that I start crying, but he just
keeps pushing his penis into me. After several minutes of that,
it begins to feel good. He keeps moving his penis in and out of
me for about ten or fifteen minutes, and then he ejaculates.
While he is ejaculating, he tells me how good it feels to have
sex with me. Afterward, we lie in bed together, and he is very
affectionate to me. In fantasies like this one, I imagine that
having sex feels very good, but I do not have an orgasm in
them. I do not have this kind of fantasy very often though. I
probably only have it about once or twice a month. I have to be
in just the right mood for this kind or else they make me feel
bad instead of good.
The first specifically sexual fantasy that I ever had occurred
when I was thirteen, and my oldest s****r got married (I only
have s****rs and no b*****rs). At that time, I asked my mother
about marriage and having babies, and she told me about sex.
Soon after that, I began to masturbate, and when I did, I would
fantasize about being able to secretly watch while my s****r
and her new husband were having sex together. Maybe because
it was the first kind of sexual fantasy I had, this kind of
fantasy is just about my favorite of all. I get extremely aroused
when I try to picture what a newly married couple I know are
doing on their wedding night or on their honeymoon. Second to
this kind of fantasy are those in which I imagine that I am secretly
watching while a good-looking boy takes off all his
clothes and then masturbates. I would MUCH RATHER imagine
watching this than to actually have sex with a boy.
I hope that what I have told you about my sexual fantasies
will help your continuing research. I can hardly wait to read the
results of this additional research. I lent my copy of your book
to a friend of mine, and she, too, likes it very much. Maybe she
will write to you too. I might even write to you again if I think
of more to tell you about.
 Until very recently, it was a cliché even in the medical
profession that women were not turned on by reading pornography.
When I began researching My Secret Garden, one doctor
after another told me that women are unable to become
aroused through the same kind of visual stimuli that moved
men. “A woman does not look at sex as a kind of simple,
physical proposition the way men can,” went the usual explanation.
“Pornographic books or photos leave all emotion out of
sex, but unless a woman can see sex in an emotional context,
she just isn't interested.”
This may have sounded reasonable enough; on the whole, it
is fairly true of the way women lead their lives. The only problem
with the explanation is that it does not account for, or even
acknowledge, female lust.
It did not help explain to me why I would always find my
eyes riveted to attention when I passed a man on the street who
had a noticeable bulge in his trousers … why, when I went to
see The Changing Room, a play in which at least a dozen naked
men come on stage at one time, it was all I could do to
keep my head from swiveling from side to side. I had never
seen so many naked cocks presented for my inspection at one
time, and although I felt no emotion for any of the actors involved,
it was one of the most exciting evenings I had ever
spent in a theater.
Was I some kind of freak? I wondered. I had nothing to
compare myself to, no role-models whose footsteps I could
safely walk in. I had no cultural okay to give sanction to my
prurient interest, the way men have for theirs. If a man likes to
go to burlesque shows and pins photos of naked women on his
wall, it shows he is one hell of a lusty guy. There is even a
society based in San Diego – made up of young studs who
proudly label themselves “International Girl Watchers.” But
we are only supposed to collect photos of couples walking
hand in hand in the moonlight. The whole business seemed
unfair to me – worse, it offended my sense of logic and symmetry.
There must be a reverse to the coin, even if I had never
heard it discussed, even if no doctor would agree with me. I
remember talking to a friend's young daughter not too long ago
about her experiences at the beach. “Men have these funny
bulges in the front of their bathing suits,” the girl said, “but
you're not supposed to notice them. How do you do that?”
How indeed? I get furious when I hear men and women
alike say that the naked male isn't as interesting or beautiful as
the naked female. Why? Why should tits be any more beautiful
than a man's buttocks or cock? I believe it is men themselves
who've set up the idea that their naked bodies are ugly – or at
least, too trivial or unimportant to look at, unless they have an
erection! If I am right, then it is also men themselves who will
have to help both sexes get over this absurd prejudice. Men are
going to have to accept their own naked bodies as aesthetically
satisfying, and not merely sexually useful; they will have to
learn to lie back and enjoy allowing a woman to look at them.
Once men can get away from the idea that they are not worth
looking at if they don't have a giant, erect cock, they will be
liberated from an enormous amount of their castration anxieties.
They will be freed from the notion that they are either a
giant penis or they are “nothing.” They can be men, instead of
perpetual fucking machines.
To see a naked man from the rear is a sight that takes my
breath away the awesome shape of power as the shoulders drop
away into narrow hips, the hard, muscle-bunched look of an
athlete's ass…. There are lines in the male body that have never
been mentioned, aesthetics of masculine anatomy women will
soon be writing poetry about … if we can give ourselves permission
to look.
Unlike men, women have been trained from birth to be exhibitionists.
Fashion is busily revealing one aspect of our anatomy
this year, hiding it the next. Who more than a woman
feels more deeply in her bones the erotic power of what the eye
can see? It is obvious to me that both sexes must be equally
stimulated by reading and seeing sexual sights, but that women
– “ladies” – have been culturally conditioned to deny it, even to
themselves. Both sexes respond to natural things like sunshine,
furry a****ls, the feeling of speed, the sound of music – why
should there be this great divide in what turns on the individual
sexes? If both women and men like sex, both must like it in all
its manifestations, even the most fleeting. After I had written in
My Secret Garden that I was “an inveterate crotch-watcher,”
woman after woman has taken me aside to tell me, with a relieved
laugh, that she was too. (You will also find mention of
the pleasures of fantasizing what goes on under a man's tightfitting
pants in many of the letters in this book.)
Roxanne too sends evidence that I'm not alone in getting an
erotic charge out of things I see. Her letter contains eleven different
fantasies, all of which involve looking and being looked
But her letter ends on a sad note, I feel – one that does much
to explain why women are so afraid to confess their excitement
at seeing something sexual. “… I must stop now,” Roxanne
concludes, “as my husband is coming home. He's great but
rather traditional, so I don't want him to see all this.” Instead of
seeing women's sexual response to things they see or read as
one more erotic avenue to explore together, too many men see
it as a threat, a sign of raging sexuality that they are afraid they
may not be able to satisfy. “My ex-husband would rather think
of me as frigid,” a friend recently said to me, “than think
maybe I wasn't getting enough.” 
I have a number of favorite fantasies – I say favorite because
if I described all of my fantasies I'd be able to write a book
myself. So anyway, as my vaginal juices start proliferating,
here goes:
Fantasy 1: There is a pornographic book and magazine store
fairly near where I live. The magazines are especially great,
with all types of pictures and advice, including how guys can
best fuck guys, and so forth. Anyway, I see myself going in
there with some type of revealing clothing on and definitely No
underwear of any kind. Whatever the top material is, my nipples
will be clearly visible, and the bottom part will be some
sort of skirt-dress. I go in and start paging through some magazines
when I accidentally on purpose drop one. I bend over to
pick it up, thus revealing my ass and cunt in all their glory. The
young male proprietor naturally is watching me all along, and
he has all he can do to contain himself. Sometimes he'll rush
over and before I even get a chance to get up, he sticks his
enormous prick in me – in my asshole, in my cunt – no matter
– and pumps to our hearts' delight.
Sometimes he won't approach me, so I'll take a few magazines
to him to purchase and say, “Boy, I'll bet you get horny
working in a place like this,” or “You should have a back room
where horny females like me can get some fucking when they
need it – like right now.” He looks at me with lust and tells me
they do have such a room! He directs me and in I go with my
throbbing body. What should be in there but three gorgeous
guys, and I direct the show. Wow – have you ever had all three
holes fucked simultaneously?
Another great feeling is to be held by two guys and raised
up and down on a third guy's prick – first slowly and then with
progressive speed.
After all this, I still want more variety. I take one guy into
the adjoining shower with me and ask him to pee on me – yes
– pee on my boobs and tummy and cunt. That's exciting! After
that, I bend over on all fours and tell him to “stick it up my
ass,” which he obligingly does.
This particular fantasy usually ends about here. This very
morning, I went to the bookstore to act this out (at least in the
initial stages) only to find out they had gone out of business.
Would you believe that? And I was ready! All I had on was a
white peasant blouse off-the-shoulders and a short peasant type
skirt – no undies! If I had bent over or if a good wind had come
along, I either would've been arrested or ****d – maybe both. I
sure was disappointed and frustrated! I went home and masturbated
with an artificial banana, which, believe me, was no
substitute for a cock (or cocks).
Fantasy 2: I have tremendous exhibitionist urges – like the
bending over previously described. I get a lot of these ideas
from looking at magazine photos. I'd LOVE to perform a strip
act which culminated in fucking the whole damn male audience.
I'd like to masturbate manually or with cucumbers or
whatever on stage and drive men to distraction.
Fantasy 3: I'd like to be casually dressed in some public
place as a department store with my button-down-the-front
blouse open just far enough to let a boob show from the side
for the benefit of male passersby. Occasionally, someone grabs
it and starts tearing my clothes off from lust.
Fantasy 4: Here's something I actually did a few weeks ago.
I again had on no underwear, and I parked my car in a parking
lot next to a tall building where construction was being carried
out. There were workmen a few floors above me, so I decided
to give them a treat…. I pulled my skirt up (in the car) and
began to masturbate with my finger. After a few minutes, I had
quite an appreciative audience. I would've liked screwing one
or more of them, but time pressures didn't allow. Alas!
Fantasy 5: I'd love to be seeing a porno film in a theater – I
can feel and see myself getting hot and wet because the film is
really turning me on. All of a sudden, I feel a strange hand on
my thigh slowly heading for my black tiny bikini panties. The
hand reaches its mark and finds me wet and ready. To avoid
creating too much of a disturbance, I remove the panties, and
he opens his fly. I move over and sit on his lap thereby causing
his twelve-inch-long sex tool to go easily and smoothly into my
burning sex hole-up and down I go till we exhaust ourselves in
climax. Then we part and he moves to a different location in
the darkened theater. I've never seen his face – it wasn't necessary.
I just now stuck my finger up my twat as I'm writing this –
my god – I don't even feel human – just one whole sex machine.
Fantasy 6: At other times, I see myself as a teacher of middle-
to-late teen years boys. They don't especially turn me on,
but I'd like to sit on the desk with my legs apart and turn
THEM on by letting them see my sex organs “accidentally.”
Sometimes, a cooperative fellow teacher (male) comes into the
room, and we demonstrate to them “proper” oral lovemaking.
He undresses me slowly and completely, and I again sit on the
desk – now completely naked. He asks me to sit with my legs
apart so the whole class can see my cunt and asshole. He
spreads my labia part and describes my female anatomy to the
class. While he's touching and describing, I'm going crazy and
am moving my body about in wild abandon. The boys at their
desks are one-by-one opening their flies to let their cocks escape.
Here and there, I see a fountain of semen exploding. My
fellow teacher now goes down on me by titillating my clitoris
with his tongue. He goes down slowly until his tongue slips
into my vagina, and his finger is up my ass. I'm still on the
desk. By now, boys are fucking boys and several are clawing at
me – sucking my nipples and trying to move the teacher out of
the way so they can get at me. This goes on and on….
Fantasy 7: I really get turned on by looking at naked men in
Playgirl. While looking, I sometimes imagine myself at home
with minimal revealing clothing on – maybe a see-through
shortie nightgown. I've been looking at myself in the fulllength
mirror in the bedroom and admiring my body. In front of
the mirror, I've been executing some bumps and grinds in various
stages of partial disrobing. I've also been watching myself
masturbate, but this never really satisfies me, so I'm in one hell
of a bad way when there's a knock on the front door. I go to the
living room, peek through the blinds, and see a deliveryman
with a package for me. By this time, he's really banging on the
door, so I figure, “Oh, shit, if he's in such a hurry, I'll just open
up.” And open up I do – both the door and myself. When I
open the door, he asks me to sign for the package; as I am
signing, he is looking. When I finish signing, it is my turn to
look at his crotch. Needless to say, it is really bulging! He is
standing slightly inside the door, so as I reach to close it behind
him, my nipples brush his bare arm. That's all he needs.
He grabs me, lifts me up, and carries me over to a living room
chair, where he places me on the chair with one of my legs over
each arm of the chair, thus leaving me slightly suspended and
with my genitals completely exposed. He pulls up my night100
gown over my head and leaves me with nothing on. I am so
excited I can feel the juices coming out of me. He whips out of
his pocket an artificial cock and sticks it in me – up and down
it goes till I come and come and come. Then he picks me up
and puts me on the floor and fucks me till I'm delirious. While
this is going on, my dog enters the living room and starts sniffing
and whining, and his prick starts popping out. He doesn't
have a chance, though, because my deliveryman is delivering
too good for me to pay any attention to my dog … maybe some
other time.
Fantasy 8: I'd also like to find a guy who would like to lie
down in the bathtub with me straddling him and let me pee all
over him.
Fantasy 9: I occasionally visualize myself walking into a
college fraternity and announcing my availability for ANYONE
who's there and ready.
Fantasy 10: I'm a patron in a strip-bar. The girl on stage is
doing her thing and has nothing on but a G-string. I'm there
alone, and the room is filled with men who are all excited from
watching the stripper. Strippers excite me too – but I want a
MAN to satisfy me. One approaches me, sits next to me, and
puts his hand under my skirt. In a very short time, he's got four
fingers in my hole, and I don't give a damn who's watching.
Pretty soon, all eyes are on us. I'm laid out in the booth, and
he's undressing. He gets on top of me, and then me on him;
when I'm on top of him, my boobs are bouncing like crazy, and
pretty soon I feel another prick going up my ass. We're all
keeping time to the music. The stripper is still dancing, and she
takes her G-string off and starts masturbating herself with a
candle from one of the tables. People are applauding, yelling,
and cussing, and the music gets louder and louder. It feels so
good – it just never ends.
Fantasy 11: I love to pose for porno pictures in real life …
not professionally – just for my lovers. God, that's exciting. I'll
pose in ANY way regardless. You name it – I'll do it. I love to
later look at the pictures and get excited all over again. Once, a
guy and myself took a picture in a mirror of me sucking his
cock – to look at that later was absolutely fascinating and
I walk around most of the time in a horny condition. Sometimes
I can't even concentrate, and that's bad because I'm a
college-educated professional person…. I won't say what profession,
because I can't risk identification in any way.
Well, there are more, but I must stop now as my husband is
coming home. He's great but rather traditional, so I don't want
him to see all this.
I'm anxious to read your second book – hope you can use
some of this in it.
 A few years ago, I used to write frequently for Cosmopolitan
magazine. I remember talking one day to Helen Gurley
Brown. She was thinking of doing something very daring: she
wanted to run a nude male centerfold. She wanted my help in
finding the right man. I happily fell to thinking of who this Mr.
Right could be, summoning up at least a dozen from my own
fantasies. Helen was very anxious about the project: she was
worried that it might turn off many women unless it was done
in good taste. She had cause for her concern: it had never been
done before in any woman's magazine published in America.
What Helen didn't realize was that the women in her audience
were more than ready for her experiment.
I had earlier discovered in my own research for My Secret
Garden that the best way to relax women's anxiety about talking
honestly about their erotic ideas was to tell them about my
own behavior first. This gave them a role-model, someone they
could identify with, and the feeling they were not alone in discussing
any sexual area. Therefore, in the hundreds of questionnaires
I circulated for Garden, I described myself as an
“avid crotch-watcher,” and asked if the reader was one too.
That question never failed to get a response. Most women
wrote that they were crotch-watchers too, others said they loved
seeing “men's bottoms,” “examining their pants to see which
leg it hung down in,” or just plain “looking.” Sharon says, “I
find myself many times looking at the crotches of men's pants,
just as I sometimes find men gazing at my breasts!” “I've always
been an inveterate crotch-watcher,” Molly writes. “I love
it when I see some guy with a partial erection. I am delighted
to find I'm not alone.”
The response I was getting (in a small way) to my questionnaire
was multiplied a thousand times by the reaction to that
first photo of the naked Burt Reynolds in Cosmo. If, for her
own reasons, Helen Brown decided not to continue nude male
photos as a regular feature, she nevertheless did found an entire
industry. There are now several women's magazines that feature
pages of naked men with ever-increasing variety and size
of genitalia for the leisurely inspection of the women of America
– many of whom had never before seen these mysterious
parts of male anatomy up close and in living color.
If much of this photographic effort is still in bad taste – or
more to the point, not to your taste – here are several reasons to
explain it. One is that I don't think that these new magazines
have figured out how to photograph the naked male in the way
women would like to see a man. Perhaps the big clue to this is
that the magazines in question are owned and published by
men, or have male art directors. Therefore, the naked men are
depicted in the way these men feel women would respond: the
naked football player, hairy actor, or model is shown in all his
muscular beauty alongside a stallion with flaring nostrils and a
sexual organ rivaled only by the size of the model's … or else
there is the inevitable Maserati or Ferrari vroom-vrooming
alongside. The art director could not believe those poor women
out there would “get it” unless the photo were power-packed
with male phallic symbols. The man alone wasn't enough …
these other men thought.
These new magazines have been grinding out male pinups
now for a couple of years. Because I am all in favor of it, and
only regret that they don't do it better, I am pleased to see that
they are learning to drop the horses, cars, and other barbedwire
masculinity props. They must have begun to listen to the
women “out there” instead of to the anxious noises in their
own heads: a woman does not need any symbols to help her
recognize that the naked penis she is looking at belongs to a
Another and still on-going misconception about what
women enjoy in looking at naked men is the belief that if the
penis isn't a foot long, no woman could be bothered. Once
again, the question must be asked: Are the men who hold these
fixed ideas getting them from their audience, or is it a response
to their own, inner anxiety?
The idea that size is everything is the very turning point in
the new Mel Brooks film, The Young Frankenstein. In this
movie, the frigid, manipulative young woman has no qualms
about brushing off her curly-haired lover, but is brought to
orgasm and “womanhood” by the immensity of the monster's
monstrous cock. At the point in the film where her eyes rivet
on the gigantic tool approaching her maidenhead, her face registers
fear and horror, but in the ensuing moment of penetration
her voice reaches a relieved, resounding high C of song and
exuberance. The audience breaks up with laughter; everybody
gets the joke. But it's no joke in real life.
One of men's greatest sexual hang-ups concerns the size of
their cock. They really believe that size is everything; psychiatrists
do a lot of business treating patients with terrible complexes
about the sexual inadequacy of their penis size. (“It's
only seven inches, Doctor.”) What hasn't come across to the
people who create these films and centerfolds is that while
women in this book, or in jokes among themselves, may go on
about this or that “huge,” “gigantic,” or “monster” cock, the
entire idea must be taken as a metaphor for the pleasure they
desire … size is the purely symbolic measure of their exuberant
approach to the joys of sex. What woman wants to be ripped
open in real life by an enormous penis, jammed and made sore
by some tremendous cock?
Women's insistence on size in their conversation or fantasies
is merely the “handle” on which to hang their dreams. It is
their cry for more sexual pleasure, for a larger, more intense
experience not a larger tool. I have heard very few women deplore
the small size of their lover. As any doctor or experienced
woman can tell you, it's not the quantity but the quality of the
cock, the expertise of the lover.
This male preoccupation with, and fear about, his own inadequacy
has so far bred (for me) a disappointing overindulgence
in centerfold photos of men with penises so big and
swollen there is no room for imagination. While Jackie writes
that she is turned on by the intensely masochistic, but very
well-written novel, The Story of O, and by other things she
reads and sees, she finds no stimulation in “dirty movies,”
because they are “unimaginative and tasteless.” To any man
who says, “But what woman wants to see a limp cock?” I can
only answer – “Who better than a woman knows what can be
made of a limp cock?”
Give us something real to work with. I am all for photos of
naked men being made available to us in women's magazines.
I wish I'd had them when I was growing up. Why should men's
genitalia be a mystery? But these magazines' success in the
long run, is going to depend upon the development of an audience
of women who have learned how to respond to the sight
of naked men in films, photos, and all media. When women
relax enough, and allow their own genuine emotions and reactions
to enter their consciousness … when they feel free
enough to play with the emotions aroused within themselves at
the sight of these beautiful naked men … when they have
learned “to look” and be honestly receptive … the message
will get back to the industry, and the industry will learn sophistication
from its audience: women enjoying looking; this
is what they like to look at.
Any new industry takes time for supply and demand to get
together, especially in an area so sensitive and taboo as women
unashamedly looking and enjoying the sight of naked men. I
hope we get enough time, that the art of photographing male
nudes progresses so that it can command a genuine mass audience,
month after month, year after year. I hope the opportunity
for women to see and enjoy the male nude is not just a passing
fad. It answers a very real sexual need among women … and
anything that does can only reflect beneficially on men.
I believe it will happen. If nothing else, we are a tyrannically
commercial country. Industry has long known it could use
feminine sex appeal to sell men anything from convertibles to
mutual funds. Once it becomes clear that male sex appeal can
work the same salesmanship wonders with women, the state of
the art will move ahead with the speed of a cash register ringing
up a dollar sign. I am not applauding mindless materialism.
I am merely saying that one of the serendipitous byproducts
of the inevitable growth in the use of male sex appeal
by the advertising industry is that it will at last give women
social sanction to enjoy being the looker – at last – and not
always and only the looked-at. 
I have just finished reading your book, My Secret Garden. I
would like to say thanks for writing such a book. I felt I should
write and tell you my fantasies (sexual). But first, I think it is
necessary for you to know a little about me. I am a single, nineteen-
year-old sophomore in college. I attend a small junior
college here in my hometown. Because the town is so small,
everybody, especially the young people, know practically everyone
else. My parents are pretty uptight about sex. My mother
only told me the basics about menstruation and all that, which
I already knew when she finally told me. My father never told
me anything! I have two b*****rs whom I have helped bathe,
and I used to baby-sit for four boys a lot, so I've known for a
long time what a penis looked like. The penis has always intrigued
me, so when I became able to read such advanced material,
I did just that. Reading books and magazines is the way
I've learned about sex and the male and female bodies. I masturbate
occasionally, when I have the privacy, but I've never
been able to have an orgasm. I have had intercourse with only
two guys. One is my b*****r who is s*******n years old. The
other is a friend of my b*****r's who is eighteen years old. But
I've never been able to have an orgasm with either of them.
There is a guy that I date sometimes whom I feel I could have
an orgasm with if I could get him to go all the way with me! I
come very close to having an orgasm when I fantasize about
him. I'll call him D. In my fantasies, D. and I start out doing
stuff like eating at a nice restaurant or something. Then we go
to one of our houses and start drinking. We usually drink rum
and coke. After about the third drink, D. starts kissing me and
playing with my breasts and stuff like that. This is where the
fantasy begins, because in reality, that's where we leave off.
We're lying on the sofa, and I become very horny and so does
he. We undress and go into a bedroom where we make love,
usually with at least the bedside lamp on. I dream that I have at
least three orgasms and that we make love again the next
Then I have a fantasy in which a total stranger comes to my
door and I seduce him. Although I have adequate breasts
(36C), in my fantasies I usually have very large, round breasts.
My hair is usually very long and has lots of body.
I have one fantasy in which I am a stripteaser in a burlesque
show. In my fantasy, I come out on the stage in a long red lowcut
dress with a slit up the side to the base of my hip. My hair
is jet black and nearly to my hips. I start doing a very seductive
dance, all the men begin to whistle and applaud, and there are
a few in the front row that have erections! I begin by taking off
my long red gloves, next I take off my large loop earrings.
Then I take off my shoes. I then open the slit to reveal the end
of a garter and the top of my hose. (The garter belt is red also.)
I open the slit just wide enough for the men to see that I have
on NO panties. Then I close the slit, do a few more seductive
moves; then I undo one strap, which really gets the men going.
I undo the other strap, and then I begin to unzip the dress (it
zips on the side of the slit). I very slowly unzip it. But even
then I'm not nude. I have on the garter, stockings, and red strapless
bra! I slowly continue to undress, teasing the men a lot!
Finally, when I am nude, a man from the audience (front row)
can no longer control himself. He runs up and throws me down
on the stage and begins fucking me! All the other men in the
audience masturbate themselves or each other. There are variations
to this and all my other fantasies.
Another one that I have is one in which I'm ****d! I've never
fantasized about strangers or dogs though. Most of the time,
the men in my fantasies are men I happen to be attracted to at
that time! I find myself many times looking at the crotches of
men's pants, just as I find men gazing at my breasts!
I feel that I have certain lesbian tendencies, because my first
fantasies were of other girls, and sometimes I'll still have a
fantasy of a girl or woman. I also find that I get excited when I
see pictures of nude women! If I ever had the opportunity for a
lesbian experience, I doubt that I would pass it up. But I could
never be totally lesbian.
Right now, I'm looking for a nice, somewhat older man who
will teach me all I need to know about sex, for I am very inexperienced
and dumb. If you know anyone like this, send him
my way!
I've always had sexual fantasies, and for a long time, I
thought they were abnormal and weird, and I tried to suppress
them. But I don't anymore.
I hope I have helped your research just a little bit. I am looking
forward to your next book. Thanks again for My Secret
I love you! Having just read My Secret Garden, I feel compelled
to write to you.
I just this moment finished the book, and I have so many
jumbled thoughts that I'll try to relate my feelings to you in
some orderly fashion.
First, I'm still turned on. Your book had an enormous erotic
effect on me. Need I say that I had to stop numerous times to
masturbate? But, oddly enough, my OWN erotic fantasies are
still much more exciting to me than simply reading others.
I have never felt guilty about fantasizing during masturbation
– I always considered that quite natural and have been
doing so ever since I started masturbating regularly at age five.
But I got the greatest relief in reading that other women regularly
fantasize while fucking. I always felt terribly guilty about
fucking one man and thinking about another. Now I realize it's
not abnormal or unfair or a put-down of the guy I'm with – it
just makes everything more enjoyable. What a great discovery
and a great release. Thank you!
The other delightful result is that I feel closer to other
women. Wouldn't it be great if we could all discuss these
things with each other, rather than reading it in a book? Maybe
now I will. It really allows me to feel more open to other
Two other minor points. I've always been an inveterate
crotch-watcher, and I love it when I see some guy with a partial
erection. I am delighted to find that I'm not alone. Also,
sometimes I fantasize fondling and sucking another woman's
breasts, and I always look at breasts. I'm glad this is also
common, as I always feared I was harboring some deeply hidden
lesbian tendencies. Now I know this isn't so and that my
fantasy is quite common and natural.
I have only one objection. On the back of the paperback edition
there is a quote from Dr. Leonard Cammer saying that
fantasy “allows a needed escape from unfulfilled reality.” Bullshit!
He completely missed the whole point of your book – it
ENHANCES reality and is NOT an escape. Typical sexist
comment from a male who really does not understand women.
Thank you, Nancy, for allowing me to feel better about myself.
Everyone should read your book.
P.S. I am college-educated, thirty, single.
I've just finished My Secret Garden. Thank you very much
for collecting these fantasies. Reading the book has made me
feel much more at ease about the normalcy of my own fantasies.
(Incidentally, I am twenty-six years old, white, middle-class
background, with three and a half years of college, and in training
as a medical assistant at the moment.)
Although I am an imaginative person, I often take my fantasies
whole from other sources, such as movies (not dirty movies,
curiously enough, because I find them unimaginative and
tasteless), novels (The Story of O, etc.), and other popular media.
But much more commonly, I make them up from experiences
that I have had, embellished and elaborated to fantasy
proportions. One of my favorites, incidentally, is about prostitution,
an empty room in My Secret Garden.
Some years ago, I met a man who, I discovered shortly, was
a bounding cad, but he was so egotistical, with very little reason
for being so, incidentally, that I was fascinated by his conceit
and was intimate with him for some months before my
fascination turned to boredom at his boorish predictability, and
I subsequently dropped him.
My prostitution fantasy about this man, whom I'll call
Roger, goes more or less like this: I'm in the city on some important
errand when I see Roger and, worse, he sees me. From
his smile as he approaches, I know he means no good. Rather
then create a scene, I allow him to take me into a sleazylooking
cafe. There he tells me he has discovered some awful
thing about me, something that could ruin my personal and
professional life, as well as those of my f****y. I think, in my
fantasy, that he wants to blackmail me for money, but discover
instead he intends to prostitute me for his own profit. I am
helpless and must obey.
He has apparently had all this planned out, because when I
follow him to his apartment, he gives me a see-through blouse,
micro-miniskirt, black net stockings, and a black garter belt to
exchange for my street clothes. But before I do this, he makes
me shave my entire body, including pubic hair.
When I'm ready and dressed, we walk through downtown
on our way to a party, where he has sold my services. We stop
before a store with a facade that reads Novelties, but I can see
by the equipment in the window that it's really a sex shop, one
that sells pornographic books, and has the trappings of fetishoriented
sex. We go inside. Behind the counter is a handsome
young Oriental (in real life several of my lovers have been Orientals,
and I admit a preference for them over Caucasian men).
He smiles at us and can tell at once by my costume and
makeup what I am.
Roger ignores me and begins talking to the storekeeper
about various of his goods, while I wander about and look at
all the stuff hanging on the walls, such as leather harnesses,
dildos, chains, whips, vibrators, etc., which makes me very hot
and excited, as well as a big selection of dirty books. (This
excitement, incidentally, is very odd, because I've tried some of
the equipment mentioned above and was totally turned off by
it, but in my fantasy, I'm so excited I bite my lips to keep from
caressing myself while both men watch me.) Roger sees this
and calls me over. There's a bunch of equipment on the counter
that Roger wants to buy, but he doesn't have enough money.
He suggests to the storekeeper that he can use me as he likes in
exchange for the equipment. The storekeeper smiles again and
pulls the shades to the store windows.
Roger lifts my skirt and opens my blouse, playing with me
and showing me off to the storekeeper, who suggests we go
upstairs. In a room upstairs, we find an enormous Newfoundland
dog, and both men lay me back on the table and let the
dog lick my naked mound, burrowing his big nose in as deep
as he can. While the dog is doing this, Roger begins to dildo
me anally. The mixture of pleasure and pain is so great I cry
out noisily, which excites Roger even more and makes him go
at it even more fiercely.
Quite suddenly, the Oriental pushes both the dog and Roger
away from me and, taking his clothes off quickly, begins to
make love to me. Roger becomes very angry and would interfere,
but the storekeeper speaks in Chinese to the dog, who
turns to Roger and keeps him at bay. Roger becomes furious as
he helplessly watches me responding to the shopkeeper with
my whole being, and not grudgingly as I did to him. I take
great joy in fellating this gentle man and let him have anal
intercourse, which in this case doesn't hurt as it usually does. I
am aching with desire by the time he switches to plain, straight
intercourse. During all this, my lover turns to Roger and says
that if he (Roger) bothers or threatens me anymore, he'll suffer
for it. Roger, coward that he is, believes it and slinks from the
room with the growling dog at his heels. And it is this man's
lovemaking and not Roger's cold-hearted fucking that swiftly
brings me to one intolerably delicious orgasm on the heels of
And there's the basic form of one of my favorite fantasies,
with true lust triumphant and the villain foiled again.
Again, with gratitude and wishes of success.
 I believe sex is all pervasive in the human mind and body.
While we are buying groceries, we notice how handsome the
clerk in the supermarket may be; women write to me of sexual
fantasies they have had about their dentist while he was drilling
their teeth. But we need a focus, a concrete symbol, picture,
or book to make us aware and comfortable about our freeflowing
sexuality. “Since I read your book, and also while
reading it,” writes Sally, “I began to think about my own fantasies.
I always had these thoughts, since I was around twelve,
but never told anyone…. “
Marylou tells us that she herself denied ever having sexual
fantasies until she read Garden. “No,” she told her friends
when the subject came up; she never had fantasies. “I just
think about my lover.” But little flashbacks were registering in
her head, she says, even while she denied that erotic images
danced in her imagination. “When I read [My Secret Garden],
it dawned on me just like it did on Paula in the book – oh, `a
fantasy is something that makes you feel good.' In fact, most
every scene in the book has run through my fantasies but with
a different script.”
Marylou is an illustration of the fact that we all know more
than we consciously want to know. A great deal of sexual imagery,
daydreaming, reveries, and fantasy are suspended
somewhere in the back of our mind. It is all like some data
bank, where specific bits of information can be quickly brought
forward into consciousness when the right lever is pushed, and
then so quickly wheeled back after use that it is difficult to
remember the thought was ever there to begin with. In this
way, we live with our mental fires banked, our sexuality turned
down low. Perhaps this is necessary to get through the ordinary
business of the ordinary day, a necessary sacrifice of our erotic
selves on the altar of an industrial society. Still – aren't these
days half-unlived? I believe any stimulation is a positive good;
anything that makes us feel more alive is an absolute benefit. If
an occasional glance at a photo in a magazine, an image on the
television screen or a page in a book makes us feel more intensely,
isn't that life itself? 
At a suggestion from my s****r, I have just finished reading
your book. I truly thought it was fantastic. I just couldn't put it
First, let me tell you about myself. I am nineteen, just married
last December, and I love sex. My husband is twenty-four
and very healthy.
Since I read your book, and also while I was reading it, I
began to think about my own fantasies. I always had these
thoughts, since I was around twelve, but never told anyone or
acted them out. I guess I never really thought about them until
I read that other women had the same sort of thoughts.
My husband says the kind of sex we have now is fine for
him, and he won't discuss his fantasies. I would like to discuss
mine and several of the others I read about in your book – just
talk about them, that's all – but he doesn't seem to get into it.
I don't masturbate, but often think about it. Perhaps if I read
a really good book on masturbation, or someone discussed it
openly with me, I would try it. When I think of another woman
fingering me and eating me, it excites me intensely. It has
never happened, but it sure sounds good. I also think about big
masculine men, like the kind you see in Playgirl and Viva; I
like to think of them stepping right out of the pages, f***efully
tearing my clothes off and tying me, spread-eagle, arms apart,
to the bedposts. As I look at those photos, I imagine him teasing
me, fingering me to get me going, and then teasing me
with just the head of his cock. I don't know where I get these
ideas, as these are not things my husband does to me – I mean,
teasing me with his cock. I am sure I have read about it somewhere.
In my fantasy, this man from the pages of Playgirl then
licks my tits and belly button until I plead with him to fuck me,
and at last he does. I don't think of these things when my husband
and I are making love, or doing sixty-nine, but when I am
alone reading porno books. Then it really turns me on. I can
really throw myself into the pages of a good book. It sets my
imagination going and allows me to imagine myself involved
in a sexual world I am sure I will never know. All the men and
women in my fantasies are faceless. They are always strangers.
And even I am not recognizable; the things I allow myself to
do are so unlike me. But how I would love to enjoy the thrills
of the things I have read and seen on the printed page!
It's great to read how other women think, and it's stupid of
me to think we aren't entitled to all the sexual excitement we
can feel in our imaginations.' The men that think we aren't capable
of this kind of excitement must know some pretty dumb
Thanks so much.
I just finished your book, and I wanted to tell you that I enjoyed
it, and it helped me out.
My girl friend brought the book to me at a picnic. The
women who were there – average mid-twenties, early thirties,
public schoolteachers like myself – denied having fantasies. I
denied it too – “No, I just think about my lover – I've never had
fantasies,” but little flashbacks were registering in my head
that I just couldn't put my finger on. When I read My Secret
Garden, it dawned on me just like it did on Paula in the book –
oh, “a fantasy is something that makes you feel good.” In fact,
most every scene in the book has run through my fantasies but
with a different script. It amused me to even read in the
Quickie section that two different women get their kicks from
Tarzan. He was my earliest fantasy man. Every time I read
Tarzan comics, I'd get a tingle; then I'd make up my own stories
before I fell asl**p at night. I guess I was about twelve. I
later changed to some fantasy boys – Spin and Marty. I suppose
because I could then be included in the story. I day114
dreamed a lot at school too, but I can't remember if they were
sexual types of things. I would imagine, because this pattern
continued – nighttime stories and daydreaming – until I got
married. I remember riding the bus to work, in my early twenties,
fantasizing. My scripts were not very spicy, I don't believe.
They were repressed, and I was sexually frustrated. I had engaged
in every form of foreplay with boyfriends since I was
fifteen, but didn't actually have intercourse till I was twentythree.
It all made me feel guilty, but the fantasies didn't.
I thought my fantasies stopped when I got married seven
years ago, until I read your book. But I have them more than
ever. For almost three years, I've had a real lover, and he is my
fantasy husband. When I go to parties at his house, I always
feel and act as the hostess. And when I go home with my real
husband, I go to bed with my fantasy husband. When he
dances with his wife at these parties, we look at each other in
the mirror over the bar, and we are really in each other's arms.
He is a great fantasizer himself. On our once-a-week sessions
in bed together, my lover and I sometimes fantasize together.
Sometimes our motel room has two double beds in it, and we
talk about the other couple making love in the other bed. Sometimes
we pretend we're making a porno film. I really don't
know why I said I don't have sexual fantasies.
When I masturbate, I sometimes dress in sexy clothes and
watch myself in the mirror. Sometimes I use different garden
vegetables. I go outside and pick a nicely proportioned zucchini
I'm going to make more use of my fantasies now, instead of
repressing them. It seems to me that without fantasies sex is
mechanical and less fun. My husband and I rarely make love
since I've started my affair. I don't want to leave him. We have
a lot in common, but we can't talk like my lover and I do. I
think it's unrealistic to expect one man to be Mr. Right. It takes
many people to fulfill one person's needs. That sounds so exploitive.
I like to think of myself as fulfilling my own needs,
but I need love, someone to understand, and I need money so I
can have my beautiful house in the country and my stable of
horses. I'd have to live in an apartment on my teaching salary.
Best wishes on writing your new book. I'm sorry I couldn't
write specific details of fantasies. They are too repressed at this
point, and besides I am an artist. Words have never been my
My lover should be calling soon. We have a great adventure
ahead with my new viewpoint on fantasies.
 When I began writing My Secret Garden, I said, “Let's
get frustration out of the way first.” It is one of the great misconceptions
many people have that sexual fantasies are the
lonely dreamings of withered-prune old maids. This is just not
While the women in this section are here because in one
form or another they all feel frustration in their lives, only
Laura can be called a virgin – but from her description of her
activities, it is clear that she remains one only technically, only
by centimeters. Biba too comes close to the conventional idea
of frustration. She is very close to term in her third pregnancy
and writes that when fucking becomes uncomfortable, she uses
masturbation and fantasy to take its place.
More often, however, it is my feeling that it is not so much
the lack of sex that leads to the frustration of the women who
write me as it is that the quality of their sexual experience is
not all it might be. Until recently, this unhappiness was unspoken.
In our culture, it was silently agreed that any woman
lucky enough to have a man had no right to complain.
Contrary to popular belief, I think that as women gain more
sexual freedom, we will find greater sexual frustration. Until
recently, young women were so preoccupied with hanging onto
their virginity that their consequent frustration was practically
a badge of virtue. If you turned and tossed in your little single
bed at night, at least you had the dream of keeping that symbolic
rosebud that mother assured you would make you all the
more cherished “when the right man comes along.”
Frustration was something a “good girl” suffered silently
with a Doris Day smile. Nice women just didn't talk about or,
until recently, didn't even admit to themselves the genuine
emotional loneliness and physical pain that can be felt by a
woman who is ready and eager for sex, but is deprived of it.
(Even before she has had it, she already knows she misses it.
Her fantasies have told her so.)
The pill hasn't changed “everything.” Throughout this book,
you will find letters from women in their twenties who tell me
they are still virgins. So were their mothers. But what is different
today is that an enormous amount of information on the
pleasures of sex is not only available to women but is practically
inescapable: films and television do not let us forget that
others are in sexual ecstasy.
Another little-discussed aspect of liberation that leads to the
sexual frustration of many young women is, ironically enough,
our greater freedom of selection. The most enterprising of the
new generation of women no longer feel pushed or rushed into
marriage. Perhaps they want a career; perhaps they simply
don't want to settle for the first man who comes along. Women
value themselves more, and as we do so, we are becoming
more selective about men. A job you like, work you find satisfying
– something to do that you feel is important – is, I believe,
essential to a good life. Not only is it fulfilling in its own
right but it also helps you resist the demands of our culture to
marry just because you're approaching twenty-five or thirty.
But becoming your own woman, becoming highly educated
and choosy in your sexual tastes, leaves you vulnerable to loneliness.
You can be a virgin and be sexually frustrated. But
every experienced woman knows that to have had sex, good
sex, and then to have to do without it, leaves even more room
for real pain.
In our culture, the pain a woman suffers from sexual deprivation
isn't considered seriously. Not so with men.
The myth says, “Men are different.” Men must have sex. His
wife is frigid, or away in the country – almost any excuse suffices
to “drive” a man to this or that sexual peccadillo. Society
condones a frustrated man getting sex any way he can. Prostitution
was created for him.
But a woman? The idea of a woman being driven to adultery,
homosexuality, male prostitution (if she can find it) –
these notions make us shudder. It is thought demeaning of a
woman to express such strong sexual desires. “She needs it
bad” is not a sexual compliment; it is a put-down. And yet why
should it be thought that women suffer any less than men from
going without sex? We may not wake up in the morning with
an erection or out of a wet dream, but we dream, and we fantasize
out of lack of sex. We suffer as much from it as any man.
As for married women and sexual frustration, I think we are
just beginning to comprehend the toll that sexless, or sexually
unimaginative, marriages have taken on women. Women like
Lyle are just beginning to cry out against the unfairness or sexual
immaturity of a husband who prefers masturbation to her.
She is contemporary enough to say she doesn't have anything
against him jerking off, except in the way that it cheats her. But
her acceptance of her husband's habits does her no good. She is
left with very imaginative, but lonely, fantasies. 
First I ought to explain that I'm a s*******n-year-old virgin.
I masturbate almost every day, frequently go out petting with
guys, and love to suck guys off.
Some of my sexual fantasies are of specific things that lave
happened. I lay there and try to recreate in my imagination
some of the sensations I have felt. I love to think of slipping my
hand down a guy's unzipped pants and feeling his hair, reaching
the obstacle of the top of his cock, and feeling his cock
grow. I remember the feeling of his skin sliding as I move my
hand up and down. I like the familiar feeling of a guy rolling
over on top of me (both of us nude), his erect cock pressed
against my stomach – it's probably the temptation (so near, yet
so far) that makes it so exciting. I remember individual gestures,
bedroom jokes, and the smells I enjoyed – wine or pot on
his breath, slight sweatiness, and aftershaves. Each of these
thoughts is a small glimpse rather than a total experience.
My masturbatory fantasies are pieced together out of these
thoughts, and assigned to some particular person. One of my
fantasies is of sucking off Bjorn Borg, the Swedish tennis
player. I think of the slippery rubberiness of his cock, the soft
wetness of the tip, the feel of the pulsations at the base of his
cock as he comes, and the taste of semen. After I developed
this fantasy, I read in Playgirl that most Scandinavians are
uncircumcised. That made the fantasy even more exciting.
It excites me to see a guy get a hard-on in public. I start fantasizing
about sex with him, even if I would never previously
have considered it.
Two guys once wanted to have sex with me. I turned them
down, and took them one at a time. Now I think about group
sex, but I wouldn't consider it if another girl was there.
I have a fetish about guys who have weird hair. Kinky,
wavy, or curly hair is a big turn-on.
I also fantasize about screwing, with details being guessed –
I just assume that most of the feelings are nearly identical to
those of being petted, except the penis is larger and harder to
control (putting pressure in certain areas, the degree of pressure,
speed, etc.).
I keep fantasizing, but since most of my sex is with guys
that I don't know well (I like them, but I don't want their k**s
or their v.d.), I'm not ready yet to take responsibility for screwing.
I'm looking for a guy who enjoys pleasing me as much as I
enjoy pleasing him (and if Bjorn wants my address…).
Thanks for letting me express myself. I didn't think I was
abnormal for having fantasies, only that I was abnormal for
admitting it.
P.S. If there's nothing far out about my fantasies, maybe I
represent the young and inexperienced
You have no mention of pregnant women in your book of
My third baby is due in two weeks. I am masturbating and
fantasizing a lot. It started in the fourth month. I think it is
because actual fucking is uncomfortable about then and became
more so as I progressed.
During my first and second pregnancy my masturbating and
fantasizing increased too. I was married to someone else then.
He was big and hurt me. I gave up normal sex willingly in the
last six weeks. I would jerk him off though. I liked his bigness
when I wasn't pregnant. He couldn't satisfy me emotionally
My husband now I love dearly. He is not so big and more
flexible, so I am still willing to have sex, even now. He holds
off as long as he can, because the baby does react violently.
Also, because of the positions we have to take. He enters from
behind, or I will throw one leg over his hips while he is on his
side; I on my back. This does not allow much penetration, so
he has to be really horny to climax. I can't climax no matter
how horny he makes me feel or how much I wish I could. So I
will tell how I get relieved. I am always alone and my c***dren
I start out playing with my nipples, in front of the mirror.
My hands become some girl's hand, pinching, tweaking,
kneading, cupping. Soon it is two girls, one for each breast. My
breasts are really big now, so I can actually get a nipple in my
mouth and suck, imagining the girls are the ones sucking me.
A third girl comes in from behind, she grabs my ass, massaging
around and around. She kisses my butt and puts her tongue
to my anus, slurping. A fourth girl kneels down in front of me
and starts kissing the inside of my legs, up, up, coming ever
closer to my vagina. I spread my legs even further apart for her.
She slowly sucks my cunt, moving just right on my lips, my
clitoris. A fifth girl appears sitting on the vanity. Her legs
spread apart. I move to suck her tits. The girl between my legs
is sucking oh so good. I go down on the girl sitting in front of
me, sucking her cunt. The girls sucking my tits reach their
hands to caress the tits of the girl I'm sucking, also to the tits of
the girl at my ass. I reach out my arms and finger their pussies.
The girl between my legs is about to make me climax. I then
move to the bed, put a pillow between my legs, and masturbate
to a climax within seconds, still imagining I have a girl between
my legs, at my ass, sucking my tits, around my fingers,
and in my mouth.
Sometimes I look at pictures of nude girls to start this fantasy,
and look at her when I get to masturbating.
I have never had a girl eat me out nor have I eaten someone.
This type of fantasy entered my mind during my first pregnancy.
Men have eaten me out; some were really good.
I would like to be able to have normal sex real bad. I can
hardly wait until the time I can climax right along with my
Nancy Friday, you are some kind of genius! Thank you for
putting together such an inspirational, interesting book.
I am twenty-five, of Scandinavian and American-Indian
stock, and have a large frame but not fat. I was married three
years ago, and am considering not staying married to him for a
number of reasons, the LEAST of which is this – he is a lousy
lay. He is thirty-two.
On the surface, I think he is a nice man, but to live with him
is very frustrating and seems an eighty-twenty balance instead
of fifty-fifty – or at least a bearable sixty-forty. What I mean is
I do too much of the giving, and no matter how I try to get him
to “give” in this relationship, he just won't put up with the realities
of loving, sharing, talking, making plans, and all the
other things two married people are SUPPOSED to share as a
My man was introduced to sex in a whorehouse in Nevada,
and from now until then, he has had quite a few women and
hasn't learned a darned thing. Before we were married, he used
to tell me how horny he was. What a laugh. He might feel
horny, but he's horny for his own hand. I guess no woman's
pussy has ever been able to take the place of his own technique.
The first time I discovered he was masturbating on a more
or less regular basis was the first year we were married. His
aroused moments waned, and I just chalked it up to studying
too hard … it never entered (and still doesn't) my mind that
there was anything wrong with me. I keep myself clean and
fresh, attractive in a wholesome way, and have never turned
him away when he wanted me. Anyway, I was sorting laundry
and noticed some funny-looking hankies of his. The ironed
creases were still in them, but they were stuck together in the
middle. He had come into them. I was so shocked and hurt; it
was like a slap in the face, like saying I wasn't good enough to
make love to, but I was sure good enough to clean up after
him! Had he been in our place when I found those, I would
have crammed them (still makes me mad) down his throat. In
further inspection of the laundry, I found two undershirts and
some more hankies which pretty well explained his lack of
desire for me – the fool had worn himself out. I could have
thrown up. He was a student at this time. I work, he worked
I confronted him with this little passion of his and told him
how hurt I was. He said he wouldn't do it anymore, but that
was a lie – evidence to the contrary shows he is still a careless
man only in love with his hand.
His lovemaking with me is stilted, inhibited, and very boring.
He never wants to try a different position, and I practically
have to beg him to let me go down on him. I have never f***ed
him to do anything, but have made some suggestions, all of
them met with no enthusiasm whatsoever. He has never
touched my vagina more than two minutes and doesn't bother
to search and caress my clitoris. By the way, when he does let
me fellate him, he won't come until he pushes me away, throws
me down, and then gets on top of me. Jesus, I'm dying for
some variation!
I have tried to deal with this patiently, never begged him to
do kinky things, and never f***ed myself on him. He is really
repulsed by women's advances. Older women who are making
tries at flirting with younger men really turn him off. Instead of
taking it as a compliment and giving the ladies a wink (that's
all I'd ever approve of!) he just gets hostile.
With this short summary of how I feel about him, I think
you will see that I have reasons a-plenty for my fantasies.
After reading your first book about these fantasies, I
searched my mind for when I first awakened to that wondrous
warm feeling in my pelvis, and I think it happened when I was
playing doctor and nurse with my b*****r and one of his
friends. I was totally fascinated with the wrinkled scrotum that
held their testicles. I still love to gently caress that precious
place with my tongue.
A few of my girlhood friends and I just loved to tell each
other what excited us and sometimes touch each other “where
it felt good.” We could really think up some whoppers of fantasies,
but we had never seen ANYTHING in our fantasies such
as the large penises which so frequently dominated the stories.
We passed right on into dating without any qualms about our
little experiences. I guess we just figured it was “practice” for
the real thing. I never even thought about it in a lesbian connotation
after I found out what lesbians were.
Since I still find my husband's careless “reminders” that
Portnoy, masturbator champion of the world, lives here, I have
really let the fantasies help me out when he does (rare occasions)
want me.
A few years ago (before marriage), I had an affair with a
man who worked in my building. He was fantastic in bed. I
just wished we had been able to let ourselves get into a better
relationship, such as married! Anyway, this dark-haired man
would excite me into dynamite climaxes. I didn't know the
human body could stand such pleasure. I swear, the first time
he ate me I thought I had died and gone to heaven! I long for
someone to do it again, so I imagine when my husband is puffing
away that actually I am not suffocating under his lunging;
instead, a large-framed man with full lips and big black eyes
like my former lover is caressing my thighs and telling me how
much he loves my pale, creamy skin (which I work hard at in
reality to keep that way). He caresses closer to my pussy, gives
me a loving, tender, but devilish gaze, and with a rich mellow
laugh of glee proceeds tenderly to bring me to the heavenly
feeling of pure climax. I just love putting this down on paper.
As he goes on, I have a couple of wonderful orgasms; he
turns me around and straddles my face, so we can be sixty-nine
together, and I can bring him joy also. That fantasy is about the
greatest one for me, but sometimes I vary and use these.
I am caressing myself alone one evening as the sun sets. A
girl friend of mine is due, and when she arrives, I let her in,
and she sees I am naked. Immediately, she knows what I want,
and she says she wants me too, so we proceed to my large (fantasy)
canopy bed and slip: between silk sheets edged with
yards and yards of ruffles. We cover every inch of each other's
bodies with kisses and do cunnilingus on each other, arriving
at marvelous orgasms together.
I imagine I am alone in the high mountain cottage of the
Alps, or someplace where the air is perfectly pure, standing on
my balcony in a dress of white. My breasts are exposed, and
the crisp air makes my nipples stand out hard and makes me
feel alive to breathe it in so deeply.
A very handsome, healthy man walks by and sees me on my
balcony. He says he is overwhelmed by the look of me, and
asks without embarrassment if he may come up to my room
and admire me closer. I gaze down on him, see the bulge growing
in his pants, and with a toss of my thick head of hair say,
“Of course, I'll make us some tea,” and give him the warmest
smile I can manage. He enters my room, which is mirrored on
one wall and papered in purple and blue Jacobean floral design
on the others. Many pillows are used in the room, and purple,
blue, pink, and red are the dominant colors. He opens my white
dress to my navel and admires my lovely skin and healthy
body. Then he can stand it no longer, so he picks me up and
carries me to the bed, and we make love in many different positions,
all possible because he has a beautiful long penis that is
surrounded by a mass of black hair, and that penis just won't
give up until we are both laughing and practically hysterical
with happiness and climaxes.
I don't want you to think I have anything against masturbation,
like I said about my husband earlier. I think it is great, but
not when it deprives someone else (like your mate) of the passion
and lovemaking they need.
Thanks for letting me write this down. Hope it helps some in
your next edition.
P.S. Sorry for all the typos, but I'm a writer, and I knew I
would redo too much to keep the freshness of my thoughts. So
here it is … in the rough.
 If you think the kind of marital despair that Lyle suffers is
rare, speak to any experienced marriage counselor. In our culture,
a woman is supposed to be complete when she has a husband,
a nice house, k**s, station wagon, and so forth. How dare
she cry for more? If her husband is working himself to death
(his own, but also the death of sex between them) – it only
shows what a good husband and father he is. The fact that she
may have unappeased sexual desires of her own – and her a
mother! – is unacceptable.
“A lot of men are coming in completely bewildered by all
the new demands being made on them,” says Dr. Salvatore
Ambrosino, director of the f****y Service Association serving
Nassau County, a plush suburb outside New York City.
“Women are getting a whole new picture of themselves,” he
said. “Through feminism and maybe even consciousnessraising
sessions, they are getting the idea that they are allowing
themselves to be willing victims, and they are protesting.”
Dr. Ambrosino continues: “Women used to put up with a lot
as long as the man was a good provider, but no more. This
applies even to working-class women. We rarely used to hear
complaints about women not being sexually satisfied … now
we do.” (New York Times, October 16, 1974.)
The final, tough fact we must face is that even with the sexiest
lover or husband in the world, a woman may still find herself
frustrated. Dot tells us that she has had a very active and
satisfying sex life for ten years with a wide variety of lovers,
but her fantasies are all about sex with another woman. To
some degree, most of us, women and men, suffer some sense of
frustration. Buried deep, or not-so-deep, within us all, there are
tastes, desires, strange longings, and erotic images left over
from the polymorphous perverse period of infancy and c***dhood;
these constantly seek and find expression in various
kinds of rich and varied foreplay, or in fantasies like Dot's.
In our adult years, frustration comes in many forms. We
may choose to let certain sexual opportunities pass, because we
essentially believe in monogamy … because the proposition
was made in an unappealing manner or in terms we found
emotionally sterile … maybe simply because we did not have
the time. But each opportunity is registered in your brain and
u*********s somewhere. Very often, we find fantasies are born
out of the very experiences we found the most degrading or
repellent in our everyday lives.
Even if you quit your job, obtained a divorce, had a million
dollars in the bank, and devoted the rest of your life to erotic
pursuits (a common fantasy), it would still be impossible for
anyone to handle all the sexual stimuli that surround us every
day. Who could make love to every attractive man she meets?
When you choose one, you are letting all the rest go by. Even if
you tried, there is still the persistent knowledge that while you
may be systematically trying out the best lovers for fifty miles
around, there are still handsome, beautiful men walking the
streets of London, Paris, Rome – marvelous men, astonishing
lovers who you will never meet, never know. Desire is long;
life is short. We live with a residue of unspent desire – “something
gone, something missed, a door closed forever.”
It is not the mere quantity of sex that can still the ache in our
heart. We long for a quality of sex we have never known, will
never know in this life. In a world that has lost religion, orgasm
is perhaps the last mystic experience we can believe in.
We look to it for a kind of transcendence we no longer can find
in church on Sunday. It is too heavy a load of expectation for
even sex to bear.
Frustration is the result. Many of our fantasies are the result
of using our imagination to make up for experiences we may
never have. Rather than saying that these fantasies grow out of
sexual impoverishment, I would say they express a desire for
greater sexual richness, and are themselves a form of erotic
munificence. They do not express the lack of sex, but are sex in
Gloria writes that “my new lover is my sexual ideal, shows
me positions I've never heard of. Nor is he inhibited about talking
during or after sex, and asks me about what turns me on, or
how something feels.” He is so secure in his masculinity, she
says, that “Maybe one day I'll tell him about my fantasies….
He feels no need to prove anything to anyone, which is one of
the reasons I love him more than anyone.”
I submit the proposition that Gloria is far from a conventionally
frustrated woman; but even in the midst of this sexual
paradise in which she lives, she still wants something more.
Although she is in love with this “ideal” man, she can imagine
somebody else: a younger man. What I find particularly interesting
in Gloria's letter is that it shows she would also enjoy a
switch in roles. Her sexually knowing lover is always teaching
her new positions and ideas – which she loves; with her s*******n-
year-old virgin fantasy lover, she is the one who is the
initiator, the skilled, expert partner who introduces the boy into
pleasures he never had before. 
I just finished reading My Secret Garden. I think it is one of
the best books on this topic. It is written very plain and simple,
without a lot of confusion.
I fantasize twenty-four hours a day (awake and sl**ping),
and have since I was twelve years old (I am now twenty-eight).
I was starting to think I was abnormal until I read your book. I
am single and have had a very active sex life for about the last
ten years with various lovers, all married. The only thing I
think about when I am making love is how wonderful it feels;
there is nothing that can compare to it. I do masturbate almost
every day, sometimes a couple of times a day. I love to do this
when reading a sexy book or looking at pictures of naked,
women. So I guess most of my fantasies are lesbian, although I
have never had an affair with another woman. I like to lay in
bed at night and think what it would be like to have a woman
make love to me. I love to feel my nipples get hard and think
about how it would feel to have a woman suck on them. I play
with myself until I reach a orgasm, and at the same time imagine
someone is eating me. I also like to think about doing the
same things to someone else. As much as I love doing this and
thinking about it and maybe someday having an affair with a
woman, I never would want to replace a man. That is the best
fucking there is. I also think about what it would be like to
have both a man and a woman making love to me at the same
time. I have never told anyone about my fantasies before, and I
feel relieved that I can write it to someone (also very horny
right now).
Thank you again for a great book.
I feel as if I can address you by your first name, since you
shared with me and your other readers such an intimate part of
yourself. Right now I am lying on a bed, with your book in
front of me. For some reason, none of my fantasies, except for
one shortly alluded to, is in your book.
I am one of those people who do not fantasize while making
love; I more or less lose consciousness instead, being aware
only of physical sensations. I do fantasize when I am bored, or
horny and alone. Although I consider myself very sophisticated
sexually (nothing ever surprised me), I'm just finding out some
new things now. My new lover is my sexual ideal, shows me
positions I've never heard of. Nor is he inhibited about talking
during or after sex, and asks me about what turns me on, or
how something feels. Maybe one day I'll tell him about my
fantasies, since he's one of the few men who are really secure
about their masculinity. He feels no need to prove anything to
anyone, which is one of the reasons I love him more than anyone.
But about my fantasies themselves. My favorite one is also
the longest and most detailed.
I imagine myself driving a convertible sports car. (Speed is a
sexual turn-on, something racing drivers don't admit to as a
reason for liking fast driving.) Anyway, I am going about
ninety miles an hour down a freeway, and I pull up beside another
sports car with its top down, as mine is. Driving the car
is an attractive boy of about s*******n. He looks over at me,
grins, and speeds up his car, so that he is going as fast as I am.
This willingness to play along with me and his appearance turn
me on. (It only takes five minutes to arouse me to orgasm.) He
turns off the same exit I do, so I begin to follow him. He is very
aware of me and drives to a secluded area and pulls over to the
side of the road. I pull up behind him and get out of the car
immediately. I am wearing hot pants and a halter top (great
legs and shoulders). I decide to handle the situation as directly
as possible. When I reach his car window, I bend down close
to him and say, “Driving like that is really a turn-on.” He
smiles at me rather shyly and agrees. Before long, we are discussing
cars enthusiastically, and one topic leads to another.
Soon I am sitting in his car with him, and we move closer and
closer together, until we are embracing and kissing instead of
talking. We become aroused quickly, and he tells me, reluctantly,
that he is a virgin. I tell him that we all have to start
somewhere, then invite him to come home with me; he agrees
The next two hours are so unique to me, for I have never
made love to a virgin before. I enjoy the look on his face as he
enters me for the first time, and thrill to the sound of his moan
and gasp when he comes. Altogether, we make love three
times, and I come at least eight times. Finally, he says he must
go home. He writes down my phone number before he leaves,
and I know I will hear from him again.
I once came close to acting out this fantasy. I met the man
the way I met the boy in my fantasy, but he was by no means a
virgin, but a rather lazy, selfish lover.
I have another fantasy involving a pool under a gentle waterfall,
and one in which I make love with another woman. It
would not be traumatic for me to enact my fantasies in real life,
as I do not fantasize about **** or sadism or anything that I
wouldn't like to try sometime. I guess I don't feel even subconsciously
guilty or hostile, at least not where my sexuality is
concerned. I do sometimes fantasize clobbering somebody over
the head with a baseball bat, but only when I'm mad at them.
I am going to read your book again, and I am looking forward
to reading your second one. It would be interesting to see
my fantasy printed in a book like yours, as I encourage people
to become more open about this aspect of their sexuality. Perhaps,
when, or if, men are able to accept this aspect of women,
we will be able to better understand each other on all levels.
I was impressed by your openness and philosophy of liking
yourself. I believe self-acceptance is one of the true keys to
happiness with one's life, which is why I am not ashamed to
give my real name. Thanks and best wishes for success with
your next book.
Please excuse the odd handwriting, but I am stoned, which
allowed me to be honest.
 One of the great needs that sexual fantasy fulfills for a
woman is that of foreplay. Fantasy helps us reach that level of
arousal he is at already … or he wouldn't have invited us into
the bedroom to begin with. In a more egalitarian society, it will
not matter if the man or the woman is the sexual initiator; if
one is in the mood and the other is not, there will be no great
feeling of rejection, because the roles can as easily be switched
next time.
Right now, however, given the male-oriented rules under
which we live, it is usually the man who gets the action going
when he's ready. Almost conspiratorially, women go along
with this idea, perpetuating the myth of man as the lusty b**st
who must half-coax, half-wrestle his powerless, shy maiden
into bed. In her heart, every woman knows how incomplete
this picture is.
It doesn't take into account the times when she's lusty as
hell, and he's a hundred miles away, or times when he's panting
like a bull, and she has a roast in the oven, the c***dren to
pick up in an hour, or simply her mind on other things. But the
cold hand that grips the heart of America when we see a wife
in some television drama unwittingly reject a sexually aroused
husband grips our own hearts when our husband/lover reaches
for us and we start to push him away. “You just don't do that to
a man!” is the sampler mother silently stitched in our brains.
The “correct” thing is to let the roast burn, your own work go
undone, and, yes, fake pleasure and orgasm if you don't feel
like it. Satisfy his lust if you love him, because there is something
mysteriously unexplained about what will happen to the
male ego if he is sexually rejected. It's not just that he'll get
warts on his scrotum, turn to some other (probably socially
diseased) woman for an outlet; what is equally awful is that we
ourselves will feel less of a woman for having rejected him.
Our womanliness rests on his desiring us. Our “selfishness”
(as we have been trained to call it) may risk our entire future
sexual happiness together. He may not try the next time; he
may lose interest; something terrible and bad may happen not
just to his cock as well as temporarily to his male ego but perhaps
permanently to our shaky status as “real women”
To be fair, it is a lovely feeling to be surprised in the middle
of a household chore, or while at the typewriter, to find that
your lover has this giant erection and is dying for you. He's
frantically working that damn jammed zipper, leading you
toward the bedroom while covering you with kisses and fondling
your breasts … you are pleased, laughing with pleasure
and amusement and need no great urging at all. You're both
enjoying his spontaneous moment together, but you are running
on different timetables. Specifically, he's already had (or
is having) his fantasy of fucking you, and is fully aroused. You
are miles behind, because somewhere at the back of your mind,
you're still in the middle of that complicated recipe you were
following in the kitchen or unraveling that snarled paragraph in
the typewriter.
The problem is further complicated by the medically documented
fact that physiologically men usually reach climax
sooner than women. So not only is he mentally ready for sex
long before he's made you aware of his intentions but his
glands and nerve endings are physically geared to race ahead
of yours too. The result is that many of the most loving women
often finish their sexual experiences feeling a little rushed, unsatisfied,
even left out. Callie is lucky enough to have a husband
who is aware of these problems. He uses sexual fantasies
as a form of foreplay to ensure that his wife always reaches
orgasm. In fact, he is the one who tells them to her. “The only
problem,” she writes about his practice of using sexual fantasies
as a form of foreplay, “is that usually your mind is racing
ahead of the logical progression of the story … many times, my
husband or I are unable to reach the `good part’ … because the
anticipation of what's to come is all that is required” … to
reach orgasm:
Unfortunately, not many women have husbands who are
prepared to go to these lengths to stimulate their wives before
penetration. Arlene writes unhappily that her husband “doesn't
believe in any type of foreplay at all… Sex lasts a total of three
minutes if we are lucky.”
The thing to remember is that you have a form of foreplay
available to you at a moment's notice. You carry it in your
mind. Try to remember one of your favorite sexual fantasies –
one that you may have read in this book, or a new one you may
have invented yourself. It is a marvelous way to quickly rev
yourself up to his level of excitement … to join or even beat
him in the headlong rush to climax.
One of the ironies of fantasy is that the hero of our erotic
reveries is rarely the man we love. Perhaps it is the very fulfillment
and satisfaction we get from him that leaves nothing to
the imagination, and so we need these strangers in the night to
people our imaginary sexual worlds. They bring us the excitement
of the unknown.
Arlene is one of the rare exceptions to the rule. Perhaps it is
because her husband does leave her so unsatisfied that she says
it is he who is making love to her when she masturbates. “I
imagine us both climaxing together, and I almost go out of my
mind with pleasure.”
Her fantasies show us that Arlene is hardly a sexually insatiable
or strange woman. All she is asking for is something any
woman is entitled to; in one of the fantasies she has sent in,
perhaps she herself has found a way to get what she wants in
reality. When she masturbates, Arlene writes that she uses her
hairbrush, sausages, a cucumber … “I think I would die if he
caught me, but I sometimes imagine him walking in, and it
excites me even more.”
Perhaps she might be very happily surprised if she let him
do just that? 
Thank you so much for My Secret Garden. I haven't thought
that I was weird, but I have wondered if other women fantasize
as much as I do. I am just forty years old and have been married
for twenty-two years. Since I didn't have any relations
prior to marriage and haven't had any with anyone except my
husband, I have fantasized as to what it would be like.
During foreplay, my husband always masturbates me to a
climax. I usually climax very easily, but at times need mental
help – that's where the fantasies come in. My husband and I
share them – in fact, he usually relates them to me. We have
two favorites that we use at this time in our foreplay.
Fantasy 1: The brush salesman arrives. He has so many
items to show, I tell him to spread them on the floor in front of
the couch. I excuse myself for a moment, go to the bedroom,
and remove my panties. I am wearing a miniskirt, so as I sit on
the edge of the couch to better see his display, I am quite exposed.
He is kneeling on the floor. As he shows me his items, I
show him mine. Whenever I reach down to pick up a brush, I
carelessly open my thighs. I watch his eyes out of the corner of
mine, and he is practically staring at my exposed cunt. I increase
the exposure. He finally takes a chance and mentions
something appropriate. I act semi-shocked. He says he will be
gentle and logically adds that I must want him to otherwise I
would have been more careful. I weaken and finally give in,
but I tell him that he cannot fuck me – only my husband can do
that. The best I can offer is to let him play with my cunt and
suck it. He eagerly accepts. I lay back, pull my skirt all the way
up, spread my legs, and he starts to move toward me. I reach
down and open the lips and I usually come now, if not before.
Fantasy 2: A variation of the first. I promise a sales appointment
to a salesperson at one of those lingerie parties, in
return for a hostess gift for my friend. The salesperson arrives
at my house, and he is a very good-looking man. I act flustered,
and he assures me that he helps women try on bras and undergarments
all of the time and thinks nothing of it. I go in the
bedroom and put on my robe over panties and bra. He gives me
a bra to try on. I slip my robe to my waist, turn my back, and
try to change bras. My robe is too hard to try to hold, and with
his reassurances, I figure what the heck and let it drop. I complain
of the fit – rubs and pulls in the front. He says that I
probably did not lay my breasts in the cups properly. He has
me lean over after he has undone the bra. He reaches under and
cups my breasts while explaining how it should go and feel.
While cupping my tits, he has very gently rubbed the nipples,
and they are erecting. The bra fits, and I decide to take it, but
after removing the demonstrator, I don't put my other one back
on. I am thrilled to stand there with my lovely tits completely
bare, the nipples now erected like pencil erasers, and see him
looking at them. He gets out the panty hose, and I try on a pair.
I again complain of the fit. He says my panties are wrinkling
up under the panty hose and suggests that, for the purpose of
fitting them, I should remove my panties. By now I quickly
agree. After putting the panty hose back on, I look in the fulllength
mirror. The hose is so sheer that nothing is left to the
imagination. My cunt is really quite hairy and extends up toward
my belly quite a ways. I see him looking at it in the mirror
over my shoulder. By now, both in and out of the fantasy, I
am very hot. I tell him that it is pulling in the crotch – knowing
full well what he will do. He slips his hand down the front,
over my bush, and places his fingers on the lips. He moves
them about and asks if that feels better. I say somewhat, but it
still isn't right. He sits in a chair nearby and asks me to come
over, so he can see what the problem is. As I stand inches from
him, he rolls the panty hose down over my hips and on down
off of one leg. He asks me to put one foot on the arm of his
chair, and he will see what was bothering me. As I do this, he
leans forward into my spread legs, using his fingers to open the
lips, and very gently lays his tongue between them – and I
come, both in the fantasy and for real.
The only problem with these fantasies is that usually your
mind is racing ahead of the logical progression of the story. In
that event, many times, my husband or I are unable to reach the
“good part” of the story, because the anticipation of what's to
come is all that is required to accomplish the purpose.
One more favorite that I usually use when I masturbate. My
husband is a pilot. Of course, many layovers occur with various
stewardesses. Contrary to public opinion, there doesn't
seem to be much hanky-panky on these layovers. We have a
good sex life, so I am sure he is not fooling around with these
girls; however, I do fantasize about it while masturbating. It is
very sexy to imagine him doing this. (I don't tell him this, of
Fantasy 3: I get on a plane and follow him to his layover
point. He has been in the hotel for a couple of hours. I get a key
from the room clerk and go upstairs. I know what I will find. I
open the door. He is naked and sitting in a chair, with an enormous
hard-on. In front of him, standing with her hips thrust
forward and one foot on the arm of the chair, is a gorgeous
stewardess whom I know. She is nude. She is a big girl – but
not fat. She has a beautiful body. Lovely, huge, but wellformed,
tits. She is very blonde except for her cunt, which is
very bushy with black hair. My husband is licking her cunt as
she looks at me and smiles and invites me in. On the bed is an
equally stunning brunette, also nude. She invites me to remove
my clothes and tells me that, “He will be ready in a few minutes.”
I sit in a chair. By now, they have moved to the bed. The
blonde is sucking my husband's cock. She is being sucked by
the brunette, and, of course, my husband is eating the brunette's
cunt. I am so hot watching them that I am now playing
with my cunt and rubbing my nipples until I climax. The girls
also climax, but my husband does not. The blonde finally turns
to me and says, “He's ready now.” I go over to the bed and
slowly let myself down on that wonderful prick. The girls are
beside us, going down on each other. As I watch them and ride
that cock I climax.
I have rambled on far too much I fear, but as some, of your
other contributors have said, it's good to be able to tell someone.
Detailed fantasies are still somewhat out of place at the
coffee klatch.
I believe in your sincerity, but feel more comfortable signing
only my first name.
My Secret Garden was a great book. I bought it by accident,
and it turned out to be the best accident I ever had.
I am married one and a half years, and I am happy now that
I read My Secret Garden. See, my husband has an unusual
problem that's driving me insane. He doesn't believe in any
type of foreplay at all, except for himself. I have to do everything
to him, but he won't excite me in any way. He just
mounts me and slides in and out maybe four times, and he
pulls out and comes. Sex lasts a total of three minutes if we are
lucky. I asked numbers of times why he won't come inside of
me, but never get any answer. I am told to lay still on the bed,
and when I try to move along with him, he seems to have the
idea only men are supposed to enjoy sex. I put up with this
every day. When he goes to work I am so overjoyed. I found
myself one day lying on the bathroom floor with my hairbrush,
just thinking how it would be making love to my husband. It is
so beautiful I have to do it almost every day now. I imagine us
both climaxing together, and I almost go out of my mind with
pleasure. Then I go to the store and look for other goodies to
replace my hairbrush. So far I've had a hot dog, knockwurst,
sausage, cucumber. I think I would die if he caught me, but I
sometimes imagine him walking in, and it excites me even
 Bunny writes that her lovemaking with her husband is
“always exciting and complete….” Although he is crippled and
unable to walk, they have a son, and, “baby,” she proudly declares
of her husband, “he has more energy than a young man
when it comes down to fucking. We have a lot of fire and believe
me, we burn it all up. The days of Zip Zam Thank You
Ma'am are all over with.” Bunny's husband is as avid and experimental
about sex as is Bunny herself, and yet in the very
heart of Bunny's full erotic life, she names a frustration: she
has always had a fantasy of making love to a woman. This is
an important theme that runs through letter after letter in this
book, from women in every sexual walk of life.
“Who knows better than a woman how to satisfy another
woman?” I think that sentence haunts the bedroom of every
woman who knows the fireworks oral sex can hold for her, but
whose lover is inexperienced, unskilled, or just downright reluctant
about it. Even Bunny, who never implies any lack of
ardor or skill to her husband in any sexual area, found it a
thrilling experience. Describing what happened when, with her
husband's willing consent and participation, she put her fantasy
into practice, Bunny describes the feeling of having another
woman go down on her: “She had a tongue that knew
every spot there is to know on a woman.”
Because Bunny does not call herself a lesbian, I do not consider
her one. (The fact that she is married is not, of course,
evidence either way.) Some lesbians are proud of the name.
Other women describe homosexual fantasies to me, but add the
proviso that while they enjoy thinking about it, they nevertheless
consider themselves heterosexuals. Bunny herself, in her
enthusiasm and gusto for sex in all its forms, never seems to
give the matter any thought at all – and I think she is probably
the wisest of all. 
I have had fantasies for years, but never gave them a second
thought until my husband and I began sharing them. Now fantasies
are a part of our everyday life. It all began when my husband,
I, and my son took a trip to Houston, Texas, in 1972,
with two other couples. When we woke up the next morning,
the women decided to go shopping. We walked for about six
blocks, when a peep-show store caught my eyes. I always
wanted to go into one of those shops, and being away from
home, I felt more at ease walking into the place. So I asked the
women would they go with me? One said okay, but the other
one grabbed my little boy, who was two years old, and said no,
I'm not going into that place (the poor woman should have
gone; she might have learned something). I was really amazed
at the books, dildos of all sizes, vibrators, and French ticklers
that they had on display. I went around the store trying to pick
out the best books, but naturally I only could look at the cover
and use my own judgment, for the books were covered in
transparent wrapping. So I picked out three books that I
thought would be enjoyable. I could not wait to get back to the
room to open them. When I did, I could not believe my eyes.
Honey, those books had Me and my husband wondering what
in the world had we been missing. My husband and I would
look at them every chance we had. I really enjoyed the lesbian
shows. When we make love, I tell my husband my fantasy
about making love to a woman. Our lovemaking was always
exciting and complete, and the thought of me eating a woman
really aroused us more. So we made plans to get someone, to
see how enjoyable it would really be. One night, a friend of
ours came down. She is always talking about sex. I asked her if
she ever had a woman eat her; she said no, but was indeed very
curious about it. I told her about the plans me and my husband
had made, and to my surprise, she was very willing. She undressed
faster than we did. I had been curious for months about
eating a woman, so here we were, all three of us lying there
naked, and I wondering would I do a good job on her. I always
knew I did a hell of a blow job on my husband, but, damn,
eating a woman, shit what a difference, so I got to it. First I
fondled with her breast, then slowly worked my way down
with my tongue to her cunt. I opened it with a gentle touch, the
way my husband opens me, ease in my hot tongue, and
watched her face expression change to: Goddamn it's about
time you got there! I ate her till my husband could take no
more, and he began eating me. After we brought herd home,
we got back in bed and started where we left off. Here I had
eaten this chick and I enjoyed it, but there was a problem: I
wanted a woman to eat me. We have this other friend who is
just eighteen, but knows a lot about sex. She came down one
night. My husband had company, so she came to the bedroom.
I was lying there with just my robe on watching the “Untouchables”
when I felt her hand going under my robe. She is the
type of person who says if you want something go after it, so I
gathered she wanted my pussy, and baby she was welcome to
it. She had experience. I could tell by the way her hands moved
to my cunt, and she parted my lips so gently. She came closer
to reach my neck and kiss it softly; then she slowly lowered her
head to my pearl. Goddamn that bitch knew just what she was
doing. And I enjoyed every minute or it. Then my husband
joined us. It was another threesome, but this time, the woman
was eating me. She had a tongue that knew every spot there is
to know on a woman.
I never believed that a woman could make me feel the excitement
that I felt that very minute. My husband made love to
me while she blew him. Then I made love to her, while my
husband fucked me from behind; then he made love to her
while I blew him; then we both made love to him, she blew
him while I sucked his chest. Then he fucked both of us.
Now this fantasy that I love having is about my husband's
old girl friend. From the minute I met her, I always liked her.
After three years of knowing her, I just found out from my husband
that they were lovers before he met me. It has been a year
since we saw her. She is in Europe now with her husband.
Ever since I had my husband tell me how he used to make love
to her, I fantasize that she comes over, and we are drinking
Vodka like we used to do. I ask her if she would like my husband
to eat her, and how willing she is, so we all undress. My
husband is always teasing people, so he begins making love to
me first, knowing how excited she would get, blowing in my
ears, biting my neck, licking all over my body, then slowly
parting my lips and licking my cunt, then going to my pearl.
But never entering into my cunt. But then I feel a tongue entering
inside of me, a long hot tongue licking every corner, catching
every drop of juice that's dripping down. That chick really
has her shit together, a tongue still on my pearl and a hot
tongue slowly taking its time going around and around into my
cunt. She and my husband give me a hell of a working over
until I can't take anymore, now I need a fucking, so my husband
gives her the dildo to put on. She is now working with it
just at the tip of my cunt, every now and then she stabs me
with it. My husband is sucking my breast and playing with my
pearl. Now we begin to get more excited. She begins penetrating
inside of me with the dildo. I begin shouting I'm coming
bitch, just keep on working inside of me. Then my husband
starts making love to her. She begins kissing me and I her.
While my husband is eating her, she gets between my legs and
slowly starts eating my cunt, and I start sucking my husband's
prick, and we all come to climax together.
Sometime me and my husband fantasize about four men
holding us up and taking us into a shed, where they fuck me
while my husband is tied up and can do nothing but watch.
One guy is eating me while the other one shoves his big black
prick into my mouth. The other two lick all over my body. After
they all eat me and I suck their pricks, a woman is brought
in, and she begins to eat me, then I eat her. She is then brought
over to my husband. He is untied and he begins to eat her. Now
a German shepherd is brought in and he begins to lick my cunt
and asshole. When his red penis begins to show, they insert it
into me, and we begin fucking. Now my husband and that
woman are doing sixty-nine. We all have reached our climax
now, and everyone is beat as hell.
My husband and I have been married for three years.
I am twenty-five, and he is forty-eight. He is in a wheelchair,
has been in one since 1949, and baby he has more energy than
a young man when it comes down to fucking. We have a lot of
fire, and believe me, we burn it all up. The days of Zip Zam
Thank You Ma'am are all over with.
I really enjoyed your book.
 One of Sherri's great frustrations is that she cannot share
her fantasies with her husband: “… even after ten years of marriage,
he still does not fully love me or trust me.” So she is
silent about the waking dreams that might fill their bedroom
hours with life.
Sherri's letter strikes a sympathetic chord in me; she makes
me sigh at the barriers within us all. They cause so much
wasted happiness, so much time lost. I do not see her husband
as a cold-hearted villain as much as just one more person who
feels he cannot trust what he does not know. The irony is that
Sherri is ready – eager – to let him know her deepest thoughts;
she wishes to display herself to him in all her nakedness. It is
heartbreaking to realize that his distrust will make it highly
unlikely for him ever to find out what her sexual fantasies are,
and to enjoy them with her.
Ginger sounds more fortunate. She reports that she is learning
to use her sexual fantasies to excite her husband. She se141
lected two of the fantasies from My Secret Garden and read
them to him, “casually.” The result delighted her – “he got a
hard-on.” Perhaps encouraged by this, Ginger's husband himself
has begun making up fantasies. “Once,” she says happily,
“my husband made-up a good airport fantasy.” Her underlined
words are all the evidence we need to tell us the great pleasure
she felt in sharing one of his inventions.
Ricky married the only man she had ever had intercourse
with, but while her husband brought home quite “a few tricks”
from his time with the Navy in the South Pacific and the Orient,
she finds “After a while, even the most bizarre positions
become boring.” Having known only one man in her life, she
says she finds that “his feel, his mannerisms, are too familiar….
I am terribly curious if there is a noticeable difference
between men…. I want to know so very much and plan to
know no matter if I am married or not.” Apparently, she has
not yet found out; in the meantime, she satisfies her desire for
variety in fantasies instead.
Early marriages are often disastrous; the truth is not that
many people cannot lead rich lives having known only one
other person sexually. The truth is that too many people do not
know themselves before they marry. A woman who marries the
first man she ever goes to bed with is often plagued by lifelong
curiosities like Ricky's. Her letter ends on a wistful note: “I
guess some people would say I was a sexually frustrated person.
I love sex and touching. I feel I need sex and affection to
remain emotionally and mentally healthy….”
Like the remaining women in this chapter, Ricky tells us the
fantasies she uses to explore as yet untasted sexual pleasures at
the feast of life. 
Thank you for My Secret Garden. I only wish I could speak
my mind, and I wish I could share my fantasies with my husband
– but even after ten years of marriage, he still does not
fully love me or trust me. I enclose three of my favorite fantasies
for your new book. I hope it will help other women to bet142
ter understand themselves as My Secret Garden has helped
me. My very best wishes for you and your future books.
My fantasies right now deal mainly with a couple with
whom my husband and I spend a great deal of time. We are all
in our early thirties, white, middle class, college educated.
My girl friend's husband is always k**ding me about running
off somewhere with him, or telling my husband that I'm
the “prettiest girl in town” and that any man around would
want to lay me if they had the chance. My husband thinks this
is all a big joke, and though I've never encouraged this fellow
in any way, I'm sure he'd screw me at the first opportunity if I
gave him the okay. He's usually running his wife down in front
of other people anyway, so she thinks that his comments to me
are just another way of giving her a hard time.
On to the fantasy part:
Fantasy 1: When I masturbate (daily at least!), I sometimes
imagine that my girl friend is away on business, and I've
agreed to take care of her k**s for her. While the k**s are at
school, her husband comes home. We go through the usual
jokes and propositions, but this time, I know he's going to go
through with it if I want him to. He pulls me close to him and
starts kissing my face and throat; then as I can feel his cock
come erect against my belly, he f***es his tongue into my
mouth. We go into the bedroom, and he takes my clothes off
very slowly. He lays me over the side of the bed with my knees
over the edge and starts to lick and kiss my cunt. In between
licks, he's telling me how beautiful I am, that my breasts are so
much larger than his wife's and that my figure is so much
softer and more curved than hers. After he's licked and sucked
me to the point where I'm almost exhausted, he slides me up
farther on the bed and slowly puts his cock in my cunt. I imagine
it to be very long and hot. He keeps sliding it in and out
without putting any weight on my body, so all I feel is this long
hot cock slipping up and down in my cunt. Because I've gotten
so wet with my own juice, it takes little effort for his cock to
slide easily around in me. Finally, he jams it in so hard that I
think I'm being ripped apart, and BAMMM!!! we both finish at
the same time!
Fantasy 2: I imagine that my girl friend and I are alone in
either her house or mine, and we know that no one will be
coming home for a long time. She asks me to help her shave
the sides of her pussy so that the hair won't show outside of her
bathing suit. I agree to help her, so we go into the bedroom,
and while she lays on the bed with her legs apart, I start to
shave her. By the time I've finished, we're both very excited
over me touching her crotch. We both realize that we want to
make love to one another. Then we take our clothes off and
begin to kiss one another while lying very close together, face
to face. I move down and start kissing and sucking on her
breasts, then move lower and get between her legs. Her cunt is
already starting to get wet when I push my tongue up in her.
For a long time, I lick her from her anus up to her clit, then
run my tongue around her clit and kiss it or suck on it very
softly. Then I start pressing harder with my tongue on her clit
and stick my tongue up her cunt as far as I can. I keep this up
until she comes. Then I let her rest just a moment before I lick
her clit and vulva clean of her juice. After a short rest, then she
goes down on me. First, she plays with my breasts, but what
she really wants to do (what I want her to do!!!) is to get to my
crotch. She does the same things to me that I've done to her,
but she has a longer tongue than I have, so she can reach farther
up into me than I did with her. She finally finishes me off
by putting her top lip over my clit and her tongue up my cunt. I
can feel the softness of the inside of her lip and the hardness of
her teeth against my clit. After I come, she licks all my juice off
of me.
Fantasy 3: (This fantasy has nothing to do with this couple.)
I've traveled back in time to Imperial Japan (about An 1500),
and I'm being given to the emperor as a gift. (I don't know
who's giving me away or why.) I know that the emperor has
never had a white woman before, and he, is very excited about
me. I'm bathed, perfumed, and dressed in a beautiful kimono.
Even though the kimono is heavy and completely concealing,
I'm very aware that I have nothing on underneath it. When I'm
brought before the emperor, everyone in the court stops talking
and turns toward me. He has me stand next to him and opens
my kimono so that everyone can see how beautiful my body is.
He touches my hair (on my head) and then touches and strokes
my pussy, because he's so taken by the sight and feel of soft
blonde hair. He has attendants take me to his bedroom to await
him. They remove my kimono and lay me on the bed (on the
floor – Japanese style). When the emperor comes in, he sits in
a low chair by my side and motions a huge, handsome guard to
get me ready for him. The guard kneels between my legs and
starts to lick my vulva and clit. He keeps on licking in long hot
strokes and running his tongue (a very long one) up my cunt
faster and faster. Now the emperor has opened his kimono, and
I see that he has a huge cock that is hard and stiff as a piece of
wood, and it has this beautiful soft, brown tip. Even though the
guard is driving me wild with his tongue up my cunt, I move
over to the emperor and start to suck his cock. He doesn't try to
shove it deeper into my throat, he just leans back in his chair
and enjoys what I'm doing to him while he runs his hands
through my long blonde hair. By now the guard is under me
with his tongue up my cunt as far as he can. Just as the emperor
comes and his juice shoots into my mouth, I climax from
what the guard is doing to me, and push as hard as I can
against his face with my crotch.
I love your book. What a TURN-ON! I wish I could have
contributed to it, but I want to tell you about myself. I married
a man fifteen years my senior. For the most part, he's a codger
and leaves me unsatisfied. I don't know How to have an orgasm.
We only have sex once a week or less. He's thirty-eight;
I'm twenty-three. We've been married four years. I've yearned
to have affairs, but I'm not beautiful and never have found anyone
who would lay me. I never asked men to, but hinted
around and tried to lead them on. (It never worked.) I used to
fantasize about famous men: Dick Martin, Tom Snyder. The
past week, I've fantasized about the clerk in the bookstore
where I bought your book. I had two encounters with him, but I
don't remember him, although he said we went to the same
high school. He's engaged and I want to lay him before he gets
married. I feel very bad about “Nobody wants me sexually.”
It's such a downer with my husband's apparent lack of desire. I
feel suicidal about it sometimes. Nancy, I'd screw ANYBODY!!!
(or anything!)
Jim, the man I loved deeply, never asked me out when I was
single (I don't like to remember that I asked him out, and he
flat-out, rather tactlessly refused to go out with me). Jim is
married now, and I don't think he knows how much I still love
him. I've had a lot of fantasies about trying to trap Jim into
fucking … or even just touching me. I fantasize that the next
time he comes over alone I fake that I've just been assaulted in
my apartment when he finds me. I'd lay there “pretending” to
be “out.” I'd be wearing torn-off clothing, with my legs wide
open and my bare pussy peeking out. I'd be positioned with my
head against something hard, with some bl**d on my scalp.
He'd have to pick me up off the floor and carry me to the couch
or my bed. He'd pay attention to me. Who knows, he might
even fuck me! I'd “come to” after a reasonable length of time.
I'd make him promise not to call the police. I'd tell him it was
i****t … like my husband's b*****r was the one who'd ****d
me. The major difference between this fantasy and the ones in
your book is that I don't feel guilty about it. I'm manipulating
him to the point where he can take advantage of me or not. His
choice. At any rate, he'd have to touch me. That would be
enough. But I'm not tied up or being f***ed into it. I'd do it,
willingly, gladly, and guiltlessly – damn it, if anyone would
only do it with me!
The other women fantasies and the dog fantasies turn me on.
Once my husband made up a good airport fantasy: we're total
strangers in the airport terminal. I'm walking along, and he's
walking in back of me. I've no panties on and a short skirt, and
I'm struggling with several pieces of luggage, my handbag, and
sunglasses. I drop my sunglasses. He is unzipped, with his
throbbing cock sticking out of his pants. I bend over from the
waist to pick up what I've dropped, and he “bumps” into me.
We both struggle with our luggage and fall facedown on the
floor. We both screw slowly and gradually other people casually
come along and join in. We rearrange ourselves face up,
and we all roll around and suck and fuck each other.
In reality, I want my husband to suck and kiss and lick my
cunt. He won't, willingly, only when I really pressure and nag
him to do it to me. Last night, I got a hunch and acted on it. I
carefully selected two of the fantasies from your book and read
them to him, casually. They were “Jo” and “Wanda” (The
Zoo). He got a hard-on. I want a big dog. I've fucked with a
dog when I was a teenager and liked it. I think my husband
would be quite stimulated ,to see the dog fucking me, and he'd
probably mount the dog all at the same time. We live in an
apartment where dogs aren't permitted, so it will be at least two
years before I can get one, unless I can “borrow” one somewhere.
I much thank you for caring enough to ask us for our
How in the world are you going to top Secret Garden? I've
been in a constant state of “moistness” since yesterday morning,
when I started reading it!
I want to write you because I enjoyed My Secret Garden so
very much. I found it informative, interesting, entertaining,
funny, shocking, and even a bit stimulating (sexually).
I fantasize. I've tried to imagine my husband as another
man, but have failed. He is the only man I have ever had intercourse
with, and after three years of simply one man, I have
found that his feel, his mannerisms, are too familiar to get into
my head that he is another man.
I do daydream about sex. I am terribly curious if there is a
noticeable difference between men. Can you tell the difference
in their size just from the feel of their organ deep (or not so
deep) inside that warm, soft spot? Are their “styles” noticeably
different? I want to know so very much and plan to know no
matter if I am married or not.
My husband was in the Navy when we met and started to
sl**p together. (There was no “sl**ping” until we were married
though.) He brought home from the South Pacific and the Orient
a few tricks. He showed me so many positions that I can't
number them nor do I care to. After a while, even the most
bizarre positions become boring. The day we were married, he
lost a great deal of interest in sex. He says that there was a
great deal of “challenge” before we were married. Now it is
here anytime he wants it. He turns to me when he feels the
urge, not the deep beauty of it, but the natural call of his sexual
drive. About eight to f******n days apart and never more than
once a night. He is always ready for me to give him head
though. Not to have sex or eat me when I feel like it.
My daydreams are of men I have met. I imagine we’re
alone, and he tenderly, slowly makes love to me. No, I make
love to him right back. He shows that he really enjoys what I
do to and with him. He moves about, he makes low, sexy
noises, he holds me tighter. (My husband is a quiet man, never
makes a sound. He claims to have only one “hot spot” – his
dick.) We give and take from each other in the most beautiful
act in creation. So far I have not been able to set an end to this
fantasy. I sometimes have a climax during it, but that isn't all
too important to me. (I always enjoy foreplay the most.)
Sometimes the man is famous. My idol is Joe Namath.
Sometimes he is a man I have met casually; sometimes he is a
friend of my husband's. My husband knows that I have a sexual
attraction to this one friend of his. It came out in a “What
if” conversation. He knows and I believe myself when I say I
doubt if I could carry through with an affair. It would take an
advance from the man. A subtle one, a tender one.
I feel I wouldn't be honest if I didn't tell you that I do have
this “daydream” about my half-b*****r. We have the same
father. Both our mothers were divorced from our father, and we
seldom saw each other in sixteen years. He finally became
closer and closer to our father. (I always was, though not sexually
attracted to our father.) We began seeing each other and
writing. Since we did not have a chance to develop a b*****rs****r
relationship, I do not feel that way toward him. I feel at
times that he does not regard me as a “s****r.” He is a tender
person, and I sometimes feel he would like to ball me as I
would him. The fact that we have the same father seems to stop
us both. I know if he would let me know or make a move, I
would jump. I am not afraid to be the instigator in sex. I just
need to know the man I'm interested in is interested in me. He
comes on (my b*****r) as a very sensual person. He belongs to
a nudist camp in the hills. He is also a very sensual photographer.
Soft, moody, beautiful works. (Our father is a photographer;
he is a part-time pro.)
I guess some people would say I was a sexually frustrated
person. I have been told I am asexual person. I love sex and
touching. I feel I need sex and affection to remain emotionally
and mentally healthy. I hope you can use this. Please let me
know what you think.
I just finished reading your book and found it very exciting,
to say the least. I told a couple of my friends about it, and am
sorry to say that they aren't open-minded enough to read it too.
My sex life started at the age of twenty-one at my own request.
I used to very often sl**p with this one guy with the
usual foreplay, but when it got to “the limit,” nothing more.
Being a romantic-type person, I asked him one night to make
love to me. The conclusion, unfortunately, was the question to
myself: Is that all there is?
Since then, there have been a few more men, but all I seem
to be doing is running into the same kind of people. They satisfy
themselves and leave me very frustrated and still waiting
for something to happen.
I love sex, to say the least, and never have regretted having
given up my womanly treasure, so to speak. I am now twentyfive
and have lived with a guy three years. Our sex life is very
dull, maybe because I just don't try. But he just doesn't do anything
for me sexually.
Why I stay is another story in itself. I have had other flings
since this guy I live with, but never seem to find satisfaction.
I'm trying to find out what a climax is all about!
Thinking back over your book, I found myself in there a
number of times. If I were to tell you my fantasies, they would
be much like many other women's. What I find sex is all about
is people together, sharing, feeling, caring. I often wonder what
a certain person would be like. I see a man at the office or at a
party, and I try to imagine what it would be like to make love
to him. But I'm always afraid my dreams will end up like my
reality – better in the imagination than in the performance. So
many men think that just because they've reached a climax, the
woman must have been satisfied too. I suppose I will keep
looking for a man who does not believe this, who understands
women better. But in the meantime, I suppose I must just stick
to my dreams.
A friend of mine recently recommended your book to me, so
I bought a copy. I have just finished reading it. I saw on a back
page a request for suggestions, comments, and further fantasies,
and that is why I am writing to you. I think your book is
great. Until now, I have always thought that my fantasies were
something bad that I should keep hidden. I was afraid that
there was something wrong with me, because I often had these
“bad” sexual fantasies, and because I enjoyed them. It relieves
some of my fears to know that other women have sexual fantasies
just as I do.
I would like to share some of my fantasies with you, and
maybe they will help you in preparing your second book. Let
me tell you something about myself first. I used to work as a
secretary, but now I am just a housewife. I spend most of my
time at home and since I have no c***dren, I get very bored and
lonely. My husband has the kind of job in which he has no set
work hours. He often comes home very late, and then he brings
work home with him. He often has to work on weekends too. I
really think that we were together more before we were married.
Even when I go to bed at night, he is usually still up doing
some work he brought home. He never seems to have time
for me anymore. He seldom has time for sex either. Even when
I come right out and ask him to make love to me, he usually
says that he is too busy or that he does not have any time to
waste. When he does make love to me, he acts like it is some
kind of routine thing, like brushing his teeth or shaving. He
acts like he is in a hurry to get it done. Lately, he has been telling
me that he does not have time to make love to me, but that
he will masturbate me for a little while if I want him to. He
often tells me that I should learn to control my sexual feelings
and that there are more important things in life than sex. Because
my real sexual life is not what I want it to be, I have had
to fantasize a good sexual life for myself. I spend much of the
time that I am home alone fantasizing and masturbating. I have
developed a whole collection of fantasies, and I would like to
share some of them with you.
In my favorite fantasy, I see myself as a Near Eastern ruler
like those long ago. I live in a “pleasure palace” with a whole
“harem” of men. They are always available to satisfy whatever
sexual desires I have. In my mind, I have them categorized in a
kind of filing system. Each man is categorized according to his
age, his looks and physical build, his sexual skills (that is, the
sexual skills I imagine he has), and his general personality.
Most of the men in my harem are men I know or have known,
but some are imaginary men, or men I know about but do not
really know personally. In the sexual skills category, I classify
each man according to his general skill at lovemaking, his
powers of endurance during lovemaking, his skill at oral lovemaking,
and any other sexual skills he has. I also rate each
man in my harem according to the size of his penis, his ability
to use it, and whether or not it is circumcised. I like variety, so
these men are all different from each other. I can select one
according to what I am looking for at the time.
In a typical fantasy of this kind, I am in a large, opulent bedroom
in my “pleasure palace.” I am usually dressed in a sensual,
silky nightgown. In the bedroom, there is a huge canopy
bed upon which I am lying. As I try to decide which man (or
men) I want, I lie there masturbating, both in my fantasy and in
reality. When I select the man I want, he is brought to my bedroom.
As I watch, he is taken to an adjoining bathroom where
my servants (all female) undress him and bathe him. When
they have dried him and put cologne on him, my servants bring
him to my bed, and then they leave the room. The man I have
selected wants very much to make love to me, but I make him
stand at the side of my bed and wait until I am ready. Often at
this point, I get out of bed and undress while he watches. He
must stand at attention and not move while I entice him. When
I am nude, I come over to him and caress him and rub my body
against him, but he must remain at attention. When I have
teased him enough, I lie down on the bed and allow him to lie
down with me and make love to me. If I desire oral lovemaking,
I lie with my legs over the side of the bed, and he kneels
beside the bed and makes love to me orally. Other times, I sit
on the edge of the bed or kneel and make him stand right in
front of me. Then I make love to him orally. In fantasies in
which I make love to him orally, I usually imagine that his
penis is still soft and that it swells and becomes erect in my
mouth. As I said, the men are different, so the kind of lovemaking
that I have with each one is different. All of them are very
passionate though. Usually, I make love for a long time with
the man I select. He is able to delay his orgasm until the end,
or he is able to have more than one orgasm. All of the men in
my fantasies are able to do one of these two things. That may
be because my husband can do neither one of them, and I wish
he could. In my fantasies, the men I choose and I make love in
many different positions. That, too, is different from making
love with my husband, because he always insists on using the
same position, the standard one with him on top.
This kind of fantasy lets me imagine an unlimited number of
variations of it. One of my favorite variations of it is one in
which my husband is humiliated and made to suffer. In this
fantasy, my husband is the man who is brought to my bedroom.
When my servants undress him and bathe him, they
make fun of him and laugh at him. Most of all, they tease him
about the small size of his penis. They tell him his penis looks
like a little boy's. In reality, it does look more like a boy's than
a man's. He is very self-conscious about the small size of his
penis, and he often asks me if it bothers me that his penis is so
small. I always tell him that it does not bother me, but sometimes
I would like to tell him what I really think. In this fan152
tasy, my servants tease him by telling him some of the things
about his small penis that I would often like to tell him. When
my servants bring him to my bed, they stay and watch instead
of leaving. He pleads for me to undress and make love with
him, but I refuse. Still dressed in my gown, I stand close to him
and whisper in his ear about all the pleasures he would feel if
he made love with me. He gets very excited and gets an erection,
and he cannot wait any longer. He takes hold of his penis
to masturbate himself, but the moment touches it, he ejaculates.
My servants, who are watching, laugh at him and tease
him. They call him “the fastest gun of all.” He is very ashamed
and embarrassed, and he pleads with me to give him another
chance. I refuse, and I tell him that he will see how a real man
makes love with a woman. Then I order my servants to tie him
to a pillar so that he is facing my bed.
With my husband there watching, I have one of my write
men brought to my bedroom. He is always someone whom my
husband knows. Often he is a former boyfriend of mine with
whom I had intercourse for the A time in my life. My husband
is facing so that he can see my servants undress and bathe this
man, and my husband sees that the man I have selected has a
much larger penis than he does. This man's penis is as much
larger than normal as my husband's is smaller than normal,
and this was true about my former boyfriend whom I have just
mentioned. While my husband watches, the man is brought
over to my bed. I undress quickly, and kneel beside the bed so
that he is right in front of me. Then I bend forward and kiss the
tip of his penis. It is still soft, and I take a hold of it with my
fingertips. It feels heavy. I pull back the foreskin of his penis
and lick its soft, pink glans. Out of the corner of my eye, I can
see my husband watching me. This man's penis is so large that
I cannot get very much of it into my mouth, but I take as much
of it into my mouth as I can. During the time that I have been
sucking on it and licking it, it has become erect. After a few
minutes of this, I stop and get back on the bed, and I invite this
man to lie down with me. We slowly begin to make love. He is
a very skilled lover, and he does everything that pleases me.
Although he is passionate and very excited, he is not in a hurry.
When I am ready, I have him lie on his back, and I get on top
of him. I guide his penis into me, and it fills me completely.
We go slowly at first, and we move in a way that causes his
penis to make long, slow strokes in and out of me. I have several
orgasms, and he is able to delay his orgasm as long as I
want him to. Finally, I am ready to finish, and we go wild.
Together we reach r a tremendous orgasm. We lie together
quietly for a few minutes, and then we are ready to start again.
He still has an erection. This time, I get on my hands and
knees, and he kneels in back of me and enters me from behind.
Again we start slowly, and he reaches around me and caresses
me with his fingers. In a while, we lose control of ourselves,
and he is moving like a wild stallion. Together we reach another
tremendous orgasm. Sometimes we go on and make love
some more in other positions, but often it stops here. My lover
and I bathe together while my husband watches. Then he
dresses and returns to the harem, and my husband is left tied to
the pillar. I go back to bed and lie down, and my servants tease
my husband about what a poor lover he is compared to the man
he has just seen. Then my husband is returned to the harem,
where the other men tease him too.
I have another version of this fantasy in which a young boy
is brought to my bedroom after my husband's failure. The boy
has never made love to a woman before, and I teach him the
right way to make love. What makes it better is that this young
boy has a penis that is larger, than my husband's. That really
humiliates my husband. This boy learns quickly and becomes a
much better lover than my husband.
I have other fantasies too. I love to fantasize about couples I
know. I enjoy trying to imagine them making love. Now that
several magazines for women are publishing photographs of
nude men, I have found that I can become very aroused by
looking at such photographs. I often look at these photographs
while I am masturbating, and I fantasize about the men in
them. I imagine them making love with me. I do not have fantasies
in which I take part in lesbian lovemaking, but I do have
fantasies in which I secretly see two other women making love.
I especially enjoy fantasies in which I secretly see other people
making love with each other.
I definitely do enjoy my fantasy sexual life more than my
real sexual life. I think that that is the main reason why I have
felt that my sexual fantasies are bad. I also have felt bad about
the amount of time that I have spent fantasizing. I often spend
hours at a time fantasizing and masturbating. It is the way in
which I fill much of the time in which I have little else to do.
Most of my fantasies are those based upon the format of my
having a harem of men. I can have any man I want, and I can
do whatever I want with them. I have not made any of my fantasies
a reality, but, as time goes by, I feel more and more like
doing so. One of these days, if the right situation arises, I may
not resist the temptation to really live one of my fantasies. With
the way that my husband has treated me and is treating me in
regard to sex, I almost feel that I have the right to obtain sexual
satisfaction where I can. I find myself looking for the right
situation in which I can safely have an affair with another man.
It may not be long before I find the situation that I am looking
for, and then I may make some of my fantasies realities. I
sometimes wonder if my husband would even care if I was
having an affair with another man as long as it did not cause
him any trouble. He might even like it if I would stop bothering
him about sex. After all of this, though, I have to say that most
of all I would prefer that my husband become a better and more
satisfying lover so that all of these other things would be unnecessary.
I guess that that is my biggest fantasy.
 Life can be seen as an effort toward equilibrium. If we are
hungry, we eat. Tired? We rest. If we've been using our minds
too strenuously, we long for physical exercise or a walk in the
woods. This is also true of our inner selves … although many
of our mental efforts at maintaining equilibrium hover on the
border of u*********sness. Daydreaming while going about
the ordinary chores of the day is one of these activities.
Usually, our daydreams pass out of our mind without leaving
a trace behind. A chance question from a neighbor, the
ringing of a telephone – and suddenly we are focused on the
here and now, the large part of our idle reveries forgotten.
Unlike u*********s fantasies, however, it is usually not too
difficult to re-summon and examine our daydreams. If we do,
they can tell us a lot about who we are and what is missing
from our lives. This is most obviously truce in the Walter Mitty
kind of daydream indulged in by the average-man-lost-in-thecrowd.
In his reveries, the most overblown ambitions come
true. The unusual thing about sexual daydreaming is that the
daydreams do not often come to women who have no sex at all.
When repression is that total, sexual daydreaming is pushed
underground too. Much more often, I find that women's erotic
daydreams are not so much about sex itself but are about a
kind of sex they have not had, or will not allow themselves. It
is the effort of their imagination to supply something that is
missing from their real lives.
I bridle when people try to dismiss daydreams as unimportant
because they are “unreal.” They are just as real as the experience
of reading a novel, listening to music, or looking at
paintings. They are all efforts of the mind to present us with a
more satisfying order of reality, a beauty we might otherwise
never have known. Jane Eyre never existed in the real world,
but I am the richer for Charlotte Brontë's story about her. (After
all, couldn't a novel itself be described as a disciplined daydream?)
Ordinarily, our daydreams of happiness are abruptly followed
by feelings of disappointment and/or guilt. The pendulum
is swinging back toward equilibrium, but goes right
through the median point of stasis. We overreact; it is as if we
cannot find a balance again until we have paid with mental rue
and regret for the fantasized pleasures we have just pictured for
ourselves. Talking about the anxieties aroused in us by our
imagined actions or delights, Dr. Erik Erikson (c***dhood and
Society) says, “… our irrational worry … our fear of having
aroused actually quite disinterested, and antagonized quite
well-meaning people, our fantasized atonements and c***dish
repetitions, may well surprise us.”
The barriers to our happiness, the limits we allow ourselves,
are more often within ourselves than outside. For fear that the
man we love may think badly of us, we hesitate to ask him for
simple sexual pleasures we have every right to. In our own
minds, we change him from a lover to a critic … even worse,
we make him a critic so harsh that we know in advance he will
disapprove. Therefore, we avoid the test of reality and never
ask him, never give him a chance to show us how much he
himself might welcome our requests for as yet untasted pleasures.
It is our own unnecessarily strict, even sadistic, consciences
that keep us from sexual pleasure we have every right
to enjoy.
In her very romantic letter, Lulu describes an event that she
could not allow herself to have, even though the time, the
place, and even the man were “right.” She entitles her fantasy,
“An Ideal Sexual Encounter.” But at the peak of the event in
real life, “my automatic `No, thank you' intruded …. Were I to
have enough courage, I would have whispered a simple `Yes, I
want to.' “
Lulu's letter then goes on to describe a simple daydream of
happiness. While she may regret that she denied herself the
fulfillment of this experience for the rest of her life, in her daydream
it is hers after all. An effort of the imagination has repaired
the torn fabric of the past. 
I enjoyed your book and found the honest exposure of sexual
impulse very freeing and enlightening myself.
As you can see, I was quite reserved and conflicted prior to
becoming married, but the impulse and fantasies were very
much alive.
P.S. I am thirty-two, married for the second time, and very
happy. I have a master's degree and am employed full time in
my profession. No c***dren are planned in our future.
An Ideal Sexual Encounter
In truth, my ideal encounter is the cherished memory of my
second date with my husband. We met at church, purely by
accident, and I was immediately repelled by his frankly sexual
look at me – in church, no less. Our first date was a disaster.
He invited me to go sailing. I refused unless other persons were
to be present for fear of being “trapped'.” alone with this hairychested
male. My preoccupation was clear. A slight innuendo
at sexual encounter casually made, and again I was thoroughly
upset… I realize now I was reacting too intensely for it to be
genuine protest.
My fascination with him grew,' as I saw him now and, then
around church and again at a party at which he was thoroughly
charming, funny, and very interesting. His casual arm around
my waist and a whispered, “Stay here with me,” sent me scurrying
into a kitchen full of gossiping women.
After agonizing months of watching him at church, I f***ed
myself to speak to him first (a brave step forward for me), and
he asked if I'd like to go for a hike to a wooded area soon to be
destroyed by installation of a highway. Terrified, and delighted,
I agreed. We had a pleasant walk through the woods to a waterfall,
he handling my anxiety by easily chatting about his
many varied and amusing experiences on his world travels. I
was uneasy about even holding his hand over rough terrain.
Needless to say, I was struggling with my own sexual attraction
to him which I couldn't control.
Bravely, I ventured forth that I'd like to see his pictures
sometime, to which he suggested that same evening would be
fine. We arrived at his neat, comfortable, masculine duplex in a
quiet, wooded area overlooking the lake. I was immediately
impressed with his tasteful accommodations, but also with the
fascinating portrait of a beautiful woman on the living-room
wall – her hair loose, eyes shut, and head thrown back in an
ecstasy of pleasure – clearly at the peak of orgasm. I felt helpless
– caught alone with this male in a web I had woven for
myself. I wanted to go home. The other side of me decided
within minutes after arrival that I wanted to live here forever
with this man whom I really didn't even know.
Tony flicked on the radio to a quiet station and in the darkening
evening built an intimate fire for two. The enormous
sofa, spread with a soft alpaca coverlet (picked up on a recent
trip to Peru), was pushed close to the raised hearth on which he
spread cheeses, crackers, marinated mushrooms, and two
glasses of scotch. The wooden bases were intricately carved
mahogany which he had created himself. Then he returned to a
bright kitchen to prepare dinner. I stared into the fire trying to
recover my composure. The portrait of the woman seemed to be
mocking me … .
Shortly thereafter, Tony settled on the sofa, cheerfully announcing
dinner would be ready in about two hours. His special
spaghetti sauce requires that long to sunnier. Inwardly
gasping at such a long period of unstructured time, I asked if
he were going to show me his pictures.
He did. The pictures were vivid and intriguing scenes of the
ancient Incan ruins of Machu Picchu, Peru. In contrast to this
presentation, he showed fantastic pictures of Antarctica: icebergs,
roaring seas, glorious sunsets, and his work and colleagues'
on board ship. I was enchanted with this all-male domain
in an environment I saw was as rugged and as naturally
beautiful as the men themselves.
Dinner was served at the hearth: spaghetti, salad, red wine,
and I was getting tipsy. Afterward, he snuggled close, and we
kissed. I loved it. Tony is a superb kisser, passionate and yet
tender. Rubbing over my body with his hands, he talked of
how much he enjoyed sex, enjoyed active women, and liked to
kiss their genitals. He mentioned his previous wife did not like
her clitoris touched. I clinically offered she had c***dhood prohibitions
against masturbation. He visibly brightened and happily
remarked he was so glad that I “did it.” I vanished behind
my professional mask and told hum I was discussing her, not
me! Tony looked puzzled and said he was discussing me.
We kissed often and longer that evening, me getting extremely
slippery and hotter and hotter. Tony's erect thrusting
penis felt so good against my pubic area – it had been so long
since I'd been with a man!! I was as famished for sex as for the
meal he served.
Tony's body was becoming hot also, and he began to sweat
and took off his shirt. I lightly caressed and rubbed his back
and, out of irresistible curiosity, softly reached around to touch
the mass of delicious hair on his chest, exploring until I accidentally
(?) touched his erect nipple. He whispered, “You can
stay here all night if you want to.”
[My encounter is true to this point. My automatic “No,
thank you” intruded here, even though he later showed me his
bedroom, complete with huge waterbed, fluffy down-filled
comforter (from long unheated winter nights in Europe), heat
lamps over the bed for comfort, and another “delight” I later
learned to enjoy was a vibrator. I did want to stay!]
Were I to have enough courage, I would have whispered `a
simple “Yes, I want to.” I would have undressed him, pulling
off his belt, spanking his buttocks playfully and briefly with it,
untying his shoes, slipping off his socks, very slowly unzippering
and dropping his trousers, letting them tickle his inner
thighs as they went down. Then I would remove my top, shoes,
and slacks to black lace bra and black lace bikini panties. In
the firelight, with him standing, I would slowly pull off his
underwear, letting the elastic tickle his stomach; and when his
enormous, engorged, erect penis burst forth, I would kiss it
gently and tenderly up and down the shaft, cradling his balls,
gently pulling on both occasionally. Then I would lick the ticklish
spot underneath, around the tip, caressing the “eye” with
my tongue. He begins pushing toward me, and I allow it in my
mouth, sucking and swallowing as much as possible. Tony
moves to and fro in spasms of pleasure ….
Tony lets down my long hair and buries his face in it, kissing
my neck. He quickly pulls off my panties, undoes my bra,
admiring my figure in the firelight, running his hands lightly
across breasts, stopping to pull and knead them, then quickly
on to belly and teasingly up the vaginal crack, allowing his
finger to slightly touch and tease the vagina and deliciously
tickling my clitoris in passing. An intimate tongue in the vagina
and more delicious tickling the clitoris with his tongue,
and he picks me up, carrying me to his bed, which is already
warm from the heat lamps.
Intercourse begins. I am frantic for the weight of him,
for the determined shove of his member into my, warm waiting
body, pouring forth water as the falls we had seen that afternoon.
With groans of pleasure, he begins thrusting deep,
pressing the cervix, each of us releasing pent-up emotion that
only the single (or I) can accumulate. I, sweating and crying,
respond to his passion with clutching hands, heaving hips,
back arched in anticipation, and burning pleasure in my cunt.
My mind runs over and over the thought, “Fuck me, Tony, fuck
me.” And then it goes blank ….
I am torn between the fear of the a****l passions released
and desperate desire for the raging fire spreading over me. I
have no choice now. Tony's urgent thrusts are my own, and
together we are both driven madly toward the final shattering
moments when we surrender to our lust. Gasping, arching, I
am consumed in Tony's manliness and exist alone no more. I
have no words to express my feelings at our union, only cries
from my shattered soul.
Sobbing into Tony's neck and shoulder, I regain consciousness.
He holds me tenderly, kissing my neck, rocking me
slightly. I feel tremendous relief and gratitude toward him. I
am floating with joy. He is mine, and I am his. A tiny fire
burns within me still which he caresses with his fingers to full
flame. I have a series of minor orgasms, only reflections of our
first passion. Grateful and exhausted, I fall asl**p in his encircling
 We are all used to seeing magazine advertisements or
television commercials of a woman daydreaming at the window
or while looking into a fireplace. If a man lost in an idle
reverie of pipe smoke were asked what dreams he sees suspended
before his eyes, he might well laugh and say, “Sophia
Loren, who wants to seduce me.” But a woman is taught, by
these exercises of salesmanship, that her correct answer is that
she is dreaming of a whiter laundry than her neighbors, or finding
a baby food that will make her c***d grow six feet tall. We
are not allowed the uses of erotic reverie that reinf***e us in our
own minds as sexual beings. No wonder so many women who
can think of themselves only in the role of Mrs. Superconsumer,
resist seeing themselves in any image that smacks of
Fernando Sanchez is the designer of some of the most feminine,
beautiful lingerie in America today. They are truly the
stuff of which a woman's most sensuous dreams can be made
… lovingly cut peignoirs with panels of lace … negligees that
entrance the beholder with the grace and erotic promise of the
female body. And yet Mr. Sanchez recently told me, “Our big
problem is to educate women to seeing themselves in seductive
clothes like these. They may stop and admire a tempting nightgown
on a model in a store, or in a fashion magazine, but even
in these liberated times, the woman will usually just sigh and
say, `That's not me,' and head for the drip dry counter.” But if
she's not an erotic woman, who is she?
One letter from a woman named Cheryl is an example of
how women are conditioned to fight their own sexuality. She
was so inhibited in her own mind that she never once climaxed
during the three years she lived on and off with a man to whom
she was engaged. “Before him,” she says, “I was a virgin and
tried masturbation.” But even that did not work for her. Defeated,
she writes forlornly, “I gave up trying.”
It was only recently, at the age of twenty-four, that she met a
new young man and “could finally relax completely, enjoying
my new freedom, and I `came' for the first time ever.” As if to
further underline the distance she had been taught to keep be163
tween herself and her own sexuality, she says she wasn't even
certain she had experienced orgasm with this new man – or at
least, didn't “realize it fully until a short time ago.”
One of the healthiest aspects of human nature is that it does
fight for equilibrium; once repression has been lifted, it can
work with the speed of a coiled spring to right the balance.
Now that Cheryl accepts her sexual self, her old bugaboos
seem to be vanishing. I find her closing very moving: her new
sexual self-confidence, she says, has made her “very proud of
myself … .” She feels she is a woman at last.
In her letter, Jackie also writes that facing her own sexuality
frankly has been an important step forward in life. She writes
that she and her older b*****r used to play sexual games as
c***dren. This is hardly unusual for young siblings; nevertheless,
she found these activities so disturbing that “I used to
hide my head under the pillow to make the reality of the responsibility
go away.”
If Jackie disavowed her sexual experience by hiding her
head under the pillow, another form of denial is to have sexual
events take place as if you yourself were just a spectator. It's
not happening to you, but to somebody else. In Samantha's
poetic fantasy, which she calls “The Blue Star,” this is exactly
what happens. The entire fantasy is told third person, as if it
had no relation to Samantha at all.
It is easy to see that this method of sexual fantasy is a strategy
for avoiding guilt; it is a daydream about having the most
marvelous sexual experience – but experiencing, the whole
thing vicariously in the third person.
In Connie's fantasy too, the same emotions seem to be the
basis for the sexual scenario she invents. “Faceless, hooded,
sexless people are tightening straps to my wrists and ankles,”
she writes, describing the circumstances of her favorite fantasy,
in which she enjoys sex without responsibility, without choice.
These sexual fantasies, which seek to combine the maximum
of erotic arousal and satisfaction with the minimum of
guilt, reach their logical conclusion in fantasies in which the
woman is given absolutely no choice in the matter at all …
fantasies of f***e or ****. “The doorbell rings,” Elaine writes of
one such fantasy. “A good-looking young man pushes his way
in, grabs me … .” The sexual act takes place, but it is not the
woman's fault: She “did not ask for it.”
What we must remember is that for most women, who have
never experienced ****, the word just represents an abstract
idea; combining **** with sex in their fantasies is just using
****, almost as a theatrical convention – it is a means toward
an end. When understood this way, **** becomes code language
for, “It wasn't my fault,” or just as simply, “He wanted
me so much, he overpowered me. You can't blame me if I am
such an overwhelmingly sexually attractive creature that I
drove him mad with lust despite all I could do to fight him
If the women who fantasize about **** were really turned on
by the ugliness and brutality of it, in their imagined scenarios
they would describe the feelings of disgust, shame, and degradation
ensuing from this physiological and psychological assault.
But on the contrary! When you read these **** fantasies,
which, after all, have been entirely created by the women concerned
for their own pleasure, the elements of f***e and brutality
are seen to be not important at all. What happens instead is
that the f***e and ardor of their r****t-lover allows them to
release all their own pent-up sexual f***e, power. Every thrust
of his powerful hand, forcing them down, is returned by a
thrust of their own – which can be read as protest, but which is
clearly a sexual release on the woman's part, as guiltless as it is
powerful. The man's demands on her body are the demands of
a lust she has always been too inhibited to respond to with all
the sexual f***e and vibrancy of her own body; fantasy allows
her to respond at last like some kind of sexual a****l to his
a****l treatment – a most unladylike way to behave, even unwomanly,
unless you can mask your “aggressive” actions as
If the women in these **** fantasies were concerned with
the pain of ****, if they even elaborated on the pain involved,
the fantasies could be called masochistic. But these aren't fantasies
about the pleasure of pain. They are imaginary scenarios
speaking of a romantic desire for unromantic sex: these women
don't want love (at least this one time) in a bower of flowers in
a tender lover's arms. They want sweat, roll-around, knockabout
thrust-and-counterthrust, with no holds barred. They
want sex that transcends any limits they have ever known with
a man who won't take less than a woman is capable of giving.
And most women are capable of giving a hell of a lot more
sexual thrust and emotion than they think most men want, or
that they themselves are capable of (being “nice” women). The
fantasy of **** solves all these problems, provides all this
pleasure. ****? These women don't want ****. They want release.
But before we leave this subject, let me add one very strong
proviso: we must be clear that enjoying an emotion in fantasy
does not necessarily mean you want to live it out in reality. If
you become angry, for instance, you might say to someone, “If
you do that again, I'll kill you!” The words may even be accompanied
by a very satisfying quick image of the offender
lying dead at your feet. But no one – least of all you – really
believes that these fantasies of v******e are ideas that you have
any intention of carrying out. You just wanted the momentary
release of expressing strong emotion, but only in words, merely
as an idea. Fantasies from women like Jackie, Samantha, Connie,
Elaine … fantasies of being sexually f***ed or ****d … are
in the same category: they may be satisfying to think about,
they give the woman license; at least in her imagination, to
enjoy herself sexually, and they remove her from any feeling of
guilt, because she never had any choice in the matter – but
there isn't a woman I know who wouldn't ran a mile if she
thought there was the slightest chance it would happen in real
There is a safety in fantasy. In our minds, we can test certain
situations to see how they might feel; we always know that no
matter how sordid the emotions we are dealing with, no matter
how angry, gigantic, or demanding the characters, they are all
puppets of our own invention. If any of these ideas ever become
too frightening, we can turn them off like turning the
pages of a book. This, I believe, is the final ingredient in the
glamour that **** holds in some fantasies. In the safe playground
of our minds, we can toy with the male's most danger166
ous, most aroused emotions – and use them for just the whim
and fancy of our idle moment. He may be raging, threatening,
or even hurting us in the fantasy, but in reality we control him!

Throughout the reading of your Secret Garden, I was wavering
between hope and fear that at the end you would (not)
request more fantasies. Reading of other women, I found myself
wishing you had a group going where I could tell everyone
I am twenty-nine, never married, highly intelligent (150 IQ)
well educated, and overwhelmingly fat and frustrated. I did not
discover myself, as some of your contributors state, but at the
age of five my b*****r discovered me. We were hiding in a
clothes closet, and he pulled down my panties and explored me
with a flashlight – giggling excitedly and urging me to be
quiet. I was afraid of my b*****r even then, and was – although
I did not understand it – horribly humiliated. After that, I became
curious about myself and would masturbate. My mother
effectively made me feel guilty about this: each morning, she
would smell my hands and say, “Your hands smell like they've
been in the wrong place.” She couldn't, however, stop me – or
my b*****r.
One of my earliest fantasies occurred when I was four years
old and would sl**p on my parents' bed until their bedtime. I
would dream that a doctor came in to give me an injection. I
remember screaming in my fantasy for my mother, but she
would not save me. It was a terribly exciting idea, this fearsome
happening. Perhaps this sexual preoccupation stems from
my b*****r or from the fact that I slept in my parents' bedroom
until I was five.
My b*****r and I played many sexual games – doctor and
actress, doctor and patient, husband and wife, and we had ample
opportunity, since both my parents worked. When they
were around, we would fight and hate each other. One disturbing
aspect (to me it still is) is that we never kissed or spoke to
each other. I used to hide my head under the pillow to make the
reality of the responsibility “go away.” My b*****r is four years
older than I and was always stronger. When we fought, he hurt
me (am I rationalizing?). I mentally refused to accept any responsibility
for our acts. We continued until I was eighteen,
and he got married. I was very upset and depressed about his
marriage – but couldn't fathom why. In fact, I never understood
this whole thing until I went into analysis.
Since he married, I had other men, but never have an orgasm
(we never had one when we were k**s either). Each case
is similar: I always feel horribly humiliated and hate myself
afterward. I have never really been in love. I can't achieve orgasm
even when I masturbate.
My fantasies as a c***d were usually about doctors telling
me what a brave little girl I am while they “examined” me
sexually. Usually in groups of three or four I have once or twice
“caught” myself having a lesbian, fantasy, but stopped because
I was afraid it would make me a lesbian. I say “was” because
since I've read your book, I can see that it is not freakish, and I
feel more free. I can't thank you enough for publishing your
As I grew older, my fantasies about doctors ceased, and I
remember really getting turned on at college lectures by just
imagining myself screwing with the professor. Later, I had
fantasies about my analyst, though not really sexual. Mostly, I
wanted to be a little bird that could nest in the hair in his armpits.
I used to despise women, but that is changing now. I find
I have more respect for other women … but only if they are
intelligent. I'm still seeking a meaningful relationship with a
man, and I'm not afraid anymore. In truth, I think I was afraid
that both men and women only wanted to use me, hurt me, and
degrade me. Knowing my sexual fantasies has helped me to
reach my new self-acceptance. Your book has made me feel so
much better about myself. Thank you.
I too thought I was crazy, because I had these fantasies, but
now I know it is normal, because I read your book. I am no
lesbian, but I have thought a number of times about this particular
fantasy. I would daydream that a man with a knife
would knock on my door, and when I opened it, push me in
and then tell his two women to come in. He would tie me up,
and then the two women would undress me. One is black, and
one is white. The black woman has a whip and is naked with
only black boots on. She would tie me to the bed, and then the
white one would spread my legs, and the black one would get
on me and start eating me out. When finished, the black one
would get off and sit on my face so I could eat her, while the
white one inserted a vibrator into my cunt. After a while, she
takes it out and tongue fucks me and after a while would place
her finger in my juicy wet cunt up and down till I had an orgasm.
The man would be masturbating while watching. After
this, they would all tie my legs up strongly, and the white girl
would open my mouth while the man let me blow him and the
black chick is fingering me. Wow, I'm horny now. I have more
to tell, but it would take a book. Thanks for letting me talk.
P.S. Believe me this is no joke. I am only eighteen with one
boy aged two, and a husband aged thirty-two.
The Blue Star
The room was guarded by statues of marble, shadowy figures
in the outer halls. The silence was penetrated slightly by
eerie music, unearthly in form.
Inside the huge doors, carved by a sculptor's patient hand
seemingly, lay a magnificent room. It had a cathedral quality –
high vaulted ceiling, ornate gilded walls, immaculate stone
floor. And at the very peak of the room the ceiling's center,
there was a glorious, thick, glass Star of David. The sapphire
blue was almost smoky, but light, played through in drifting
The girl lay underneath on a long, ceremonial table, tied
hand, foot to the four corners of the rather wide rectangle. She
was naked save for a wooden crucifix around her neck. She lay
meditatively intent upon the pulsating star in the center of her
vision. At times, she almost luxuriously strained her limbs
against the coils of rope on her wrists and ankles. But her gaze
never changed. Nor her expression. She lay hypnotized by the
glazed star; it burned her eyes and heart.
Silently, four rows of men took their places around the table.
She felt their presence intimately like a stabbing wound. They
were dressed in simple garb, a long robe of sackcloth knotted
with a length of rope. They began a chant, low and soft and
pure, that made her feel strong, almost pure, highly exalted.
The light was dimmer now. She flicked her tongue over her
lips, feeling warm moisture fill the cleft between her legs. Her
nipples began to harden, and as though this were a new experience,
she began to softly groan, her eyes still fixed on the blue
star above her head. The chant grew louder.
One of the monks took his place at the table's end. He
touched the soft white feet delicately, then climbed on her full
length. He kissed the small red mouth and lay still. The harsh
sackcloth rubbed against her, stinging the fair skin, but as his
erection grew, she lost herself to the feel of his hard manhood
against her stomach. He rolled aside suddenly and removed the
garment. She tamed her head slowly and saw him, a tall and
strong David, white and ruddy. He had dark, curly hair that
curled around his erect penis as well. He looked at her kindly
as he sensed her amazement at its size. She began to feel longdenied
urges penetrate her to the core, strange and drifting
The man climbed on her again, kissing her from her feet to
her willing hungry mouth. The men began their low chant
again. As they did, he inserted his penis into her. It reminded
her vaguely of a knife being put into its sheath.
After a long, sweet love, they all took their turns caressing
her from head to foot, moaning and chanting and filling her
with their love.
And as she drifted off, weary and complete, the face of the
first David filled her mind. The star filled her eyes, and a
drowsy lassitude, her body. She fell asl**p.
I am s*******n and have been screwing for over two years.
My lovers have ranged from nineteen to thirty-four, although I
prefer the older men. I am very experienced and very good –
and I know it. I have had many affairs with married men and
have loved every minute.
I had had fantasies ever since I was in the fifth grade. The
fantasies I had up till the eighth grade involved my male teachers.
My freshman year, I began screwing around. It was extremely
painful the first couple of times, and I never was satisfied,
but I knew there had to be something terrific about sex, so
I kept at it until I was one of the hottest numbers around.
My fantasies lately have involved me driving in a mountainous
area. My car goes into a sk** and I crash. A gorgeous man
finds me. He feels instant compassion for me. I'm in a strange
town, so the man decides to look out for me. The climax of the
story comes on a dark stormy night. I am living in his house. It
is thundering very loudly, and I am frightened. There is a
knock at my bedroom door. I clutch my flimsy nightgown to
me. He walks in and looks. at me and tries to act cool. He has
come to find out if I'm all right. I sit on the bed with my legs
tucked under me. I reach for something, and my legs spread
apart. (I have no underwear on, of course.) His eyes never leave
me. Our eyes meet for a long look. I call his name, and he sits
on the bed beside me. He kisses me, his tongue going deeply,
and he fondles my tits. He parts my nightgown and his tongue
caresses me everywhere until finally he comes to my clitoris on
which he concentrates all his efforts. All the while, he finger
fucks me in my vagina and anus (which I love) until I climax.
After this, I take out his cock and lick and suck his cock and
One other fantasy I have is being ****d by six or more men.
One frenching me, one on each tit, caressing and licking it, one
fucking me with a huge cock while another licks my clit and
another fucks me with his finger – a big finger – in my butt.
I hope I have been of some help to you. I could write lots
more, but I am superhorny and would like to go masturbate.
My husband and I have just finished reading My Secret
Garden (he did most of his reading in the bathroom; I read it
usually lying on the couch). I felt I'd like to share some of my
fantasies with you. But first let me tell you a little bit about
I am twenty-six, have been married for nearly seven years
(not always so happily, but still married). We have a four-yearold
son. I work in a radio station, without pay. I have some
college. I also do some writing (fiction, poetry, the like). My
home life is exceedingly dull, and were it not for my fantasies,
I would soon find I could do without the usual sex altogether.
(Without fantasies, I find it all quite boring, sorry to say.) I'm
not excessively attractive, being somewhat overweight.
Now, let me get to my fantasies. I have several, so I will try
to remember all or most of them.
I think my favorite and most successful fantasy is a bondage-
**** type thing. This always starts as my Husband manually
stimulates my clitoris, and as the excitement builds, I
transport myself out of our bedroom and into a large, dimly lit
chamber. Faceless, hooded, sexless people are tightening straps
to my wrists and ankles. They then gag me, and I hear a door
slowly creak open. I try to stretch my taut body that I might see
who has entered, but I never can see the person. (I never know
if it's male or female, so I'll call it “it.”) But it's dressed in long,
dark, flowing robes, and it approaches me slowly as it pulls a
feather from a pocket in its sleeve.
This person checks the straps and gag to make certain everything
is in place, then slowly proceeds to run the feather across
my breasts and down my stomach to my cunt. It starts tickling
me there, laughing a deep, throaty laugh all the while. The
more I struggle to free myself (oh, the pleasure), the stronger it
laughs. It continues this until I am all wet and creamy and
quite ready to come. Then it suddenly stops, bends down, and
touches the lips gently and carefully, as though it were examining
me. Then it starts a soft, gentle blowing. I am still on the
threshold of orgasm, but I feel a bit more relaxed, despite the
wonderful agony. (Secretly, I just love the thought of being tied
up and “tortured” by a feather and a mouth and a tongue.)
Suddenly, I feel teeth biting me, fingers pulling at me,
tongues (more than one, it seems) licking and eating me up.
This drives me to a frenzy that is unimaginable. (Actually, it
obviously isn't, is it?) While in reality I am really quite free to
move, while my husband is going down on me, I thrash and
flail as would a person who is tied down and being driven beyond
what the senses can bear. I love it! This is truly my favorite.
I know I'd like to be fucked or eaten while tied down, although
I can assure you I don't wish it to happen the way it
does in my fantasy. Just very sexy.
I very frequently have fantasies of women making love to
women, of men making love to men. I love to watch them in
my mind. These really turn me on. But none of these does quite
as well as those of me and another woman. I have real lesbian
tendencies, but, as yet, have only fulfilled them in my fantasies.
Someday, maybe ….
My second favorite, though most common and enduring,
fantasy involves a semi-popular singer/composer/ novelist/poet
whom I've never met, but who has the reputation of being mad,
crazy, lusty, kinky, and nearly insatiable. I fantasize about him
with other women, with men, with a****ls, with himself, with
me. With the others, he is hard, demanding, awesome, almost
brutal. But with me, he is all but brutal. He is, however, still
awesome. We have oral sex, anal sex, coital sex, group sex,
freaky sex, kinky sex, at great heights of passion and lust. I
couldn't get by a day without him. I'll put on his records and
slip into a never-never land. If I'm at work or someplace and
can't get hold of myself without creating a scene, I'll almost
always be able to stimulate myself mentally to near orgasm just
by listening to this man's music and letting him enter me in my
mind, without my ever having to outwardly appear to be doing
anything except my job. It's better than a coffee break.
I hope you've enjoyed reading these as much as I've enjoyed
writing them down. I never discuss these with my husband,
since he finds women's fantasies a threat to his virility. By the
way, I never fantasize about him.
While I was reading the book, by the by, I discovered it was
absolutely marvelous getting off on other women's fantasies,
things my own mind had absolutely never dreamed of. Thank
you so very much.
Now, back to my music and my never-never lover.
Excuse me while I COME.
P.S. My husband says he never has fantasies. How does he
do it?
I have just finished reading your book – My Secret Garden.
It was marvelous and like nothing I have ever read before!
Thanks to your book, I now realize that I am among a good
majority! I no longer feel ashamed or guilty!
I have a fantasy that brings me to an explosive and overpowering
orgasm each and every time I have it.
The doorbell rings, and I answer it; as I open the door, a
good-looking young man pushes his way in, grabs me, and
tells me to keep quiet and cooperate. I am shocked and speechless.
He smiles and pushes me down on the couch, and his
body is immediately on mine – he fumbles at my clothes, and I
start to struggle with him, pleading, no please, no no! He starts
panting and tells me not to waste my energy because he is going
to fuck me whether I like it or not. While we are struggling,
he manages to get my vital parts exposed and starts sucking
my breasts and rubbing his cock against me. He gets my legs
open, and I feel him slip into me with one long powerful thrust!
I gasp, and so does he, and as he moves in and out of me, he
starts pleading with me to answer him with my movements.
“Answer me, baby, please answer me,” he keeps repeating –
and I do! His pleading and groaning turn me on, and I start
fucking with all my might, moaning – “Yes, my God, yes!!!”
It's at this time that I have a beautiful and truly explosive orgasm
that I feel from head to toe! With this fantasy, I never
even have to touch myself – because it's as if it were really
 It makes me sad when I see old, old movies on television
late at night and realize that for all intents and purposes, the
pill and liberation seem to have killed off romance. Films today
no longer present the lovers with insurmountable obstacles that
keep them apart, giving us scene after scene filled with the
bitter-sweetness of life that brings lovers together, but separates
them again after only a quick, stolen kiss. Today, James
Bond has barely had a gun battle with the beautiful blonde spy
than they are in bed together. If sexual freedom has been an
important gain for us, it must be admitted that there has also
been a loss: too easy sex, sex without emotion, the very hallmark
of our time, may be sex without guilt. But it is sex without
romance too.
Some women try to supply from within the romance they no
longer get from the films they see, the songs they sing, the
books they read. Sophie writes that her fantasies are “romantic
daydreams – similar to a 1940 movie.” During intercourse, she
does not so much try to enhance the erotic intensity of the moment
as to make the time more beautiful by daydreaming of “a
kaleidoscope of colors” or floating in a still stream. Killie daydreams
of an “Earth Man” lover, Libby's fantasies are about
“the old white-knight-take-me-away-from-this-all syndrome”
… Phyllis writes a letter she will nearer send. Each woman in
this chapter, in her own way, is trying to supply something she
is not getting from life – or may not even really want if she did
get it. Whether these daydreams are about other women, enema
experiences, or even sex with c***dren, they are truly harmless
excursions of the imagination. 
I recently finished reading My Secret Garden and believe
that for many women who have been thinking there was something
wrong with them because of the thoughts in their heads,
that your book will provide a great service.
I, personally, however, was a little put off by the undertone
of apology throughout the book – an air of justification for
something that should not need to be justified, approved of,
apologized for, etc.
Women have been apologizing since Eve ate the apple for
the actions of their bodies and the thoughts in their heads. I
would just like to see a simple statement of “this is where
women are – take it or leave it” without constant reaffirmation
that “it's okay to think these thoughts.”
As for myself, my fantasies are sexual, involving men other
than my husband, usually men I have just met and am attracted
to, or to some of my husband's very good-looking friends. But
for the most part, my fantasies are simply romantic daydreams
– similar to a 1940 movie – the meeting or encounter, our eyes
meeting, a warm embrace, and then the fade out. Also, during
intercourse, I often see a kaleidoscope of colors usually within
the same spectrum, such as shades of reds or shades of yellows,
and sometimes I feel as though I were floating in a still
stream, then into rapidly moving water, and then over a waterfall
(this one is in all different shades of blue). These are more
of sexual imagery, rather than fantasy; and occur during intercourse,
unlike the romantic daydreams which occur at will
when I'm alone, or bored. They do not excite me sexually, but
they are a delightful way to pass the time.
I am thirty-one years old, married almost ten years. We have
two c***dren. I am a teacher and part-time graduate student. I
would describe my relationship with my husband as fulfilling,
sexually and otherwise. I have never had sex with anyone but
my husband, nor do I intend to, but after reading your book,
I've become very curious as to what it would be like to have
sex with someone else (ergo, the sexual fantasies about other
men mentioned earlier). This curiosity, however, is just that –
wondering what it would be like, rather than active sexual desire.
Good luck with your next book.
I just bought a copy of your book, My Secret Garden, and I
can't tell you how thankful I am that you wrote it. Although I
always thought masturbatory fantasy was okay, I have often
thought myself downright deranged because of my “daydream”
type fantasy.
I am almost twenty-four years old, a college graduate, and
unmarried, though still with the same lover I have had for
about three and a half years. I was always a very imaginative
c***d, and even though I was brought up in an extremely repressive
environment, my fantasy life flourished. The first fantasy
I can remember is imagining myself married to the star of
a certain television Western, at age six or seven. I didn't know
what married people actually “did,” but the unknown was always
there in my fantasies.
Until a year ago or so, I thought only schizophrenics had a
“fantasy life”; what I now know were fantasies, I called just
“thoughts.” Consequently, I never thought of myself as a very
sexually oriented person, although it was just about all I have
thought of most of my life.
I am indeed a “watcher” – a watcher of crotches, asses,
hands, beards, and hair. I try to imagine what attractive men
would be like in bed, and usually comment mentally on the
ones I don't fancy, even if only about how “blah” they would
be. I find erotic literature very exciting. Some favorites are
Lady Chatterley's Lover, My Secret Life, some of Walt Whitman's
poetry, D. H. Lawrence's story “Love Among the Haystacks,”
and H. E. Bates's “The Little Farm.” (!) This brings
me to my fantasies of the “Earth Man.” I guess the best way to
describe him is a hippie Oliver Mellors (gamekeeper in Lady
Chatterley). He is strong, but not overly muscular; simple, yet
not crude or ignorant. He is of rather large build and has dark
hair and a thick beard. When he holds me, I feel completely
enveloped (unlike my own real lover, who's about my own
size). We make love in meadows of flowers and thick, lush
pine woods on a forest floor of ferns I can almost smell the
damp greenness and feel the velvet moss and crunchy leaves
beneath us. Sometimes I imagine we are fucking in the rain. I
really like that. (Since my three psychedelic experiences-two
LSD, one mescaline-these types of details have been very important
in my sensual life.) My “Earth Man” lover is not dirtdirty,
but he is unwashed. The smell of unwashed armpits and
especially unwashed balls and ass turns me on very much. I am
not a distinct personality in these fantasies – not any sort of
“Earth Mother” – but just myself. He has a full, sensuous
mouth, and kissing him slowly is delicious. His hands are
strong, but shapely, and I can see them caressing me. (I do like
to see myself as Renoiresque, although that's not too popular
these days.) We fuck with him on top, or side by side, but a
great deal of the fantasy is devoted to caressing and cuddling.
Your chapter about acting out one's fantasies was interesting,
as about a year ago I met my perfect “Earth Man.” I
walked into a college class on the first day, and there he was. I
already had a vague idea of my fantasy man, but after seeing
Stan, the fantasy really took hold. I was only in the class a bit
over two months, but it was agony. To “act out” or not to “act
out”?! I made several small gestures of interest, and thought I
saw some positive response in him, but I hadn't the nerve to do
anything really bold, and the class was over, and I moved away
all too soon. Alas – but maybe it's better this way. I still have
my dreams, which are probably better than the real person,
especially when it would mean going out behind my current
boyfriend's back. Still, I get a thrill when I see a guy who looks
like my “Earth Man.” Until reading your book, I thought this
was somehow immature or faithless to my boyfriend, but I feel
much better about it now.
I have a second type of fantasy, which has come into the
limelight quite recently, and which I rarely use for masturbation:
usually only daydreams. This is my seduction of a young
boy. (That I was an only c***d – no b*****rs – may mean something
here.) The boy is between f******n and sixteen, and he is
soft and lithe, yet not puny, with long flowing, wavy blond
hair. He has very little body hair, and only the faint beginnings
of a moustache. He is a virgin, and I have to teach him everything,
even how to kiss. His lack of experience makes him shy
but he is almost mad with horniness, and I bring him off with
my hand first, after much foreplay. He can't get enough, and
neither can I. I teach him different positions – a good one to
start with is him on a chair, and me sitting astride him. I am in
complete control and show him all the ways of pleasure I
know; his erection keeps coming back again and again. Finally,
after a wild night of insatiability, we fall asl**p – he
looks like a young angel, lying exhausted and sweating beside
me, with his mane of fair hair in tangles and his young cock
wet and limp. I feel rather old and wise (and very satisfied!).
I found myself beginning to act this one out too, when I recently
was working with sixth-grade c***dren. That's a bit
young for my taste, but a few of the boys were mature enough
to show a little bulge in their pants. One in particular struck
my fancy, and I began to ask him to come to the classroom
alone during free periods to help me with art projects. He wasn't
much like my favorite fantasy-boy, but he was tempting just
the same, and I really had to restrain myself. I guess women
over eighteen could get sued for that kind of thing. Maybe in a
more humanistic environment than the public schools, I'll get
to try this one out someday. I see it somehow as an act of benevolence
to give a boy a good, healthy, and loving introduction
to sex. First fucks are usually pretty shitty. Besides, it
turns me on.
I was surprised at your comment that few women have fantasies
of seducing young boys. I thought it was rather more
common. I guess one likes to think of herself as being in the
I hope I haven't ruined these fantasies for myself by revealing
them to you. I guess it's too late to worry about that now; if
I have, I'm sure I'll come up with new ones.
Unless I'm really repressing them, I haven't had masochistic,
lesbian, or zoophilia fantasies. There have been a couple of
women I loved to look at, because they were soft and round
(again, my “Renoir-obsession”) and just comfortable (like
smelling cinnamon rolls baking). But I have no desire for any
genital sex with a woman. My lover, however, is bisexual.
Again, my thanks for your book, your continuing research,
and the opportunity to “sound-off”!!
I'm writing after reading your book, My Secret Garden. I'm
twenty years old, white, middle class, and semi-crazy, in a
good way, I think. Anyway, I am living with a man I've known
almost a year now. He's a good lover, the best I've ever had,
and I'm satisfied and contented in his arms. I don't fantasize
when I masturbate or when I fuck. I fantasize when my man is
around the house but we're still apart.
I can get all my work and “creative outlets” out of the way
during the day, so I'm ready for talk, love, etc. My loved one
works hard at a white-collar job all day, and when he comes
home, he's ready to read the text for the class he's taking,
and/or working in the shop downstairs. He never excludes me
from his activities; in fact, he encourages my interest, but some
days, I just really feel like making love. Sometimes we'll play
seduction games, but usually I just read and fantasize that he
rips the book from my hand and carries my body to the bedroom,
that he takes off my clothes and fucks me on the kitchen
floor, or that he unplugs the sewing machine and attacks my
little body. What makes this one fantasy so nice is that it may
happen, more than one would expect. I've been made love to in
almost every room in the house (I recommend the bathroom),
and when it happened, I was hoping it would. I think this is the
most basic and common fantasy – the old white-knight-takeme-
away-from-all-this syndrome but I thought I'd write it
down and send it along. Good luck.
Dearest Jennie: Even after more than a day, I'm still so
thrilled by our shared experience that I just have to tell you so.
Even though we were two women, still it was a sweet and
wonderful love we had for that brief hour.
You are absolutely delicious, my darling, with that satin-soft
glowing. skin and marvelous figure. I loved smelling and tasting
you all over your body, and my delight in this became almost
frantic as we grew more intimate. How your tight throbbing
nipples swelled as I kissed them! Never shall I forget their
slightly rough texture as I nibbled at them in turn. And then
when you murmured for me to slide my fingers down the cleft
of your bottom. Sweet, your little hole there is so soft yet tight,
so moist and musky. And it really excited you, didn't it, when I
worked my fingertip up inside it? My finger felt good too, being
in you there.
But of course it was your hot sweet cunt itself that drove me
wild. You don't mind my calling it your cunt, do you? Although
I guess some women feel that's a vulgar word, I don't
think anything about you could be vulgar, and I like to think of
your big hole as your cunt. And, oh, honey, how its inner flesh
opened out as my fingers traced your slit. It quivered and grew
very wet and hot. You did love having me caress you like that,
didn't you? Of course you did, I knew by the way you wriggled
and gasped.
And then when my mouth went right down on you. All that
hair and soft flesh. The glorious smell of you, and the exciting
taste of the moisture that seeped into any mouth. And – I suppose
this is awful of me, but I couldn't help it – I loved having
my nose crushed against your little bathroom place in your
bottom and smelling the rich flavor of it. I wanted to just eat
you up all over, gulp down all the liquid and substance of your
body. I love all of you!
It's perfectly all right, dear, that you didn't do as much for
me in return. I realized that you were too excited, and that it
was all happening too quickly. Just your hands on me were
enough, the touch of your fingers so soft and warm and loving.
And you did go in my hole a little, and tickle the very top of my
cunt where it feels so good. I had a wonderful come, when you
did. As I felt you straining and heard your choked moans,
when you hunched and ground your cunt and ass on my mouth,
I knew you were climaxing hard, and my own cunt just flamed
into ecstasy. Oh, sweetheart, it was all absolutely wonderful,
and I'll never, never forget it.
Oh, Jennie, let me suck your cute little cunt again, and soon.
Will you, dear? Please?
 The writer of the above letter finishes with a P.S. addressed
to me:
“Dear Nancy Friday,” she writes, “I never sent the enclosed
letter, because the events it describes never happened, and
Jennie would be horrified to learn my feelings about her. It's a
fantasy letter about a fantasy experience. But I found that writing
it this way made it all seen more real to me.” 
I'm just about finished reading your book, My Secret Garden,
which I find very good and honest. I'm eighteen and have
an average sex life, but I can do without it for some while.
I picked up your book at an airport recently, after a visit to
my s****r (she's thirty-three), during which she told me that she
had become a hooker. I was shocked, because I have always
loved her and looked up to her. Due to the difference in our
ages, she has always been practically a second mother to me.
My boyfriend, Howie, recently discovered I was reading
your book, and after skimming through it, asked to borrow it.
A few nights later when he came to my house, he had a friend
with him who was named Dave. A girl friend of mine was
there too. Howie asked Dave to read some fantasies out loud. I
was awfully embarrassed, but that went away after a while.
Maybe that gave me the courage to send you this fantasy,
which I would like you to publish in your next book.
I have a one-and-a-half-year-old niece who I love very
dearly. I sometimes sit with her when her mother is busy. I
love her so much that I often think I would love to perform
cunnilingus on her. She just lies there, gurgling and chuckling
very happily. She loves me to touch her and play with her.
What I like to imagine is the little smile of happiness she
would show if I just put my face between her little legs and
licked her. She is too young to think it would be anything different
than just playing with her fingers and toes, and I would
love to feel I was making her happy this way.
My favorite other fantasy is about a former fiancé. We
balled several times, and that was the best time I ever enjoyed.
Maybe it was because I felt safe. We knew each other a long
time, and we were in love. Anyway, after we broke up (I still
love him), I had sex with other guys, but I always imagine that
the guy I'm in bed with is my ex-fiancé. Even if I'm not really
in the mood for sex to begin with, just by bringing the face of
my ex-fiancé to mind, imagining that he is the one who is kissing
me, brings me to orgasm. Keep up the good work.
First, may I say that your book, My Secret Garden, was
great reading; it's about time someone published women's sexual
My own particular fantasy started several years ago while I
was hospitalized in the hospital in which I worked as a registered
nurse. There were two doctors who came by on a daily
basis to examine me. They were both quite arrogant and domineering
in their mannerisms. As they examined me, they would
have me remove my gown and have a great time poking about
the most intimate parts of my body.
After they left the room, I fantasized that they were the patients,
and I was the nurse in charge of them. My first order
was to have them remove their clothing and put on one of those
backless hospital gowns while I watched their every move.
Next, I positioned them on an examination table and strapped
their feet into the table's metal stirrups. In this position, I have
a perfect view of their rears and penises. Since I'm wearing a
short skirt with no underwear, I constantly bend over in order
to expose myself to them, causing huge erections. After inserting
a well-lubricated gloved index finger in their rears, I masturbate
each of them until they ejaculate. By this time, they are
begging me to continue; since my prime objective is to embar183
rass them, I decide to give each of them a good soap suds enema
at the same time. After locating the longest, largest rectal
tubes I could find, I slowly insert it until they again obtain an
erection. As the warm soapy water is filling their rears, I masturbate
each of them to the point of ejaculation. Just before they
come, I quickly remove the rectal tube and release them to expel
the enema. I laugh as both of them run to the bathroom,
spurting semen as they go.
I should mention that part of my fantasy came true recently
when I had to give our house doctor several cleansing enemas.
He was the domineering type who had little or no respect for
nurses. Believe me, he got the enema of his life; it's known to
nurses as the HHH enema – high, hot, and a hell of a lot.
Wishing you the best of luck in your new book.
Your Secret Garden book is just great. My husband is a librarian
and brought it home for me to read. I could hardly put
it down once I started reading.
I fantasize constantly to various degrees. Every time I see a
picture of Terry Thomas, or any man with a gap between his
front teeth, I wonder what it would feel like to have, my nipple
stuck between those front teeth in loveplay.
Other than that one particular fantasy, you covered my sexual
daydreams pretty well in your Garden book. I have never
talked about my fantasies with other women, but I always just
assumed that “everyone did it.”
I am thirty, work as a secretary, and live separate from my
husband, who is raising our two-year-old son. We have sexual
relations with other people, but I have never enjoyed anyone
other than my husband. However, in my fantasies, I am either
watching two strangers making love, or my husband making
love to some other woman.
I read your first book and thought it was excellent. It said
that you were preparing another book, so I decided to write
about my fantasy.
I have fantasies about men and women, but mostly about
women. I don't know why, but for some reason, the thought of
being with another women turns me on. I am not a lesbian, as
a matter of fact, I've been going with someone whom I love for
a number of years. I've never told anyone about these fantasies.
You are the first person.
My favorite one is about an Avon lady. I live in an apartment,
and one day an Avon lady comes to the door. She has
very big tits, with a slim body. We sit down and talk for a
while about cosmetics. Then she starts to rub body lotions on
my leg. Her hand moves up slowly until she reaches my cunt. I
get her message and start to play with her tits. We take each
other's clothes off, and she starts to eat me out. This part excites
me the most, and the rest of my fantasy just consists of
her eating me out until I have an orgasm.
I know I would never really do this, but if that's what turns
me on, why not think about it? Your first book made me realize
there was nothing to be ashamed of, and now I don't feel guilt
Thank you for listening and for understanding. I hope you
can use this in your second book. I am looking forward to reading
My daydreams are always the same, but each time the sexual
parts get wilder. I dream I am always making it with my
boyfriend's best friend. Whenever I see him, ripe dreams are
really good, but when alone, they still satisfy me.
I dream that whenever the three of us go out anywhere, that I
sit next to him. I fondle him whenever my boyfriend's not looking.
Slowly I undress this guy in my mind and stare at his
balls. After a while, the guy realizes that I am staring at him,
and he knows what I want. Somehow we manage to get away
from my boyfriend, and no matter where we are, me and this
guy find a little attic. We do all kinds of neat things to each
other, but there is absolutely no conversation at all, just acid
music playing slowly. Once we start to really get going, I never
see his face again, just big shoulders and cute belly. We satisfy
each other like no other lover has ever done before, and when
it's over, we get dressed, turn the music up, s and just talk, like
we are mere friends (even though we're not).
(End of dream.)
I dream this all the time, about the same guy, but I don't ever
get upset about not being able to have him. in real life. I am
afraid that he won't satisfy me that much, and then my dream
would be wrecked. Although sometimes I do crave his body,
and I get upset.
Wilma Joan
Thank you for a terrific book. I just finished reading My Secret
Garden. It turned me on, but I also laughed and cried. So
sad that so many of us feel compelled to hide or apologize for
our thoughts and sexuality.
I'm twenty-five and a mother of two. I fit into quite a few of
your categories of various kinds of fantasy. I fantasize almost
constantly, I've masturbated since I was twelve and really became
interested in sex from about age nine. My parents never
told me anything about sex and were very cool to each other.
That added to my curiosity.
My husband and I really dig oral sex. I'm so surprised that
many chicks I know don't like it. I daydream about performing
cunnilingus on girls. The opportunity has never arisen, but I
think I could dig it.
I would definitely love to make it with other guys. So many
guys I see turn me on. I think about sex a lot in the daytime.
Actually, I love all the aspects of sex that are pleasurable. I'll
never know why people must judge each other. If they're not
hurting me, I say – let them enjoy themselves!
I'm looking forward to your next book. Good luck. Thank
you again.
 One of the delights in working on this book is to find evidence
of the great change that has come over women in the few
years since I completed research for My Secret Garden. Most
letters I get nowadays show an absence of guilt, a sheer exuberance
in sex as one of the joys of life to which every woman
is entitled. It has been suggested to me that the big difference
between the women in this book and the ones in My Secret
Garden is that my most recent correspondents all read the first
book. “When they saw that sexual fantasies were not just some
freak idea of their own,” a psychiatrist friend said to me recently,
“but were in fact very widespread, and of sufficient
importance to merit publication in a hardcover book – that
gave women the big okay to send you their wildest ones.”
I think this may be partially true, but I think the women's
movement is a much more important factor in introducing a
new feeling of freedom into our lives. Many women have written
me that they began sharing their fantasies with their husbands
long before they read Garden. Almost invariably, they
add that they cannot see why men are put off by my work, because
their husbands have always found their fantasies the
hottest turn-on. If so many women and men were into sexual
fantasies before Garden was published, it is not mere modesty
that makes me disclaim the credit my psychiatrist friend
wanted to give me. We are living in a new age.
It is no accident that one of the saddest letters I received is
from a woman of another, older, generation than the majority
of my contributors. Emma is forty-five and her letter reminds
us that women have only recently begun to emerge from the
centuries-old load of guilt and repression that society has laid
on evil Eve and her descendants. For some women, liberation
comes too late.
Emma's letter shows a combination of hope and defeat that
touches my heart. It speaks of frustration and despair, of a life
largely wasted for no reason except that Emma herself feels
religion and society will it so. “Please do not identify where I
am from,” she begins her letter, fear and anxiety coming forward
with her very first words. “My psychiatrist recommended
your book, My Secret Garden, for me to read. I read it slowly
to learn from it. I wish I were like the women you wrote about.
I wish for better sex. I try. I am frigid, I guess … .”
Later in her letter, Emma goes on to give us a clue as to who
might be the really frigid one in her f****y: “My husband and
I,” she writes, “have no communication. He is the boss, and to
him, women are dumb and inferior to men.”
I have received many letters from women telling me that,
like Emma, Garden was recommended to them by their psychiatrists
with the hope' that reading it might encourage masturbation.
This was suggested not only for the excitement and
release of masturbation (which, along with most psychiatrists,
I believe is an absolute sexual value and experience in itself)
but also as a first step toward, and rehearsal for, orgasm.
While Emma may feel thwarted in her sex life because so
little sexual stimulation is offered her, it is ironically true that
many women today are becoming equally frustrated, because,
while sex seems to be all around them, it is not the kind they
will accept. Now that we are getting the idea that we women
exist and can exercise judgment for ourselves, we are becoming
more choosy about whom we go to bed with. The days of
feeling that we have to give ourselves to anyone who asks are
over. Being special, however, has its price. Special women
want special men. There aren't many of them. Frustration is the
result, and masturbation is most often the answer. Spending
the evening at home and masturbating if the desire strikes may
be a lonely form of sex, but it beats going out with any old man
just because he's a man. And it certainly beats fucking him just
because he's bought you dinner.
Many women have written that when they have grown bored
or tired of their own sexual fantasies, they open Garden to find
stimulation in the erotic reveries of other women. Some say
that Garden is “nothing but a jerk-off book.” I do not find this
description offensive. While I hope the book is more valuable
than this put-down phrase tries to make it, I am, on the other
hand, pleased that it can provide such a human and necessary
service. Even though Venice tells us that she was “liberally”
brought up in sexual matters, she did not feel free enough to
masturbate manually, even when the mood was upon her. She
says it was “ a mechanical thing” for her, merely letting the
bathtub tap water stream onto her clitoris “sufficiently long
(one-half to one hour) for release … .” It was only when she
read My Secret Garden that she realized that what had been
missing all along to make masturbation come alive for her “is
fantasy! … Nothing beats imagination,” her letter says. “… I
have at last recognized the tip of the iceberg of my own fantasies.”
What better way to learn about our own sexual responses
than by experimenting with our desires and wishes when alone
with our bodies? Many women have written me that they are
unable to fantasize; it is my belief that these are exactly the
people who need the most help in learning to masturbate successfully.
Masturbation without fantasy is too lonely.
Little wonder so many women found Garden helpful. Out of
our private encounters with ourselves, we learn the selfconfidence
necessary for the best kind of sex with someone
else. “Masturbating is good fox you,” writes Dorothy with
more native sophistication than her language shows, “… because
if a person can make herself or himself feel that way,
think how much better it will feel when another person is doing
it to you.”
Liberated Lady writes that she had a c***d and had been
married for over two years, but never had a climax. While she
had always enjoyed sex, she says, it was only when she decided
that “it was high time I educated myself as far as what
[orgasmic] response really is” that she began to understand
herself sexually.
If the study of human history is all too often a record of
crimes, folly, and disaster, the near universal prejudice against
masturbation stands out as perhaps the one greatest producer of
unnecessary suffering, anguish, and guilt. It has been proven
again and again both medically and scientifically that mastur190
bation has absolutely no harmful effects on the mind or body –
unless you call feeling alive and stimulated “harmful.” On the
other hand, Kinsey found in his monumental researches that
people who began to masturbate at an earlier age than others
led more vigorous sex lives thereafter and continued their sexual
activities long past the time when the average person had
long since stopped having any sex at all. The evidence is clear:
far from being harmful, there is a positive correlation between
masturbation and sexual vitality.
One might think that given the great Female Imperative that
we must remain virgin until we marry, society might have allowed
women masturbation as a form of private, harmless release
with absolutely no risk of unwanted pregnancy at all.
Needless to say, just the opposite is true. Young girls are continually
given lectures against premarital sex, but masturbation
isn't even mentioned – it is a subject that is so taboo for women
that mother can't even voice her prohibition.
I regret to say that we women don't help each other about
this even when we are grown. I have had women friends willingly
confess to me the most extraordinary sexual peccadilloes
– affairs and escapades that would have landed them in the
newspapers, if not the morgue, if they were discovered. They
have told me these stories with a quiet smile of pride, with an
air of confidence that expected admiration. But only the most
sexually outspoken of all my women friends have ever mentioned
masturbation, and that was when I brought up the subject
myself. It still remains the greatest taboo of all.
Because sexual fantasies derive much of their hidden sweetness
from breaking taboos, I am not surprised by Noranna's
letter about the pleasures of masturbating with a friend watching
– I am more surprised that I did not receive more fantasies
like hers. While she conceived of the idea and brought it to life
in reality, she likes to remember it in fantasy. 
Please do not identify where I am from. My psychiatrist recommended
your book, My Secret Garden, for me to read. I
read it slowly to learn from it. I wish I were like the women
you wrote about. I wish for better sex. I try. I am frigid, I guess,
but desire good sex. I would welcome any of the fantasies I
read about to come true in my real life (except for the whips
and painful ones).
My following facts are true. I am forty-five years old (husband
is too), and we have been married twenty-eight years.
(Married too young because I was pregnant with his baby.)
Since then we have both finished college (him years ahead of
me) and have two c***dren who have finished college and are
away from home, with one still here. The only thing my husband
and I have accomplished together is these three fine c***dren.
My dad is living, and I do not hate him. If something was
in my c***dhood to make me frigid, I do not remember it. I
have never reached an orgasm with a man, or by masturbating.
I have considered the Masters-Johnson Clinic in St. Louis.
My husband and I have no communication. He is the boss,
and to him, women are dumb and inferior to men.
I have considered divorce, but our religion does not approve…
I have read The Happy Hooker, The Story of O, etc. They
are very interesting, but I do not get excited enough to reach
orgasm. My husband has about given up that I ever will and is
very passive (probably feels rejected, t as I do, too). There is a
French saying you have probably heard that goes, “There is no
frigid women, only poor lovers.” I would like a lover, a dog, or
another woman, but where does a woman who never goes
anywhere but to church, PTA, and the grocery store, etc., find
this? I know of no houses with male prostitutes, and my husband
would actually kill a man (and probably me) if he would
learn I had been with one. So the only way would be for the
man to not know my name. (We are actually prominent, successful
people in this seventy thousand population town. If we
moved around and didn't have such roots, I might have an opportunity.)
Both my husband and I are the same size and weight as
when we married, and I feel we look a few years younger than
we are. I am on birth control pills, so have no fear of an un192
wanted pregnancy. (But if I did have one sexual activity with a
man outside of marriage, it would be sure with my luck, I
would get v.d.) I am sad my sex life is not better.
As you can see, I have not excluded the idea of sex from my
life even if my life is barren of sexual pleasure… I tell myself I
am incapable of sexual fantasy, but even the fact that I have
outlined above to you various ideas of sex with other people …
I suppose this does mean I too have my fantasies. They are
simply to feel that exquisite pleasure that must be orgasm, to
feel aroused by someone or something … a pleasure that must
be everyone's due. At this point, I would indeed gladly pay for
a man's pleasure, and only wish there was such tithing as male
prostitution in our culture. I am sure that once in the hands of
an experienced lover I could feel: all the things I have dreamed
of one day knowing.
Thank you, thank you for writing My Secret Garden. l saw
you on a television show, but when I went to buy your book, I
couldn't afford the hardback price. What a mistake! Anyway,
yesterday I saw it in paperback and started reading it this
morning. Now it's three in the afternoon, and I had to stop
reading. So far I have masturbated manually for the first time
using just my finger (being twenty-two and brought-up liberally,
I thought something was wrong because I couldn't),
called My husband home for lunch for a fine “regular” orgasm,
masturbated manually in the tub, and finished with two more
orgasms in my usual stream-of-water way. I had been using
this for years, but it was a mechanical thing – waiting sufficiently
long (one-half to one hour) for release, and what I have
been missing is fantasy! I have been turned on by porn and
smokers my husband brought home for us, but nothing beats
imagination. I admit today I “helped” by reading your book,
but/ I have at last recognized the tip of the iceberg of my own
fantasies. Just for the record, I get off on a****ls and big black
:hen (I'm white and once had a black lover). Who knows, I
may find more tomorrow when I read the second half! Dr. van
den Haag says on the cover that your book is of “considerable
scientific interest.” BULLSHIT! Science be damned! I'm interested
in sex! If my cunt wasn't sore, I'd still be at it. Instead,
I'm going to call my girl friend and make sure she buys a copy
today, at any price. If praise is the word for effort, please accept
mine, and yes, my love.
P.S. If this disorganized letter seems a little shaky, it's because
I still am.
Today I bought a copy of My Secret Garden, and I've read
about half of the book. I think it is fantastic – a book every
woman should read!
I see myself in parts, particularly the running faucet in the
tub! That is how I masturbate too, and while reading the book I
became so aroused that I just stopped and went into the tub for
some sexual release! My fantasy was that my half-b*****r had
just come into the bathroom while I was in the tub. He was
talking over his shoulder to his wife as he came in so he did
not see me in there. He has already unzippered his fly and has
his penis out, ready to pee. He closes the door behind him and
turns around to do his business. Instead, he sees me, naked in
the bathtub! I am holding my fingers to my lips, to shush him,
and he quickly gets the idea. I swivel around in the tub, so that
my legs are open, not to the water flowing out of the faucet, but
to the stream of pee that arcs out of his cock and hits me right
in the clit. (Incidentally, I have been to bed with him several
times, and he's definitely good! )
This may not be much of a fantasy, but since no one was
around, and I wanted to be balled, it really got the job done!
Thank you for making it possible to write this.
Hi. I'm eighteen years old and really oversexed, but it's a lot
of fun. I don't remember hardly any times I've fantasized while
I was fucking, but I do when I masturbate. When fucking, I
just get into the guy and how it feels and the sounds; it's really
I think I was three or four when I started masturbating
(maybe younger), but the first time I really got off was the day
I'd been to the doctor and saw a baby getting a shot, and I went
home and masturbated and thought of what his little butt
looked like.
Masturbating is good for you really (although some people
don't agree), because if a person can make herself or himself
feel that way, think how much better it will feel when another
person is doing it to you.
When I masturbate, my fantasies are being fucked by (the
father of my baby) this guy I really love, or this guy I went out
with a couple of years ago who was really good-looking and 6'
4”, and in the fantasy, he has a really gigantic prick, the biggest
I've had. (I wish I'd had a chance to really find out.) .
And sometimes I fantasize that I'm a virgin (I don't think I
ever was), and some guy with a really big cock deflowers me,
and it hurts like hell, but I love it. The scene takes place very
often in some uncomfortable place that's very small … like
those old movies you see on television, where the bride and
groom get on a train to go on their honeymoon. I imagine I just
married this guy with an enormous cock, and we're in a tiny
little lower berth on our wedding night. I can see that enormous
powerful bulge in his pants as I begin to get undressed in
there, and it frightens me. But the space is so small, how can I
get away from him? By the time I'm undressed, he's taken off
his pants too. I think to myself that at least I'll have a little
more time, he still has his shirt on. But suddenly his cock gets
even bigger, it pokes out from beneath his shirt, like a tentpole.
He won't wait, and I push myself back into a corner to get
away from it. But the corner just props me up all the better for
him. I'm sort of sitting there, my shoulders up against the wall,
my legs spread wide open in the tiny bed, and he throws himself
on me. I scream as he comes at me – it's grown so big now
that it looks purple and angry. In my mind, I like to make him
come a little even before he's in me … I can “see” the little
white beads of “come” spurting out, as if his cock is frothing at
the mouth to get into me.
It hurts like hell. I scream, but not too loud. I don't want the
conductor to hear us. He's got one hand on my mouth now so
that I won't scream anymore, and the other hand is guiding this
enormous piece of meat into me. He's pushing and pushing. I
am afraid that my skin will tear … not only my “maidenhead”
(in this fantasy I still have it), but even the outer skin that holds
the lips together. “No, no, no,” I'm half-sobbing, but nothing
stops him. He's just smiling down into my face,; and then with
a terrific grunt, he shoves it all in, and I almost scream with the
pain. It's at this point in my, fantasies that I very often scream
too in real life, because I've come to an orgasm.
I have this thing about big cocks. Just the way they feel being
stuffed into my cunt, it really turns me on. I guess if I could
have a really gigantic one, it would'', stop those fantasies (but I
hope not).
When I was small, I masturbated with my fingers, thumb, or
just rubbed my hand down there. Now I use fingers, bottle, or
Thanks for letting me write you.
Liberated Lady
First, my background: Brought up by upper-middle-class
folks … never participated in “sinful” activities for fear of going
to hell (what a joke!). While in nursing school, I met a terrific
guy from lower-middle class with no hang-up as far as
participation in sex went and who had many chicks of all ages
and status. Went out exclusively together for a year and a half
without having intercourse (he only had two chicks in that
time). My first experience with intercourse was the beginning
of a new and enjoyable chapter in my life. From then on, we
screwed as often as time and circumstance would permit, on
the average of two times daily. Five months later, I became
pregnant and after an unsuccessful attempt to abort (under
doctor's care) we eloped. That was almost nine years ago. My
present age is twenty-eight and my old man is thirty-one. Let's
call him Z. I can truly say that I'm sexually where I'd like to be,
and can attribute most of it, if not all, to Z. No one else would
have put up with me for so long until I came around. I never
talked about what was on my mind concerning sex or my fantasies
until a year ago. Although I enjoyed sex in my own head
at the time, I never had a climax until two and a half years into
the marriage. What a drag as I look back to it now. It happened
almost by accident. After thoroughly reading Of Human Sexual
Response by Masters and Johnson, I realized it was high time I
educated myself, as far as what response really is. I followed
diagrams of the vaginal area in detail and compared them with
myself. While taking a bath one day, I let a stream of water
glide over my clitoris. It felt terrific, I couldn't understand why.
I stayed with it for a few moments, and bingo I finally understood
the damn book about climax. Shit, it blew my mind! I
guess I really came to realize what frigidity was about too. For
many reasons, not understandable to me, I remained cold with
Z as far as my climaxing went – but completely let loose in the
tub daily (and still do a lot). It only took a matter of minutes
(sometimes seconds) to get off. I still have lots of hang-ups, I
guess, and the faster I climax with fantasies, the better. I enjoyed
watching my pelvis move almost involuntarily and my
breasts and nipples get taut and pointing. I usually thought
what a gas it would be for Z to be there. He'd flip. (And did
when some years later he was present.) Also would imagine
that the water was actually Z's tongue or a friend's hands.
Then we moved to our present home, where I got to know
myself. I had everything I had once thought of as “everything”
– material stuff (out-of-sight home, driver's license, and own
car, pool, furniture, gardening equipment, clothes) as well as
two great healthy sons and one hell of a dynamite husband. But
then liberation days came around, and I too wondered what
was important and why and where I was going. We got into
smoking grass, and it helped me relax to a great degree. I'm a
very hyperactive person. I decided to get into my head, and did
with feelings and stimuli simultaneously rather than purely
response. Z has always enjoyed talking about sexually stimu197
lating things, and once I made my mind up to go with him, I
found it surprisingly easy and enjoyable.
Which brings me more or less to the present. We've taken a
few trips in the privacy of our home, which have also helped
me to understand and accept what goes on in my head.
What did I fantasize about this morning as I was entering
the climax stage? While sitting on the front porch, I had my
bathrobe fully opened with the sun beaming down on my body.
My hands felt cooling to my hot breasts, and as I touched my
quickly responding nipples, I could feel my whole body tingle.
I opened my legs wide and let the hot sun find it’s way to my
cunt (about the same time my fingers did). I gently and slowly
transferred some vaginal juices over the clitoris, which was
already fattening from sheer pleasure. I sat back a bit and just
watched the show. I thought of the time one of Z's friends and I
were in bed together. (Just for the record, Z knew we were
going to make it and encouraged it. Since then, we've had
threesomes.) He had fabulous fingers and made me flip with
pleasure. I continued as he did and ended up getting myself off
in record time. (From start to finish: four minutes.)
An hour later, after a swim in the nude, I laid in a reclining
beach chair for a smoke. The sun was still hot, and it felt great
on my cooled skin. I flashed on the night before, when Z really
got into eating pussy. His tongue encircled my clitoris heavenly
to a climax. By this time, my fingers were taking the same path
– and ended with similar results.
Then there was the time when Z and I split up for a few
days, and out of the blue, the very first night alone a friend (X)
came by and asked if I wanted to ball. I was taken aback, and
flattered silly. It did wonders to bring my ego up to par – then
some. He was eight years younger than I, and talking revealed
he only made it with one other chick (his wife, who was then
pregnant, X wasn't sure if it was his doings). He came on
strong, embracing and soul-kissing me. His hands were all
over me so quickly I couldn't keep track. It really turned me on.
I had only screwed two others, but this third. mate was different
and very stimulating. I had thought of making it with him
on a few occasions before, on a fantasy level. Because of his
age, I thought it would be me who would be the aggressor, like
in The Graduate scene. As it turned out, it was quite the opposite,
and it did good things to my head, not to mention other
parts of the anatomy. Every inch of me cried out for more-and
more he gave. Before long we undressed, and he kissed his
way from mouth to cunt in an unforgettable manner. Once he
reached my clitoris, I couldn't say exactly what I thought for
some time; my pelvis didn't want to stop grinding away until I
was having endless climaxes. Both of us were flipping out on
the experience (I didn't think I could be so relaxed and nothing
but sex ran through my head for a few hours). We moved our
position and proceeded to ball, which was out of sight. After a
cigarette, I went down on him. It was a novelty for him that he
readily got into. I found myself digging, tickling, and titillating
his sensitive cock. He completely freaked over it, and wanted
to stay all night. Unfortunately, we'll never make it again
'cause of circumstances as they are, but it was definitely a plus
to the way I feel about sex these days.
What are my sexual fantasies? Hard to say, since most of
them become reality. I dig making it with different guys, that's
for sure. It opens your head up, and I can enjoy myself fuller
with Z, which is where it's really at. I hold our relationship
high, and all I do more or less is to strengthen and keep that
relationship open and honest. We tell each other everything we
do and think and fantasize.
After fantasizing about this for a while it came to a reality –
I spread jelly all over my breasts and clit and let the dog lick it
off: It was different to say the least.
At times, I consider myself on the frigid side, and that burns
me up. Sometimes I just can't get it on, and after twenty minutes
of having my cunt rubbed, sucked, and tongued, I'm on
such “pins and needles” I quit the scene and go to something
else. Those times are fewer now. I can remember a few times Z
fell asl**p after he made his deposit, and while I was lying
there, his come was dribbling out of me, and it turned me on. I
took my fingers and spread it all around my “pins and needles”
clitoris. I thought how Z would love to see me playing like
that, especially when I climaxed. Still a little bashful about that
Then there was the time last summer we got into vibrators. I
was pushing the power mower around, cutting the grass, and
thought the vibrating of the motor on the handles was perfect
for clit stimulating. It was! My slacks: absorbed just enough
vibrations, and I climaxed.
I do think of other guys I'd like to turn on, and both Z and I
have imagined ourselves with others while we are making it
together. It's fun to imagine how it would really be (with
friends, relatives, milkmen, etc.). They always seem to be people
we know, personally, rather than movie stars or such.
Maybe 'cause someday it could happen – or so I keep telling
myself – who knows!
I'll go along with the findings that the most common female
fantasy is submission and ****. Probably 'causes it's the only
way many females will experience anyone beside their “mate.”
Hell, I think everyone thinks about someone different at some
times. I think another reason may be just 'cause it's a onetime
deal. It seems that this society looks down on screwing for the
sake of screwing – and maybe they have something in that
belief. Once you make it with another, the situation can get
involved with their hang-ups that one just doesn't need or want.
Say you ball the guy next door a few times, and that's not
enough for him (or her). They make a pain in the ass of themselves
– looking for more openings. Then you get to wonder
about how his present mate will take it or if they can handle it.
Or even if he'll tell anyone else. Hell, you don't want anyone to
have any troubled thoughts over something that simply happened
out of pleasure or curiosity. Swapping could be a gas,
but then too you can get involved with the typical every Saturday
night thing, which is a drag. Of course, this is very subjective,
but that's how I feel.
I get into sex experiences of others through reading, talking,
stag films, etc. I've come to realize that my feelings and fantasies
are not as rare as I thought them to be at one time. It's
comforting to know that more and more people aren't suppressing
what they actually are feeling and thinking. I think it's
much healthier that way. I remember four years ago, when I
saw my first stag film. I was shocked! And very embarrassed,
at myself mostly. When I saw that here are females, like my200
self, who not only are freer but don't mind making movies of it,
I've felt that I'd love to be that open, but couldn't get my
thoughts into action. I don't think everyone should act in a one,
two, three manner of the “way to do things.” But, shit, that
could never happen (unless they're acting). Only if everyone
accepts the way they themselves feel are they going to make
anything out of it. Too many of us try to be someone else, and
completely lose track of where and who they really are inside.
Sure fantasies will always be there … thank goodness. As to
why they're there, and what to do with them, is individually
dealt with. Ask the psychologist how he reaches a conclusion –
it's usually through hearing the fantasies of others.
I love the idea of putting myself in another's place (maybe a
hang-up again). I keep in shape and am pleased to see myself
in a mirror, tanned skin, white breasts and bottom, and would
like others to dig me too. Sure I'd like to be in a centerfold –
but that's chauvinistically looking at it from a feminist point of
view. I would like bigger breasts, but realize that's an old middle-
class value hang-up too. It shouldn't matter.
Hey, listen, I'm probably not making the right point – I just
can't work anymore on this. My f****y needs me.
Good luck on the book – hope this gets to you before finishing
it up. I'll look for it.
I'm twenty-seven. I'm a writer, and I'm doing this for two
reasons. (1) My hubby is asl**p, and I want to get horny
enough to masturbate before I join him. (2) I'm egotistical
enough to think my fantasies are going to be adopted by others.
Before I get into fantasies, a little background. I have masturbated
since I was sixteen, and I've been with a dozen or so
men. David (husband) is the best, but he's a bit of an MCP
sometimes, so being really frank proceeded slowly. Your book
took us a step farther, by the way. Several years ago, a friend
(female) and I admitted to each other that we indulged in masturbation,
and soon we began doing it in the same room. We
sort of fed on each other's sounds, which we controlled some201
what, but nonetheless could not suppress. Also, we dug on the
idea that we were masturbating, but weren't alone. We always
kept it darkened, but there was always enough light to allow us
to see, at least in shadows, the other one with her legs spread
wide open and a hand moving, caressing, rubbing a wet cunt.
We especially liked the sound of the “wetness” – that squishy
sound. I think women should get into this – approach the subject
k**dingly if you have to, and if lesbianism hangs you up (it
does me, a little), just keep in mind that you're not making love
with another woman. It's just a bit of voyeurism!
Last year, I did something I slightly regret. I asked a girl I
know to go to bed with me just because I wanted someone to
suck on my nipples while I masturbated. I didn't do anything
for her. I'm no lesbian, and she's quite unattractive, so I couldn't
bring myself to a reciprocate. I just HAD to have someone
suck my tits hard and watch me lay there spread open so wide,
rubbing my clitoris and stretching and impaling myself so deliciously
on a long thick candle! She was great!
As to fantasies, I imagine that five lesbians come over and
work on me. I've got one sucking and licking each tit. Two
hold my legs as wide apart as they can get while the fifth eats
me. This one produces a VERY large dildo. I protest that I
can't take one that big, then the two holding my legs open assure
me that I'll open up for it and love it that big and to relax.
Number five keeps sucking my clit and just pushes it in a little.
Soon I'm begging her to go all the way. Put it in me! Deep. I
want it deep inside me! It's great.
I also imagine I'm at the Masters and Johnson clinic with
their “fucking machine.”
Sometimes my husband and I are in a film showing deprived
women what they're missing, so they can get their lovers
on the ball!
Sometimes I just remember my friend staring at me while I
masturbated in broad daylight. It was wonderful to lay there –
cunt wide open, masturbating deliciously, nipples tight and
pointy while another woman watched sighing, “Wow, you
don't need any help. Look at those tits! That dildo is so big. I'll
bet it feels great.”
Good luck on your books.
 Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror and not
really “seen” what you look like? You've grown so used to your
features that your eyes just glide over your face without really
taking note – until another person comes along and looks at
you in the mirror too. Suddenly, it is as if you can see yourself
with the other person's eyes. You become someone new to
yourself; you examine your eyes, nose, mouth, as if seeing
them for the first time. It is a strangely stimulating experience.
Some of that feeling is the emotion behind Noranna's fantasy,
which is the last letter printed above. Having a friend
watch her while she masturbated heightened the erotic thrill of
the experience … made the event more real to her. Liz's and
Fanny's masturbatory fantasies, which follow here, also involved
observers who enhance the eroticism of what is going
on. Most “… all of my fantasies make me an exhibitionist,”
Fanny writes. “When I was younger, I used to stand in front of
my window naked and play with myself, fantasizing that there
was a man watching me move my body around.”
Many a woman's masturbatory fantasies involve a spectator,
often entire audiences of people not only watching but applauding
as she slowly and adeptly brings her to full arousal.
In our usual, obvious exhibitionism – vying for attention with a
new dress, a lower neckline, or higher hemline – the applause
women get is for something that is not us: dresses or hemlines
are contrived, bought, outside ourselves. Yes, the compliments
we get for how we look are lovely, but how much more satisfying
it would be to be complimented on our naked selves, our
real selves, the erotic selves we allow ourselves to be in our
masturbatory fantasies? Is it surprising that the erotic images
that accompany many a woman's slow, knowing manipulation
of her own body toward orgasm are those of other people viewing
her at last as admirable, not because she hides her sexuality
behind a pretty dress but because of her candor in revealing it
to them? To be seen while masturbating can be an ultimate
moment for a woman who may never have felt complete sexual
pleasure, or who feels even in the throes of orgasm that her
pleasure would be heightened, realer to herself, if it had not
gone unseen. (Thus, the popularity of mirrors on the ceiling in
Even guilt, the great deterrent in reality, becomes a woman's
sexual partner in a variation of these masturbatory fantasies:
while bringing herself toward orgasm, she fantasizes approaching
footsteps, the impending arrival of someone who will find
her, catch her, “see” her. The closer she comes to being discovered,
the greater the thrill of getting away with the forbidden
act. The crash of orgasm, in these fantasies, comes at the very
last second before the closed door is opened, the curtain pulled
away, the light flicked on … .
A woman who signs her letter “Anonymous” gives us an
unusual variation of the masturbating-while-someone-watches
fantasy … watching her lover masturbate. This is another idea
that our culture finds difficult to accept: men themselves don't
think the sight of their sexuality in all its forms is exciting for
women to look at.
I believe just the opposite is true. Women not only love to
look at men, but they also enjoy watching them masturbate. To
carry this idea to its ultimate, I also believe there are women
who would enjoy watching their lovers make love to another
man (as several letters in this book testify). I have found this
idea difficult to discuss even with ther****ts and psychiatrists,
but it stays in my mind with a certain symmetrical logic: men
have always enjoyed watching women naked, women playing
with themselves; above all, the sight of two women making
love to each other is notoriously the ultimate turn-on for most
men. Why then is it so difficult to reverse the roles and recognize
that women would find just as much arousal in seeing two
men in a circus? 
I'm not even through reading your book on woman's sexual
fantasies, but I just had to write to you and tell you that it is
absolutely fantastic!
I never knew that there were so many woman who had sexual
fantasies. I've always had them as far back as I can remember.
I always felt that I was weird or oversexed.
I'm sort of caught between two generations. I'm twenty-three
years old, this is my second marriage; the first time, I was sixteen
and pregnant. The second time, I was nineteen and pregnant
(the second time, I didn't know I was pregnant). As you
can see, even though I was brought up that sex was a no-no,
and you wait until you were married, I didn't. When I was f******n
years old, I was ****d. Not violently. I knew both of the
guys, and one of them I had gone out with for a month or so. I
had never let him fuck me, but he had eaten me, and I had
eaten him. (He was eighteen, by the way.) One night, I was at a
barn dance in Vermont. I guess he was really mad at me, because
he thought I had done it with someone else. So he and
his friend got me when I went outside to go to the bathroom. I
was scared at first, but he kept on saying, “wow, feel this cunt,
isn't this the best cunt you've ever felt?” This was before they
were inside of me, he was using his fingers and hand. That is
where I started getting turned on. Then when he started fucking
me, I was lost in sexual pleasure. He kept on talking all the
time, saying “wow, you have a really beautiful cunt; I want to
take my prick out of you and suck it, but I can't, it's too good.”
By this time, I was starting to scream with pleasure, and he
told his friend to keep his hands over my mouth as there were
other people all around us. When he was done, it was his
friend's turn, and believe me, he was just as good. All the time,
they were fucking me, they were talking about my tits and
cunt, which made me unafraid and enjoy it. Every day I thank
him for making my first time so wonderful. I guess that couldn't
be called a fantasy, as it actually happened, but I often think
about it, and then I masturbate. I also think that that is why
most all of my fantasies make me an exhibitionist. When I was
younger, I used to stand in front of my window naked and play
with myself, fantasizing that there was a man watching me
move my body around, play with my nipples, stick my fingers
in and out of my cunt, and whack myself off right there before
him, and after I finished, he would come into the house and
fuck me. That was when I climaxed.
One of my fantasies now is that I'm on stage in front of a
room filled with men and only about a dozen women. I come
out and strip to the music; then I walk back 'n' forth playing
with my tits (I usually do this in front of my mirrors to get the
effect), bending over, spreading my ass apart so that they can
see my two holes. By now, the men are screaming, “Come on,
baby,” and the women are in shock. Then I bend over backward
and do the same thing, so they can get a good look at my
cunt this time. Then my hands start going all over my body as
my body moves to the music. Now I notice that some of the
men have their pricks out and taking the situation in hand and
screaming, “Come on, baby, let me see that big cunt of yours
again.” Now I lie down on two stools and start whacking my
cunt off, making sure my legs are spread wide, so they can see
my cunt jiggle, and now some of the men have dragged the
women up on stage and are fucking them while they are watching
me and seeing my cunt move, which makes them fuck the
cunt they have all the harder, until finally everyone has made it.
Another fantasy while I'm masturbating is simply that while
I'm doing it to myself my girl friend has walked in on me and
joins me; then we make love to one another. This fantasy gets
me very excited, but it will soon no longer be a fantasy, because
I really want this girl friend. She has big beautiful tits
that I would love to suck and the same with her cunt and ass.
Anyway, I'd love to have this girl, and I know that she's starting
to want me. We almost did it yesterday, but we didn't, because
we're both on the rag. I've had sexual relations with five
other women. One of them was a prostitute.
One thing I want to say before I close. My husband knows
of my fantasies and approves and gets very excited over them.
Sometimes we lay in bed, and while I play with myself and he
plays with himself, we tell each other some fantasy and come
together. He also approves of me going to bed with a broad and
sometimes watches us, and I watch him play with his big
prick, then afterward we fuck; if the girl has her boyfriend
there, they fuck too; if not, we wait till she leaves or we leave,
depending on the circumstances.
I hope that I have been helpful toward your second book.
Thank you for letting me contribute.
For years, I was resentful that man thought he could write
about women's sex life as if what he wrote was fact. You're
right up top … for the first time, an honest woman putting the
real facts on paper. When I read your book, I said, “Now that's
the truth.” Only a woman knows the sexual fantasies of other
Here's my favorite. My lovers in this fantasy are faceless,
and I have dreams where I am sitting with black mesh hose on,
the kind that have black heels. I'm on a tall chair, no bra, and I
caress my round firm breasts and pull and pinch my erect nipples.
I feel extreme pleasure in my womb to do this, and then I
spread my legs, and the slit in my stockings shows love juices
oozing out of my pussy's lips. They are large and hanging
down like a pink tongue panting to be fucked. A naked man is
there watching me play with myself, but I do not see him; he is
silently watching me until I am dying to be screwed. He gets a
fantastic erection watching me. I just want to be yanked off my
perch and screwed so hard on the floor that I'm dying with pain
and pleasure. I can feel it so clearly, his beautiful hairy mound
bumping against my love venus. He is moaning and blowing
his hot breath in my ears, and the heat is so intense when he
comes, and I feel the hot juice shoot up around my cervix. It
leaps with joy, and I come, and my womb pulls and sucks his
juices up in me like a thirsty throat on fire. I feel my cunt, and
it's running down my legs – I rub it and it's tender. I'm always
hot and masturbate often with this fantasy, even though my
husband is fantastic, with a beautiful peter.
He drew me out of my shell and nurtured my sexual freedom
– I can say I've had other men in real life, but my husband excites
me by far the most. I love him and he loves me. The fact
that he has other women runs my cunt pressure to the boiling
point, and I desire his hot big beautiful peter even more, as I
fantasize he is screwing her, and when he says, “Fuck me,
baby,” or “Suck that hard hot cock, baby,” I know he's talking
to her. But I know I'm better in bed than she is, and my excitement
transmits to him, so it's an electric charge shooting
back and forth. It's a current that I drink – my life's bl**d. I
love all of him.
I discovered my sex drive while very young, because I lived
on a farm and watched the a****ls mate. I never desired any of
these myself, and yet the reptile played a most delightful
wicked part of my fantasies. This one takes place when I was
twelve or f******n years old. I'm lying in bed on fire with an
itch that drives me crazy. In my fantasy, I think, What can I
fuck and my parents not know, even though it is right under
their nose (my mother was a very light sl**per)? I have it – a
It slithers quietly and surely on its way. I'm lying on the bed,
naked, hot and wet, all swollen with yearning. It slides under
the door, long, big, and hard and wicked – (the devil!) – creeps
on the bed without effort and drives its ugly head right into my
throbbing hot pussy. The thrill knows no end as I masturbate
faster to keep in time with the shivering snake.
I had this fantasy for years till I got married. Then it
switched to men and real penis dreams.
P.S. These are only a few. I could go on. As some of the
other women in your book said it gives me great pleasure to
read and write some of my most secret thoughts. Your title is
most appropriate, as I used to fantasize I was floating through
a lovely flower garden while my husband screwed away. Such
a lovely flower garden.
P.P.S. As for facts, I married at s*******n. I was a virgin,
have two sons now, and am thirty-eight years old. If I had to
have a removal of my female parts, it would surely make me
die. I believe the womb plays the most important part in having
a climax. As the Greeks said, when you translate “womb,” it
means a living thing-thirst.
Just finished your book and couldn't resist sending you my
favorite fantasy. Although it's based on fact, I conjure it up
when I'm alone and getting it on by myself or with my friendly
little vibrator. I'm married but have had a lover for a very long
time. I love my husband but I have this leftover sexual desire
that he – and maybe no one man – could ever satisfy. I don't
dig cheating on him, but it's better than frustration. My lover
and his wife, my husband and I, and several other people we
know all form a kind of close-knit group, and so we very often
do lots of things together. Many of us like to ski, and last year,
one of the couples in our group invited my husband and I, and
my lover and his wife, to come north for a weekend of skiing
with them.
They have a small weekend house, with a combination living
room and kitchen, one large bedroom with two double beds
side by side and two single beds. At first, I thought, Shit –
there is nowhere in this little house where my lover and I could
hope to get anything on.
We skied all day and were totally exhausted but feeling sexier
than ever. We had tried to get off on the slopes alone, but
someone was always tagging along with us. It was a great
night. A big fire in the fireplace, drinks, soft music, and me –
ready to screw anything that moved. I had almost resigned
myself to making it with my husband, which wouldn't have
done me too much good, but I was desperate. We all went to
bed. My husband took some sl**ping pills (he has insomnia).
So there I lay in one double bed and my lover fifteen inches
away in the other double bed. I was going crazy.
Could I kneel on the floor and go down on him without anybody
hearing or seeing us? No, that's out. Just then, he must
have been reading my mind. He pulled back the covers and
turned on his side, and there was the most beautiful hard-on in
the world. I was going to get down on the floor and the hell
with anyone else. He motioned for me to stay where I was and
then started to jack himself off. Right then and there I knew
what he had in mind. I turned over on my side as close to the
edge of the bed as I could. My heart and everything else was
beating like a trip hammer. I was so wet and my clit was so
hard, I thought it would burst. Then he started to come and
cupped his both hands to catch it all. He then brought his
hands up to my mouth, and I proceeded to lick them bone dry,
not wasting a single drop of that lovely stuff. Between picturing
in my mind him jacking off and that warm, slightly salty
semen in my mouth, and of course the danger in what we were
doing, I got off twice. I drifted off to sl**p with his finger in my
Now when I masturbate, I think of that scene and it's almost
like having him there. Given a good husband, a good lover,
and my fantasies, I'm never frustrated. I hope you can use this.
It would be an even bigger turn-on reading about it. Plus
knowing all my friends were reading it and not even knowing
it is about us. Thanks for bringing fantasy out of the closet, and
crotch-watching too.
 Have you ever listened to an older person talk about “the
good old days”? To hear them, the men were all tall, kind, and
rich, the women beautiful and generous as queens, the rain
never fell on weekends, and every night was New Year's Eve.
To say that they are telling us lies would be incorrect and narrow-
minded. What they are trying to do is recapture a feeling
they had when they were young, and which they have no more.
They are not deliberately misleading us as much as they have
embellished their own memories of a world that should lave
been. They themselves can't be sure if a certain happy event,
which they describe in such glowing detail, really happened or
The next two fantasies may be based on just such memories
To be honest, it is not clear to me if Diane's or Cecelia's fantasies
are about events that really took place, or if both women
have not taken some specifics of real events and, because they
ignited such truly erotic fires in their imagination, embroidered
them into two of the most vivid masturbatory fantasies I have
ever read.
For our purposes, it does not matter, because whether or not
the events took place, both fantasies are true to :heir own inner
logic. Diane does not even present her story as if it we re a
fantasy. It is all memory, and whether it is about masturbation,
dogs, her grandfather, another woman, a casual newsboy, or a
salesman, the details all pour out, one after another, with no
hesitation, second thoughts, or guilt getting between herself
and her mounting excitement. The very act of writing the letter
becomes part of her total masturbatory fantasy: “Our dog gets
his share, and he can lick my cunt as he is doing right now,
while I am writing.”
Cecelia's story seems to me to be a bit more complicated. I
have shown it to two psychoanalysts, both of whom share my
feelings that it is difficult to know just by reading her letter
where reality ends and fantasy begins. If the events actually
happened, it can be said that she was legally and technically
“****d,” but I believe it would be a total misunderstanding to
believe Cecelia is the exception to my statement that I never
met a woman who wanted to be ****d in reality. In her letter,
she tells us where her true excitement lies: it was “the enslavement,
the subjugation [which] I found so thrilling.” When
she wants to experience these emotions again, she does not go
out alone for a walk on a dark street – she turns to “the understanding
and indulgence of my wonderful husband” to turn her
fantasy into “a way of life,” in the safety of her own home.
What is particularly striking to me about Cecelia's letter is
that it gives us such a clear example of the healing powers of
sexual fantasy. By going over and over again “eleven hours” of
“terrifying brutality,” Cecelia gets a feeling of mastery over the
events. She can resummon those hours in her imagination now
for her own pleasure. Her erotic imagination has taken the horror
out of her experience, and transmuted it into pure sexual
gold. She says the entire experience now “thrills me to think
of.” In the safety of her fantasies, the man who a*****ed her
can no longer frighten her; they have been turned instead into
her erotic servants, Cecelia's source of “extremely satisfying
Your book, Secret Garden, is very well fitted for its purpose.
My gramps and I have read and reread many parts and
many of the fantasies fit my life. Am twenty three, single, and
have had a varied sex life. My remembrance of sex-play must
be when I was about six years old. Every chance I had when
alone was to strip all my clothes off, sit with my legs up to my
chin, and just finger play. At the time, the words cunt, fuck,
cock, etc., were not my language, but now I know and shall use
the proper word in my letter. The sex-play I enjoyed was to use
my finger, and then I tried many items, rubber items for pets,
such as is given to dogs to chew on. Well do I remember finding
a big rubber cock in a box in the storage room. I kept it
well hid and played with it after I had gone to bed. The size
was large, but in a short period of time I had mastered getting
it way up in my cunt. The time I had it up my cunt when our
dog came into my room, jumped up on the bed, and – as your
book described – a fast lick with a doggie's tongue, and your
new experience is in for a thrill. Well, after that, whenever I
could be alone, I would let Skip lick my cunt. Could be in our
garage, basement, or in the woods, as we lived in the sticks. He
was always ready to lick my cunt. From that, I soon learned he
loved to hug my leg and work his ass. Well, I had him on his
back one day and played with his cock. No one home, so I
stripped and sat on his stomach and slid my cunt up to his cock
and let it go in. It was real warm. I worked my cunt on his
cock, and he laid still. His head was behind me, so I could hold
him and f***e his cock in. While I was only eight then, I had
seen dogs fucking, so I was anxious to see if he could fuck me.
We went for a walk back into the woods and found a spot
where we would be not so apt to be found. Now I never wore
panties, and all I had on was a dress. I took off my dress and
spread my legs apart while standing, and let Skip lick my cunt.
When he got to working his ass, I got down on my knees to get
him to fuck me. He knew what I was doing and mounted me. I
got my hand on his cock and spread my cunt open and led his
tip of his cock into my cunt. What a thrust he gave, and my
cunt was full of his cock. Every stroke he gave, his cock got
longer, and then I felt a bulge go in my cunt, and we were in
action. Sure glad no one was around to hear me talk like I did.
When he got going, I kept telling him to fuck faster, faster,
faster, and it seemed so much pleasure. Finally, he came, and
when I started to pull away, he cried; I could feel the hardness
just inside my cunt. When he pulled his cock out of me, my
cunt was on fire, and was his cock slender, but long. The huge
knot at the back end of his cock was bright red. I laid on my
back and just let my cunt cool, as it was really hurting. He
licked my cunt, and when he found my clit, he just kept licking.
Guess my juice was coming, and he was licking it as it
came out. Well, we have had many a good fuck since, and I
found another dog to replace Skip. Well, when I was about
eleven years old, our newsboy came to our house to collect, and
everyone was gone to Seattle. He and I talked for a while – he
was sixteen then – and while he was talking, he gave me a hug
and kiss, and left. Shortly after, he returned and explained he
had to finish his collections. We were in my room playing records,
etc., and he started to fool around, and that was all I
needed to get my cunt hot. In our playing on the bed, he got his
hand on my cunt, and that was where I lost all respect. I
stripped and let him do what he wanted. My tits were small,
but he found a way to suck both. Then he had me lay crossways
on my bed, put two pillows under my ass, and had my
cunt up high. I could see my cunt lips open up when he spread
my legs. When he put his mouth to my cunt and started to suck
my clit, I grabbed his head and pulled his head up to my cunt,
and as he. sucked, I kept telling him, “Suck, suck harder.”
Finally, he came up on top of me and told me he was going to
fuck me, and he got his cock up in my cunt, and when he
started to fuck, my legs were over his shoulders, and did we
fuck. This was our start to fucking. Did he get a look of surprise
when Skip came up and licked his cock and nuts while he
and I were fucking later on. Skip, Ted, and I are now a threesome
for a long time after. When Ted was eighteen, he joined
the service and is now making a career of the Air f***e.
Well, by then, I was thirteen years old and as hot a bitch as
could be found. Ted told me to be careful who I fucked, as I
could get a disease. When Ted left for training, I was without a
fucking partner. One day, I had fantasies about my grandpa
and that he fucked me. He lives about ten miles from our
house, but visits us often, so I decided to ask Gramps about
coming to his house for a day. That worked out, same day I left
my panties off after I got to his house (he lives alone), and he
soon found out, because I made it a point to let him get a look
at my cunt. That afternoon, he told me he was going to give me
a bath, as I was needing one. He did, and our sex life began.
He sure enjoyed my body, and my tits were becoming big.
Well, now it has been ten years, and Gramps and I still have
our sex. He taught me cleanliness, hygiene, and care of my
period, keeps my cunt shaved, and loves to fuck. He and I go
down on each other; he taught me to suck cock. And when he
gets a notion he gets a new sex toy, dildo, vibrators, doubleend
cocks, so my girl friend and I can stick it into our cunts
and play around. Gramps found her when he was at dinner,
and she loves to stay as a lesbian. When Gramps comes to our
house (Sue and I live together), we sure give him pleasure. He
fucks one of us and sucks the other cunt. He has always given
both of us the best in fucking, sucking, finger-fucking, vibrator,
or, may we say, just a lot of sex fun.
Forgot to mention I am a dress designer and do a great deal
in designing exotic gowns. Some I design are about as bold as
can be to expose titties, ass, and some are designed to expose
the cunt. When I do fitting, I have the lady stripped, so I can
hold the breasts for measurements or to fit around cunt. Several
times I have excited them to a point where they want me to
play with the tits and cunt. A few have asked me to strip, and
they have gone down on my cunt. Guess my shaved cunt must
excite them. Yes, I have sucked a few cunts and tits. Gramps
and I are enjoying our sex life. He did not have to ask me to
suck his cock, while showering together, I just could not resist
taking his cock and sucking it. He invited both of us to go to
see Deep Throat, and after we got home, we bet Gramps one of
us would be able to take every inch of his huge cock and swallow
the head. Well, we surprised him by being able to do just
that. Fantasy has never entered my mind. I suppose you could
say I live my fantasies as they come into my head.
Gramps has fucked us both in the asshole. My roommate
had a cousin visit us from San Diego, and what a wild fifteenyear-
old she was. She had a cunt on her one-hundred-eightpound
body that we shaved and gave her a suck off, and she
responded by doing our cunts the same. So, Nancy, guess in
my sixteen years, I have had as much of a variety of sex, never
wear panties, and love to spread my legs so the guys can get
the bulge of a hard cock and then leave.
Now use my letter or throw it out, but I know now that
women are not only willing to tell their story about the sex they
enjoy, but love to read of other cunt action.
When Gramps and both of us are in bed we never feel a bit
bashful to suck a cunt while being watched.
Our dog gets his share and he can lick my cunt as he is doing
right now while I am writing. After I get fucked, I love to
spread my legs in the shower. I piss a stream anywhere it goes.
Gramps sits down in front of me when I piss standing and I
piss all over him, and he sucks me dry.
Enough said.
I can't tell you just how comforting and reassuring it was for
me to read your book. I had for the past three years harbored a
secret guilt, because I found so much pleasure in reliving in my
fantasies the extremely satisfying pleasure I experienced when
I was a*****ed in a shopping center parking lot by three men,
taken to an extremely secluded house in the suburbs, and
****d. It was more than just ****, really. It was sexual enslavement
for about eleven hours, and it is that – the enslavement,
the subjugation – I found so thrilling then and which I
not only fantasize now but, thanks to the understanding and
indulgence of my wonderful husband, have turned into a way
of life. Perhaps you can understand the sense of guilt I have
been suppressing – until I read My Secret Garden – because I
enjoy his domination over me and my regard for him as “my
lord and master.” (My girl friends, most of them more into
women's liberation than I ever could be, laugh when I use that
phrase and feel I'm making a little joke when I use it, but I'm
much more sincere about it than they could ever realize.)
First of all, let me say that I had been rather inhibited in my
sex life prior to that night I was a*****ed, but I wasn't a virgin.
My fantasies, even then, centered around the slave-girl theme. I
have always read novels and seen movies in which the beautiful
heroine is bought at a slave auction by the handsome Roman
commander or the ancient Egyptian prince or something
like that, but always kept them more or less in check when I
fantasized myself in the situation (although I did use them
when I masturbated). But that night opened a whole new world
for me sexually, and eliminated virtually every inhibition you
can dream of.
Parts of that night still remain a blur to me. I was so frightened
for a large part of it, especially the early part when I didn't
know exactly what was happening and was beaten – though
not too hard – until I agreed to submit and be obedient – and
toward the end, when I wasn't certain that they would ever let
me go. But in between, I slipped into my fantasy and actually
became that slave girl I had fantasized about. I lived the role. It
was as though I had been transported back across the ages to
ancient Rome or from reality into a novel or movie.
It is this that I recall vividly now in incredible detail, four or
five of the things that happened to me especially which thrill
me just to think of them now and which I fantasize about constantly
and which my husband duplicates as well as possible,
but without the terrifying brutality of that night.
I was twenty-three and single. I had my own apartment and
was working as a receptionist in a law office and was doing
some fashion modeling part time in the evenings when I could.
They took me as I was getting back into my car after buying
groceries at a supermarket. They just shoved me into my ,car
onto the floor in the rear and drove off with me. There were
three of them. One was about twenty-five or twenty-six, and
was the leader or, at least, the one who told the other two what
to do and who gave most of the orders to me. He was very softspoken
and suave, but extremely firm and commanding. The
other two were still in their teens, I suppose. One was a huge
guy, dark and hairy and very strong. The other was very goodlooking,
blond, and had very smooth skin.
They drove into a garage and pulled me from the car into the
house. I don't remember too much of what happened – I was
just so terrified, but they stopped hitting me, and I agreed to do
whatever they wanted and had slipped into my slave-girl fantasy
role, these are things I remember with incredible detail
and which I fantasize about still.
1: I was still fully clothed, and I was made to stand in front
of the two younger ones as the older one walked about me,
touching my hair lightly, my face, my breasts, my throat. He
kept talking, telling me how pretty I was and how much he
was going to enjoy fucking me. He began unbuttoning my
blouse and finally slipped it over my shoulders, commenting on
how beautiful my skin was and how nice my tits were. He ran
his finger lightly over my shoulders and circled my breasts and
finally touched the tip of my nipples. He brushed them with the
knuckles of his hand and took them between his finger and
thumb and rolled them very gently, embarrassing me by telling
the other two that my nipples were becoming erect. It was such
a pleasant sensation I couldn't avoid squirming, and he commanded
me to be still. I began crying quietly. I remember distinctly
when he put his hand under my skirt and began stroking
the insides of my thighs. His voice sounded so dirty when he
told the other two that I was “creaming through my panties.”
But, oddly, I loved the sense of humiliation. He finally made
me take off my skirt and my panties “very slowly, so we can
watch your tits as you bend over.” Then I had to stand naked in
front of them and turn slowly, so they could look at me. And I
knew exactly how that heroine slave girl in my fantasies felt as
she was being auctioned.
2: I was lying on the floor and the big one was lying across
me, perpendicular to my body. He was toying with one nipple
with his hand and licking the other. The older one told the
young blond one to lick my cunt. The older one lay down next
to me and began kissing my face and stroking my hair. All the
sensations were driving me out of my mind. I have never before
– or since – had so many fantastic things happening to my
body at one time. I couldn't concentrate on one. I tried to ignore
them, but I couldn't. I'd try to think of something else – how
much I hated these men – but then the blond one would suck
on my clit and flick it with the tip of his tongue, and I would
just feel him and what he was doing, and then the big one
would circle my nipple with his tongue, and then the blond one
would move his tongue very rapidly back and forth across my
clit. They kept saying things like, “You like to have your clit
sucked, don't you?” and “You like having your tits and your
cunt licked at the same time, don't you?” I'd try to ignore them,
but there was no way in the world you can ignore the moist
warmth of a soft mouth gently, persistently exciting your clitoris.
I tried desperately to suppress having an orgasm, but the
older one kept encouraging me. “Go ahead, baby, come, baby,
come. You love it.” And I came. It was so deep and intense. ; It
was fantastic. (I get hot just thinking about it and writing this
letter. I'm wearing ben-wa balls – those gold little Japanese
balls you put inside your cunt and which vibrate when they
click together and I've been unable to keep my hips still while
I'm typing this and have had an orgasm while I'm typing. It's
3: They took turns fucking me after that. I was still exhausted
from being licked into having an orgasm and was in
almost a dream, but I remember so many of the sensations.
Each one of them was different and felt differently inside of me
and on top of me and fucked differently. I know I came again
several times. I can't remember how many times each of them
fucked me or with which ones I had orgasms. The older one
fucked me first, I remember. He put his prick deep into my
cunt so that he was pressing very hard against my clit. He
barely moved. I remember pressing my cheek against his
shoulder and feeling the hardness of his prick inside me, filling
me. When I moved my hips, he commanded, me to “just lie
still. Just lie there and feel my prick in your cunt. Just lie there
and get fucked.” I remember feeling an orgasm welling up
inside me in spite of everything I did. I actually wound up asking
him to please, please, fuck me, please let me come. I know
that eventually I was thrusting as hard against him, trying to
fuck him, as he was me. I actually was fucking the man who
was r****g me and enjoying it tremendously. The young one
fucked me very rapidly, I remember, and I remember putting
my legs around him, he was so slender. The big one fucked me
more than once, I know: I just remember staring into his chest.
It was a curiosity to me, then, just how differently each one felt
and how, each moved. That, in itself, I find exciting. (I had
slept with only two other men before that. I was a virgin until
my junior year in college, when I was twenty. I didn't like or
dislike that experience. I was too curious then, I suppose. I
slept with one other man three times after that. I had hoped that
we would be married, but we broke up. I had dated the man I
later married twice before being a*****ed, but we had never
gone to bed together.)
4: We all rested for a while, and then the older one said he
wanted to watch me sucking the blond one's prick. I had never
sucked off a man before and was frightened. He threatened to
cut off my tits and flashed a knife, and I finally agreed. But the
blond boy either was reluctant or was pretending to be. The
older one put the tip of the knife at my throat and said he
would give me fifteen minutes “to have that k** come in my
mouth.” The boy was sitting on a sofa, and I went to him thoroughly
terrified. I got on my knees, but he pushed me away.
The older one said, “Coax him. Make him want it.” And I
found myself sitting next to him, playing with his cock, and
kissing him, trying to brush my nipples against his lips to
make him hot and whispering into his ear and begging him to
let me please suck his prick. I was encouraging him to put his
hand between my legs and was spreading my legs to make it
convenient for him and telling him how wonderful I would
make it feel if he would let me suck his prick. In the background,
the older one kept saying, “Ten minutes left…” Finally,
the boy consented, and I got on my knees between his
legs. I remember how hard and firm his prick was and how the
smooth skin seemed to slide over the hardness of his shaft.
When the older one said, “Five minutes, baby,” I was sucking
and licking desperately, frantically. One of them – I don't know
which one – pulled my hair away from my face so that the
older one could watch “his prick going in and out of my mouth
better.” I had never – sucked a man before, but the thing I remember
most about my feelings at that particular moment was
that I couldn't remember ever feeling as female as then. I was
thoroughly aware of the ultimate symbol of masculinity directly
in front of my face, in my mouth. I was aware of the power and
strength of these men over me. It wasn't just my femininity I
was aware of, it was my femaleness – if that can be clear. I
enjoyed sucking his prick immensely, and I enjoy being made
to suck my husband's. When the boy came, I felt a sense of
mastery in being a woman. I felt complete. I enjoyed it so
They kept me for several hours after all this. I had to wait on
them, serving them pizza – they actually sent out for one, and
one of them held me in a basement f****y room when the delivery
boy arrived, with a knife at my throat (they suggested
giving me to the delivery boy as a tip) – and I had to kneel after
serving them wine while one of them poured wine into my
mouth. I was ordered to fuck them as they lay on their backs. I
don't think I came again, I was exhausted, I guess. And I became
frightened as time passed, and there was no move to let
me go. Finally, they allowed me to dress, and they drove me to
about a block from my apartment and let me out. They parked
my car back in the supermarket parking lot, and I got it the
next day. I went home and bathed and slept straight through for
eighteen hours after I got home. I never called the police about
I stayed home for three days after that and masturbated
when I recalled my favorite parts of the incident, reliving them.
I had a date with Larry the Saturday night after that. We were
supposed to go to dinner and to the theater, but when he arrived,
I told him that I wanted to stay there, and I wanted him
to make me fuck him. I told him the whole story of the a*****ion,
about how I enjoyed it. He sat in a chair and told me to
stand in front of him. Then he told me to take my dress off.
And that began our relationship, really. We were married a
year later. When we are alone, we still play out the masterslave
relationship. He'll call me from the office before he comes
home and order me to undress and wait to be fucked. It is extremely
pleasurable to greet my husband at the door when I'm
either naked or wearing a sheer chiton and wait upon him and
do loving things to him. And for him. He has a friend who
stays with us over weekends several times a year while in town
on business trips, and Larry always has me wear a rather seductive,
low-cut cocktail dress when Frank visits. He has me
light Frank's cigarettes, and I enjoy watching Frank's face as he
looks down the front of my dress (Larry has forbidden me to
wear bras). It turns me on also when Larry tells Frank how
great I am in bed or how well I suck his prick. It embarrasses
me, but it is fun. Larry also has threatened to order me to sl**p
with Frank during one of his visits, but so far, he has not. I will
if he tells me to.
I know this may sound as though I'm pretty kinky. But for
the first time in my life, I'm feeling free sexually and thoroughly
satisfied. I don't have many of the hang-ups my girl
friends seem to have. I'm involved in the Junior Women's Club
and work as a volunteer once a week at the c***dren's ward of
the local hospital. I do all the things my girl friends do. So, can
it be all so bad to find so much pleasure sexually in the way
that my husband and I find satisfying? Certainly, your book
would indicate that other women would love to live out their
fantasies the way I do mine. They should. It feels so good. Can
it honestly be so wrong? I don't think so.
Love and sincere thanks again.
I've just finished reading My Secret Garden and was thoroughly
fascinated. I consider it the best turn-on of my vast collection
of literature.
Just to acquaint you with myself, I am a single, twentythree-
year-old stewardess. And layovers are a great time for
masturbating and fantasizing or fucking if you're lucky enough
to know a man in that town.
I consider myself completely uninhibited and like my men
that way. I sew, crochet, cook, write poetry, and read a lot. Of
course, all this is between flying and fucking. One of my favorite
things to do is to get a group of people talking about sex –
you find out so much about them, without their knowing it.
There were a lot of women in your first book who had some
of my qualities in sex (crotch-watching, good music, voyeurism,
male nudes, etc.), but I didn't really find any fantasies like
I don't know if it's unique or not, but all my fantasies are
done in twelves. They are never involved with faceless lovers;
instead, they are always past or present lovers. The twelves are
sometimes mirrors in a fun house, scenes in other countries, or
twelve positions. One time, it was my four best lovers in my
favorite of their positions as stick people, cartoon characters,
and then real-life figures (three times four is twelve).
My favorite fantasy of all has to do with the twelve signs of
the zodiac. I usually have this fantasy after I've been smoking
grass and during oral, manual, or vibrator sex. I always like to
hear Barry White's albums in the background – I can have an
orgasm just from his voice, without ever being touched.
Anyway, the fantasy starts out in Aquarius. My cunt is on
fire, and the water-bearer puts it out by sticking his hose into
me. As Pisces, I'm the Star-Kist tuna mermaid, and my lover is
a scuba diver. Being that a mermaid has no pussy, I eagerly go
down on him. As Aries, my man is a Los Angeles Ram, and
I'm the head cheerleader (as what Dr. Chartham calls a practitioner
of erelalia [noisy lovemaking] the part fits me). And we
never fail to score a touchdown. Taurus brings us to Spain,
where the toreador kills the bull and fucks me with its horn. In
Gemini (my sign), I am being fucked by one twin while I devour
the other twin with my mouth. Cancer takes us to the circus
freak show, where my lover has six arms and thirty fingers.
He literally pinches me to an outstanding climax. Leo, the lion,
sits on his throne, and, lifting all my petticoats, I sit down on
his prick. As I laugh at the jester, my vagina laughs too, and
the king gets a royal orgasm. Virgo's scene is in Egypt, where I
am the virgin bride in the sultan's harem. I belly dance for him,
feed him g****s, fan him, and then he gently deflowers me.
Libra is the scales, and two people fucking on one are never
going to get the correct weight. Scorpio can be very sadistic.
So, here my lover ties me to the bed, whips me, and has me
gang-banged by his motorcycle club. Sagittarius, the archer, is
an Indian chief who fucks me with his arrow as we ride double
on his palamino. Capricorn is a shepherd in his pasture, and I
become the black sheep he fucks anally.
That seems like it's long, but it takes longer to read than to
Well, off to Detroit and my super Gemini lover. Mmmmm…
. Love and piece.
I just finished your book, My Secret Garden. Really fantastic.
I thought it might be exciting to put my fantasy down on
paper. Maybe you won't use it, but I'll do it anyway. By the
way, I have had only one lover and have been going with him
for four years. I am eighteen years old.
Well, I wake up in this large rather dimly lit room, and there
is incense burning somewhere off. I'm sitting on some sort of
apparatus attached to the walls, with my arms and legs suspended.
I'm wearing a kind of harem outfit, except the bra is
nothing but thin chains holding up my breasts (36C). The
pants are very thin filmy material (see-through), but my bush is
covered by thick bands of lace that go around the crotch.
A door opens, and this very handsome dark-haired boy
comes into the room, wearing only some sort of decorative gold
shield over his genitals suspended by gold chains. I ask him
what I'm doing here, and he replies that his father k**napped
me so that his only son could have an American wife and c***d.
I was married to him earlier while hypnotized, he tells me,
and had been given a d**g that would make me conceive the
first time the marriage was consummated. He also told me that
I couldn't resist, because the incense had an aphrodisiac d**g
in it.
He comes toward me, and I find that I can't resist this sexily
bodied man of about twenty. He kisses me on the neck and
moves his hands down my body so softly. He kisses me down
to my breasts and parts the chains to get at my nipples.
Sometimes I come at this point while masturbating, but if
not, I continue on this line.
I am getting wet, and he pulls away from me and pushes a
button on a hand unit, and my legs systematically part. He
moves back to me and unhooks the shield on his sexual organ.
It is beautiful and not too large. He starts to enter me without
removing my pants; then I realize they are crotchless.
I always come by then.
THE MAN is always fantastically built and hung like my
lover, who is about seven and a half inches when hard.
Thank you so much, Nancy, for what you are bringing out
about our gentler sex. I always thought there was something
wrong with me for having these thoughts and masturbating.
Love ya and keep up the good work.
First off, let me say I have read My Secret Garden, and I
found it extremely stimulating and full of what the world needs
more of – letting men know that we women are really very
erotic critters. I've known since I was ten when my fantasy life
began – wake up, world!
Before I get into my fantasy life, let me outline my personal
reality. I'm twenty-one years old, married, pregnant, a high
school graduate, middle class, and, if it's important, white. My
husband is twenty-five, one year of college, white, and sexy as
I have been a topless dancer since I was s*******n, and I
can't remember a time when I wasn't bisexual curiously
enough, only in reality, never in fantasy. Only sometimes I'll
see a sexy girl in Penthouse or Playboy, and wonder what
she'd be like in bed.
I engaged in sexual intercourse for the first time at thirteen,
and have always “played” with myself. I first remember getting
caught at five, being told, “Tch, tch, nasty!” I first achieved
orgasm at ten. I never came with intercourse until I was fifteen,
when a twenty-one-year-old lover taught me the “joy” (God
bless him) of oral foreplay.
I have fucked, one way or another, over a hundred men and
about thirty women, the first being my cousin, when we were
eleven. I guess since I thoroughly enjoy being a topless dancer,
you could call me an exhibitionist. And my husband loves to
watch me dance. I met him when I was eighteen, and there has
never been any hassle about my dancing. He realizes I'm very
professional about it, and your typical barroom Joe doesn't turn
me on. (We have only been married for eight months.)
My husband has been to bed with over two hundred women,
and only one man, a gay mutual friend. Even then, it was at my
insistence. Our sexuality, and belief that marriage and personal
freedom go hand-in-hand have made us perfect for each other.
When we have intercourse, I always come. If I can't make it
during intercourse, which I do ninety percent of the time, we
masturbate me after. Sometimes I fuck him in a way he comes
quickly, when I know he's horny, and then lay back and enjoy,
Since he's hung pretty heavy, almost nine inches when erect,
painful intercourse has always been a problem, and now it's
terrible. Being pregnant has made my poor vagina shorter, so
careful is the key word. And it's turned me off somewhat.
I have tried to suck him off to make up for my lack of interest.
I only succeed in making myself sick. I can't understand it,
either, 'cause I love doing it.
There have only been two bad experiences in my sexual life.
One was being ****d at knife point by a black guy, and being
****d anally by a fiancé. I took both in stride, and said fuck it!
It doesn't bother me now, except when my husband wants to
try anal intercourse. The remembered pain makes me tighten
up, and it's impossible.
Our marriage is very open. I have had sexual intercourse, an
affair, with one man since becoming pregnant. I guess I was
trying to show myself I was still desirable.
We had two threesomes, one where I got all the attention
from hubby and hetero friend. In the other, he got the attention
from me and a gay friend. I loved it!
I have an active fantasy life. I used to fantasize about r****g
a guy, sadistically. When we were reading My Secret Garden,
I asked him about his fantasies. Well, it seems he dug black
garter belts and stockings. And being dominated. We went out
and bought the necessary articles, and then I dominate him to
our hearts' content. I even made him put on the black panties I
had on, and then I teased him. I got rough, and made him beg.
We loved it! Then I made him eat me, all the time being physi225
cally and verbally abusive. The orgasm, when we finally got
around to intercourse, was superb.
One of my favorite fantasies is my husband sucking cock.
He looked really far out when he had one in his mouth. Sometimes.
when I masturbate, I picture him making it with a guy,
and I come in no time flat!
I also fantasize about being tied spread-eagle on the bed,
and my husband playing the domination role to the hilt. I picture
him with a huge hard-on, fucking me, and then forcing me
to lick him clean of my juices. Then he takes his cock in his
hand and slowly starts jacking off, inches from my eyes, telling
me what a cunt I am. I try to shut my eyes, but he slaps me and
pulls my hair forcing my head back and my mouth open. Suddenly,
he stops and tells me he's going to fuck my tits. He
pushes my tits together, sucking and biting them. His cock is
huge now, and he pushes it up and down, hitting my neck with
its head at every thrust. Suddenly, he's sitting with his ass on
my tits, and he's jerking his come all over my face, in my eyes,
ears, everywhere. I strain to get his cock in my mouth, but he
just laughs, keeping it slightly out of reach. (Wow, you don't
know what it's doing to me to write this down!)
 Perhaps one sentence I hear more than any other when I
am introduced as the author of the book on women's sexual
fantasies is, “Oh, I never need fantasies during sex with my
husband [lover]. He's all I need. I just think about him, how he
feels, etc., etc.” I get this response even from women who have
read My Secret Garden and who must, therefore, know that for
every single fantasy sent in by a woman who says she fantasizes
during sex, at least two or three were published from
women who imagined erotic scenes while walking down the
street, masturbating, watching television, and so forth. If I am
bored with the stereotyped response that can only see a fantasy
taking place during sex, I am nevertheless curious as to why so
many women choose to sidestep the question of sexual fantasies
by saying their sex is so great they don't “need” them. (Let
me hasten to add here that this determination to limit all fantasy
as occurring only during sex is very frequent among men
The explanation, I believe, is that none of us want to appear
lacking or inadequate in the one area where none of us has
absolute, rocklike confidence: our sexuality. We know so little
about ourselves that we rush to the defense before anyone has
raised a questioning brow. We protest too much; we are afraid
to admit we do not have fantasies, because that bight be admitting
being left out of something. We boast instead that our sex
is “great” without it. The entire matter of sexual fantasy is
dismissed as being too trivial to discuss. This almost compulsive
denial that they “need” fantasy during sex serves two protective
functions. First, it denies that you are not woman
enough “to do it naturally” (whatever that is). Second, it is a
defense against any possible implication that your
lover/husband is not enough man.
Most women can only admit to sexual fantasy if it is placed
in a lighthearted, non-threatening context. Show someone an
advertisement for a movie with Paul Newman in bed with
Ann-Margret. Then suggest to her that a fantasy is merely a
little balloon over her head, a little picture of herself taking
Ann-Margret's place, if only for an instant. Ah, yes – she will
smile – we all get these funny ideas occasionally, don't we?
But ask if she might entertain a fantasy of being in bed with
her husband's best friend while he, her husband, is actually
fucking her – and all the defenses of heaven and hell break
loose. I am impugning both her and her husband's sexuality!
The thought is so frightening, the consequent angry defense is
so overwhelming that how can she admit she has sexual fantasies
to me – much less to herself? “When I'm with my husband,
we turn each other .on so much we don't need sexual
fantasies, thank you!”
The whole effort is very understandable, and all too human.
In the end, I believe the entire confusion grows out of misunderstanding
one word: need.
What is all this talk of “needing” a fantasy? Do you “need”
a martini in those romantic prefucking hours … do you “need”
that terrific background music … do you merely “need” him to
put it in and pump away? In all these matters, it's not a question
of needing. We try to make an art of lovemaking; a drink,
a bit of music are ingredients of the art – and for many people,
so is a sexual fantasy!
If a sexual fantasy helps turn us on to a higher erotic pitch
than we ordinarily reach, it does not mean we are deficient
lovers. What it means is that you can't bring up a young
woman to say no, no, for the first twenty years of her life and
then expect her to be able to loosen the grip of habit and repression
overnight just because a marriage ceremony has been
performed; the sexual brakes are built too deeply into our very
nerves, muscles, and bl**d cells.
In his recent study, The Female Orgasm, Dr. Seymour
Fisher pinpoints the single greatest reason why so many
women are unable to reach orgasm: they are unable “to let go.”
We have been trained to distrust sexual excitement when we
feel it beginning to build up within ourselves; there have been
too many warnings about “going too far,” and “letting things
get out. of hand.” If something happens, it is the woman's fault
– that's the accepted folk wisdom our mothers tried to install in
us. We are thus given the responsibility for putting the dampers
not only on our own sexuality, but on the man's as well. Is
it any surprise that many a woman remains overcontrolled in
bed, even when she is there by her own choice, with a man she
Women without number must have discovered on their own,
as I – did, that sexual fantasies are an almost never fail method
of releasing yourself from a puritanic bondage. You may have
intellectually discarded the old sexual rules and inhibitions
long ago, but they still grip you emotionally, crippling your
sexual response. This may be true no matter how ardent or
skilled your lover may be! “I have a variety of fantasies which
dance through my head on those' occasions when I can't seem
to get into the sexual act with my lover,” writes Lynn. “It has
nothing to do with what a great fuck he is, because he is that:
fantastic! But sometimes my head just won't turn off everything
that's been going on all day. I can't relax, and so I just switch
on one of [my fantasies].”
Until the publication of My Secret Garden, there had never
been any public acknowledgment of the undoubted fact that
sexual fantasy was a great ,aid to female eroticism. It is as if
society did not want to grant women so much sexual power, so
much erotic self-stimulation. Like so many billions of docile
radio or television sets, we were supposed to wait until we had
been “turned on” by men.
Unfortunately, women themselves did not help each other
break out of this conspiracy of silence; it left us passive victims
of the male mystique of what sex was. We did not feel free
enough to discuss our sexual fantasies and ideas even with our
best friends (until only the most recent years).
Thus, each woman was left feeling isolated, guilty, and
alone with her sexual fantasies … convinced she was some
kind of freak or pervert if she entertained or enjoyed these
ideas. Her husband or lover had never mentioned having any
sexual fantasies himself; nor in his idle talk about the women
he knew before her (to which she listened more carefully than
he knew) did she ever pick up the slightest clue that other
women had sexual fantasies like hers. “… I am writing this
almost stealthily,” says Jan, after an unflinching catalog of
some of the most erotic fantasies in this book, “as I would be
embarrassed at being discovered …. I was never able to be
very open about sex, because my husband … is the romantic
sort, and believes very much in the sanctity of marriage.”
While she feels stimulated by X-rated films, she can't go to
them, because her husband doesn't approve. “Some of my fantasies
are very similar to those of the other women that you
published,” she finishes her letter. “I guess we are not alone no
matter how bizarre we think our own are.”
“Your book was excellent,” writes Kate. “I thought my fantasies
were abnormal, and I felt very guilty about them. Now I
realize almost everyone has them.”
It is time for this kind of unnecessary guilt to stop, for
women to realize that no matter how extraordinary the sexual
events they like to imagine that increase their passion while in
bed with their lovers, they are not alone. 
I have a variety of fantasies which dance through my head
on those occasions when I can't seem to get into the sexual act
with my lover. It has nothing to do with what a great fuck he
is, because he is that: fantastic! But sometimes my head just
won't turn off everything that's been going on all day, I can't
relax, and so I just switch on one of the following:
Fantasy 1: I am having sex with two guys, neither of whom
is my lover. They are both going down on me simultaneously.
This may sound impossible, but the one kind of acts like relief
man for the other, so that the rhythm never stops, and they are
both insatiable. I should add that I take a long time to come, so
having two men relieves me of worrying about one of them
getting tired.
Fantasy 2: Sometimes when my lover is in the mood and
I'm kind of distracted, we leave the television on with the
sound turned off. I make sure there's a channel turned on with
at least one terrific-looking man, and then while we're making
love, I like to think that he and everyone else on the show are
watching our act and loving it.
Fantasy 3: I will close my eyes and imagine a crowd, maybe
on the street, in a store, even a crowd at a party. The whole
group is fascinated watching me masturbate, watching the
beautiful expressions on my face. Eventually, they all begin to
masturbate too.
Fantasy 4: I often fantasize this on my way to work as well
as during sex: that I am on a crowded bus, and, without anyone
minding or exclaiming, I just reach down inside this goodlooking
guy's trousers and masturbate him. All the while, he's
standing there, holding on to the strap and going weak in the
knees as I bring him closer and closer to climax. He never
looks at me, but I know he is just praying I won't stop. If I am
sitting in front of him in my fantasy, I will often lean forward
and put his prick in my mouth just before he comes.
Fantasy 5: Very often the men in my fantasies are strangers.
More often than not. I find it terribly exciting if, while they are
fucking me, they also use the most profane language imaginable.
I don't really like men to whisper words in my ear while
we're really fucking; somehow it seems so fake. But the strangers
in my fantasies know just how to use these words, and not
only is there no embarrassment, but it is madly exciting. For
instance, they say things like. “My cock is in your cunt, and it's
on fire … .” “I want to come all over you, in your ears, in your
ass, etc.”
I don't always use these fantasies, but they sure help me forget
about the problems of the day when I want to pay all my
attention to sex and just relax and get into it.
Good luck and please understand that I really do love my
man …. It's just that the fantasies help me love him more.
Happily married for many years to a lusty man, and having
borne several c***dren, nevertheless, I had not experimented
with any kinky sex, mainly because of my husband's innocence
of such things. An early fantasy I would employ during sex to
further stimulate myself would be that I was an innocent young
girl propositioned by a sensuous older man. I would be kept by
him in great luxury (this was during a time in real life when we
were quite desperately poor) in return for a surrender of my
virginity and the willingness to submit to his every whim. I
agree, and he deflowers me on an obstetrical table, with my
feet in stirrups.
After the initial loss of my cherry, he proceeds to teach me
exactly what to do, and arouses me with aphrodisiacs, so that I
am dripping and begging for him to fuck me. He has me walk
on all fours and beg like a dog for it. He sadistically makes me
wait and suffer mightily until he satisfies my lust.
After several months, he is satisfied that I am properly
trained, and he take me to a secret place – a huge manor house
somewhere (afterward, when I read the Story of O … it
sounded so similar) when I am told that I will be on exhibition
for members of his club, a club devoted to eroticism and sensuality.
Other girls and I are kept naked and chained in cages part of
the day, while the club members examine us like a****ls in a
zoo. At mealtime, we are the waitresses, and submit to being
fondled and roughly inspected internally as well as externally.
We are told to bend over to pick up a purposely dropped spoon,
and fingers are then inserted into our cunts.
Breasts are weighed and measured, rulers inserted into
cunts, and sizes recorded. We find out why that evening.
There is a special show, an exhibition of the specialties of
the various girls and their “benefactors.” The men sit in a circle
around a stage, and the show begins. A tiny girl no bigger than
a c***d is led in, followed by a huge black man. His penis is
enormous. It turns out that she has systematically been enlarged
by the insertion of bigger and bigger dildos, and now
they are putting her to the test. But no, it is still too big, and
she writhes in pain. Finally, he succeeds, and with her legs
around his waist, he manipulates her against him.
The next act is a huge cow of a woman, with udder-like
breasts and a huge bouncy ass. She does a dance for her audience,
and everything shakes like jelly. Her cunt is enormous,
and, therefore, two little men, dwarfs almost, come in and both
penetrate her at the same time. Every expression on her face is
mirrored in the eyes of the watching men. When she comes,
she bellows like a cow.
By this time, having fantasized all this, I am usually really
aroused, and often didn't finish the fantasy. I never get the
chance to perform with my specialty.
Now, years later, having started to educate myself with the
Sensuous Woman, followed by some of the more readily available
erotic classics, my fantasies have changed somewhat.
Now I employ group scenes, myself and another woman, and
other kinky combinations. Recently, we (my husband and I)
went to see the Devil and Miss Jones, and I was partially repelled
by seeing everything I'd read about in privacy in giant
living color, but at the same time, I was fascinated, and the
impressions' stayed with me for weeks afterward.
Actually, I am writing this almost stealthily, as I would be
embarrassed at being discovered, therefore, all the typing errors.
I was never able to be very open about sex, because: my
husband, although having a large carnal appetite, is the romantic
sort and believes very much in the sanctity of marriage, and
doesn't care for the X-rated films. He says he won't go again. It
did stimulate me very much, and I would love to go again,
provided it was a well-made film.
One of my present fantasies is ticked off when I see a local
girl at the supermarket. She isn't beautiful, but somehow I am
aroused by her. I imagine her naked, and I am caressing her. (I
do this while caressing myself.) She never wears a bra, and I
always notice dark nipples. under her clothing. This titillates
me. Her breasts are large, and I love to play with them in my
fantasy. I don'ts like to go down on her, but I do finger her cunt
and fuck her with a large dildo. I sometimes drive her wild
with a vibrator. I get a double dildo and slide it into both openings.
She moans with delight and throws her body.; around and
trembles uncontrollably. At this point in my, imaginings, I
A fantasy I employ when my husband and I are making it is
that we are the center of attention at a large orgy in a sultan's
opulent palace. The sultan is watching to make sure that his
women are working properly. I must lift my ass high off the
bed, or I will be punished. The punishment is being fucked in
the ass by a large dog. At this point, I usually come.
Some of my fantasies are very similar to those of the other
women that you published. I guess we are not alone no matter
how bizarre we think our own are. Thank you for a needed
research. I hope that I may have been of some help.
I purchased My Secret Garden yesterday, and have completed
reading it already. Needless to say, I found it fascinating
and very enlightening.
I'm a twenty-four-year-old married woman. My husband is
also twenty-four, and we have no c***dren. We have a fairly
good sex life. (We have been married three years.) I'm not what
you'd call pretty. I'm average-looking and slightly overweight
(fifteen pounds). My husband is fairly good-looking and about
ten pounds overweight.
Last year, during our lovemaking, I just stopped reaching
climax, although I'd had no trouble before then. My doctor can
find no physical reason for this. Now, the only way I can
achieve orgasm is to fantasize during our lovemaking.
I know my husband sometimes fantasizes about other
women, because he's told me he has. Part of the problem may
be because he is fairly quiet during lovemaking, while I'm
pretty noisy – moans, etc. I perform fellatio on him, and sometimes
he performs oral sex on me, but not as often or as long as
I'd like him to. I've told him this, but he ignores it. I really enjoy
doing oral sex on him.
Well, this fantasy I have is about ice hockey players. We
live in a city with a professional team, and I've always liked the
sport since I was a teenager. My husband doesn't care for any
other sport except hockey. I've talked to some of the players.
What I fantasize about during our lovemaking is about these
players, and the uglier-looking they are, the better I like them.
My fantasy begins with me in the locker room. Of course,
I'm all dressed up in an attractive pant-suit, makeup, and my
hair has just been done. There's a table there, sort of like the
kind doctors use to examine people. Maybe it's the one players
use when they get a rubdown. The players come in and ask me
what I'm doing there. I make up a story, saying I'm writing a
story on them for the newspaper.
They start taking off their equipment and skates, acting like
I'm just another one of the guys. Then my very favorite player,
still in his uniform, comes over to me and gives me the “once
over” look. He asks me to go out with him after his shower and
change. I confess to him that I've always wanted to have sex
with him. He seems pleased, since he's a single, swinging-type.
He walks me over to the table and says, “How about now?” I
protest because there are the other players around. In fact, they
are watching and listening while pretending not to, and now
my favorite player tells them what I just said. They laugh and
make comments, but really, I know they envy him.
As long as I've gone this far, I go ahead and tell them that
some of them are men I would like to have sex with too. Not
all of them, but only certain ones and in a certain order. My
favorite is the biggest man on the team, very masculine and
ugly, with hockey scars on his cheek. I place the others in a
descending order of size and this certain kind of mean look.
Some of the players on my list are married, but they are very
hot for me and never dream of saying no to being on my list.
(Naturally, in a fantasy, no one can refuse me.)
The rest of the players go ahead with whatever they were doing.
The ones I chose stand by the table, waiting their turn, and
telling each other how lucky they are to have sex with a beautiful
woman like me. Sometimes they say that my few extra
pounds are exactly what they like, that it makes me more of a
woman. Other times, I imagine myself to be more slender than
I really am, with a body that drives these men wild.
My favorite, first choice then approaches me, and slowly
strips me under the overhead light that hangs over the rubbingdown
table. He's kissing me all over and telling me how much
he likes my large breasts. (My husband is a breast freak – the
larger the better.) By this time, I'm feeling all those hungry
eyes that I did not choose watching me enviously from the
darkness as they slowly go on changing their clothes, but I'm
also getting turned on by the feel of my favorite, who has been
slowly taking off his uniform all the while. He is on top of me,
caressing and kissing me all over, especially my breasts –
which turns me on in reality just as it does in fantasy. Then,
while the waiting players are all watching, and I can see them
growing erect themselves as they wait their turn, my favorite
slowly goes down on me, eating me until I'm writhing with
pleasure. The next man in line can't wait, and while the first
player has his face buried between my legs, the second man is
licking my nipples. The two feelings at once, a tongue between
my legs and another licking and sucking my nipples has me in
such a frenzy that I come – without knowing which man has
made it happen. But I can't even think about that because almost
with a shock of happy surprise, before I am even out of
orgasm, I realize that the first man has moved his body up
higher, and he is fucking me. I feel his hard-on pumping up
inside me like some kind of great, powerful machine, his balls
banging up against the backs of my thighs and asshole as he
lunges deeper and deeper into me. I tell him how big he is and
how good all that bigness feels inside me and for him not to
stop. I like the way he laughs a little right here in my fantasy
and says for me not to worry, he won't stop until he's done –
which takes a long time.
(My husband doesn't take a very long time to reach orgasm,
which often leaves me feeling unsatisfied.)
The player then tells me how much he enjoyed eating me
and how much it turned him on. Now it is the turn of the other
players, starting with the man who was licking my nipples. He
has an erection that is so big and painful, he has to hold it in
his hands; rubbing it to soothe the ache. When I open my legs
for him, he rams it in so fast and hard he almost pushes me off
the table. Starting with him, each man doesn't take very long to
come. They are barely inside me when with a wriggle of my
hips, and a squeeze of my inside muscles, I milk them, and
they come in a big explosion. I don't care because I want them
to come quickly, I want to feel how fast I can make a man
come and besides, as soon as one man is finished, there is another
one on line to step forward and begin to fuck me as if the
last man had not yet stopped.
I tell them all how good each one is, and they tell me how
good I am. Also, while they fuck me, they're noisy about it. I
love to hear their groans, shouts of impatience, and, above all,
their obscenities like, “I'm gonna fuck the hell out of you,” etc.
Of course, I have to really imagine each one nude and what
they'd look like, but I have practice in this, because I like to
imagine them naked while they are skating and playing their
hockey game, so by the time they enter into this fantasy, I have
already thought up how they look, and I am almost “at home”
with their nakedness.
After they have all had a turn – they have only fucked me,
only the first player, my favorite, went down on me – I turn
back to him, my first choice. I tell him he's so good that I am
dying for another fuck. He's very pleased because he's so good
at it. He moves me forward to the edge of the table, so that my
hips are almost off the edge. In this way, he can fuck me standing
up. I wrap my legs around his hips to hold him close to me,
and he slowly puts his arms up over his head, like a prizefighter
who has just won the fight all the while continuing to
pump away inside me. “Go to it!” “That's it – fuck her good!”
all the other players are cheering him on, but he and I know
without saying it that he wouldn't be this good – certainly not
this second time in such a short space of time – with any other
woman but me. This time, he comes while I watch him. He just
groans as if his last breath is escaping him, and he slumps
down and falls across my stomach. He's out, and all the players
are crowding around me, kissing me, telling me how great I
am, what a woman I am, etc.
I also use this fantasy when I masturbate, since I can change
the players and make them do anything to me I want. (Except I
don't fantasize anal penetration, because I don't think I'd care
for it.) I really get turned on thinking about having sex with
these guys who are so big. The only time I masturbate is after
I'm left frustrated when my husband doesn't give me an orgasm.
I've got pictures of some of the players, including my
favorite, and I look at them and close my eyes while I masturbate
with the smooth, rounded handle of a hairbrush. I can
always give myself an orgasm.
My husband doesn't know I masturbate, but I think maybe
he might get turned on if he ever did watch me. Once, he made
me rub my own breasts while he watched and got turned on.
He was fingering me at the time. I didn't like doing it myself.
I'd rather have him rub me.
That's my fantasy. I can't help but have it flash through my
mind at least briefly whenever we go to a hockey game. My
husband knows I like some of the players, and he sort of goes
along with it sometimes. Like a couple of times, when we were
making love, he'd say, “I'm(player's name), and I want to fuck
you, baby.” He does this because part of him knows this turns
me an, and he enjoys my excitement, but part of him doesn't
really like it, that it is the idea of the other man that is getting
me so excited – even though my husband himself is the one
who brings the other man to my mind.
Thank you for reading this letter. I hope it didn't sound too
weird! It's similar to some of the ones I read in your book, except
my fantasy isn't a gang-**** fantasy. It's one guy at a time,
and they aren't forcing me to do anything. In fact, I have chosen
them and make each one wait his turn till I'm ready for him.
Maybe if you write another book, you could use this fantasy.
I'd be thrilled to see it in print, being read by millions (maybe)
of people, who wouldn't know it was me. (Please don't use my
real name.)
P.S. If my fantasy ever does happen in reality, It'd be interesting
to see a player going down on me since all my favorite
players have rather large noses.
Your book was excellent. I thought my fantasies were abnormal,
and I felt very guilty about them. Now I realize almost
everyone has them.
I am twenty, well educated, and well traveled. I have been
married less than two months. My husband and I both used to
use d**gs heavily, but now we only smoke pot once in a while.
I tell you this because I think that d**gs and smoking help a
great deal to heighten awareness of your fantasies.
One night recently, I seemed to be taking too long to come,
so I started fantasizing. (This is the first time I remember doing
it during sex.) It had a remarkable effect on arousing me. I
fantasized that I was a prostitute – well, not exactly a prostitute,
but a woman with nothing to lose by fucking every man
she wanted – and I was out to fuck every man in town. As I
fantasized, my whole body began to feel like it was being
fucked by every man imaginable; there wasn't a shred of me
that wasn't being aroused by some man. I got off better than I
ever had before with my husband or the five other lovers I have
Another fantasy I have is that my ex-lovers are all doing me
at once, each doing the thing he did best. However, my favorite
fantasy, the one I use mostly now (and find the most erotic), is
that I am tied up, and a gang of r****ts are making me fuck a
dog. They are all watching me and all getting hard-ons and
waiting to fuck me themselves once I come with the dog. The
dog is licking my clitoris, and I am made to perform fellatio on
the dog. Soon the dog and I are both getting out of control as
we both want more and more. We both come at the same time.
Then the dog fucks me. All of my moaning has made the men
even more aroused. Then they each take turns, doing what the
dog did. Each one is hornier than the next, and each one is a
better fuck. I come with all of them. I think that seeing me fuck
that dog aroused those men more than any sight imaginable.
I should mention that I was once ****d. So that the idea of
this last fantasy really happening disgusts me. Actually, after I
was ****d, I was violently ill; it happened in an alley, and I
remember vomiting after they left me. I never hitchhike anymore
or even walk at night without my husband, unless it's
down a well-lit street. My favorite pastimes used to be walking
in the country, the mountains, or the woods, just getting off by
myself, but now I wouldn't dare. If I must walk alone, I carry
something that could be used as a weapon. I always thought I'd
never be able to kill a person, but if an attacker should ever
approach me again, I wouldn't hesitate to maim or kill him.
When you are 4' 11” and 86 pounds you need protection.
I suppose you wonder how I could be so aroused by this last
fantasy, given what has happened to me. It makes me wonder
too. The best idea I can come up with is that the dog is the best
fucker in the group … no man can top him. I'm not really angry
at men, certainly not my husband, but I guess there's some
anger left over somewhere. Anyway, the fantasy does the trick
for me, and that's all that matters.
 In Kate's fantasy, which appears immediately Move, I am
very impressed by the self-analysis that she gives us at the end
of her note. As we have seen in many other women's letters, the
seeds of the fantasy that she seems to tell with the most relish
and erotic excitement were sown in an actual, horrible event.
She was ****d. “I always thought I'd never be able to kill a
person,” she writes, “but if an attacker should ever approach
me again, I wouldn't hesitate to maim or kill him.” Her murderous
feelings are still unappeased in real life, but by an
imaginative use of fantasy, she has found some place to put
this anger so that it does not come between her and her husband.
Her fantasy turns the tables on the men who ****d and
humiliated her, and expresses a kind of exquisite sexual revenge:
she would rather fuck a dog than any of them. “I'm not
really angry at men,” she writes, “certainly not my husband,
but I guess [the **** left] some anger left over somewhere.”
This anger is expressed and used up in fantasy, even while
having sex with her husband. Whether he knows or not, he is
as much the gainer as she is. “The fantasy does the trick for
me,” she happily concludes, “and that's all that matters.”
Neither Helen nor Riva have to keep their sexual fantasies
hidden from their husbands. Helen's fantasy, in fact, was originally
invented by her husband for the two of them to share.
While it is all about him assisting while she is fucked by another
man, Helen credits the excitement this idea brings to their
bedroom as one of the prime ingredients of a “wonderfully
happy and successful marriage” of many years. Her husband,
Helen says, “is the most wonderful, kind, thoughtful, considerate
and lusty man any woman could ever hope to have for her
Riva also finds that talking about her fantasies during sex
adds to the spice and erotic satisfactions of her eight-year-old
marriage. But while Helen and her husband say they would
now like to find a man to act out their fantasy with them, Riva
has no such idea. “I have never done any of these things,” she
writes, “and have really no desire to even see them happen in
real life … too scared, I guess … but they make great conversation
in bed and make me wild with my husband, usually
bringing him to come at the climax of the fantasy.”
How wise both husbands sound to me. They do not see the
imaginary lovers who heat their wives' sexual imagination as
impossible rivals, but as sexual assistants instead, who help
each man bring his wife to the kind of excitement that makes
marriage alive and tingling.
While Beth too shares her fantasies aloud with her husband,
there is a variation. The fantasy he likes to hear most is about
his wife making love to another woman. “Paul likes me to talk
about this during sex,” Beth writes, “but not any other time.”
But since Beth writes that she is the mother of two c***dren,
“married and very happy and contented,” isn't that their business?
Fantasies work for some people in one way; they work
for others in a different one. If yours works for you, isn't that all
that really matters?
My husband and I have just finished reading My Secret
Garden, and we both enjoyed it so much that I feel it is only
fair that I write to tell you about our favorite fantasy.
I say “our” because this was originally my husband's fantasy.
But he has told it to me so many times, and he is so excited
by the idea (and has made me so excited by it), that it has
become my favorite fantasy as well.
If you are interested in background; my husband is a virile,
horny fifty-six years of age. He is a college graduate with a
post-graduate degree in business administration. I am an eager
and receptive forty-eight, and a graduate of commercial college.
We have had a wonderfully happy and successful marriage
for twenty-five years. We have two fine sons, one of
whom is in his first year of post-graduate work, and the other
in his third year of undergraduate study. My husband has said
many times that I am as close as God ever came to making a
perfect woman, and as gorgeous a piece of ass as he's ever
seen. And I think he is the most wonderful, kind, thoughtful,
considerate, and lusty man any woman could ever hope to have
for her own. We both agree that our delightfully happy sex life
is a grime ingredient of our wonderfully successful marriage.
My husband's (and mine) most exciting fantasy is to have
another man join us in our sexual recreation. Every time we see
an attractive, virile-looking man, we speculate as to whether he
might be the one we are searching for.
In our fantasy, my imaginary lover lies on his back (we are
all three naked, of course) while I kneel astride his head so he
can eat my pussy to get it ready for his cock. Meanwhile, my
husband lies between my lover's legs and sucks his cock to get
it ready for my pussy.
When I am warm and wet and my lover is hot and hard, I
move down and kneel astride his hips. With one hand, my husband
opens my pussy lips and with the other, he guides my
lover's cock into me. Then he lays between my lover's legs and
watches as I slide my streaming pussy up and down the full
length of that hard throbbing shaft.
Slowly and teasingly, I raise up until my husband can see
my lover's strained, purplish cockhead nestled between the
soft, wet lips of my pussy. Then I slowly sink down and take
the full length of that hard, hot shaft into me right up to the
After every ten or twelve strokes, I lift completely off my
lover's prick so my husband can take it in his mouth. He says
the idea of tasting my pussy juice on another man's cock just
drives him wild.
We keep up this slow, teasing stroking of his straining shaft
by my pussy, alternating with sucking by my husband, until
my poor imaginary lover can stand it no longer. Lying between
his legs, my husband holds my lover's balls while he explodes
and his bursting cock squirts a torrent of thick, rich, hot cream
into the depths of my hungry cunt. I continue to stroke his cock
with my pussy until I have sucked him dry of the last drops of
his cream, and his cock shrivels and drops out of me. Immediately,
I roll over on my back beside him and spread my legs
wide to receive my ravenous husband. In one bound, he is between
my eager thighs, and one thrust buries his lovely, hard
cock in me right up to the balls.
He is excited beyond description to feel how slick and slippery
I am from the tremendous load of sperm that another
man's cock has just pumped into my cunt. He says nothing is
as exciting as to be able to feel another man's cream in my cunt
while he fucks me.
He is too excited to last very long while we act out this fantasy,
and it is never more than a minute or two before I feel his
beloved cock jumping and jerking in my cunt as his hot sperm
gushes into my belly in a flood of molten fire. In my own fantasy,
I feel my husband's sperm mixing inside me with my
lover's sperm until my cunt overflows, and I feel their mingled
cream running down the crack of my ass to puddle warmly and
soothingly beneath me. At that point, I join my husband in a
gut-twisting orgasm that leaves us both too exhausted to move.
Until ten or fifteen minutes, that is. Then we're ready for No. 2.
Someday we hope to find a real life lover who will be interested
in joining us, so that we can act out in actuality our favorite
fantasy of having another man put his cock in me and cream
my cunt before my husband fucks me.
P.S. I knew my husband would enjoy reading this (I had
told him I intended to write you), so after I had finished typing
it, I went up to the bedroom, took off my bra and panties, and
came down to the living room dressed in just a skirt and
As he read, I saw that delightful bulge beginning to rise in
his pants. I hurried to kneel between his legs, pulled down his
zipper, took out his beautiful cock, and lovingly sucked it up to
its full, seven-and-one-half-inch towering height of stiff male
meat. I was careful not to bring him off in my mouth, because I
wanted to share with him the delight of once again acting out
our favorite fantasy.
When he had finished reading my letter, I looked up at him
and asked in my most pleading, little-girl voice, “Can we pretend
my fantasy lover has just skewered me on his prick and
emptied his balls into my belly, and my cunt is dripping wet
with his hot, slippery sperm? I want to get fucked.”
And I did, most satisfactorily. With his hands trembling in
his excitement and eagerness, my husband stripped off my
blouse and skirt, laid me down on the floor, dropped his pants,
and fell to his knees between my wide spread thighs. I took his
magnificent stiff, throbbing cock in my hand, guided it lovingly
into my ravenous cunt, and moaned in ecstasy as he buried it in
me up to the balls, and frantically fucked me into a glorious
orgasm. Right in the middle of the living-room floor.
If every married couple found in their sexual relations the
joy and delight that my husband and I have shared for twentyfive
years, divorce would be as dead as the dinosaurs. In opening
the door to a frank discussion of the subject of sexual fantasies,
which add so much spice to the sexual-act itself, you
have contributed immeasurably toward that end, and we think
you have richly earned the appreciation and congratulations of
everybody who has the intelligence to read your book and the
courage to act out and enjoy her own fantasies.
Just finished reading My Secret Garden … fascinating! Of
course, when I saw your address, I just couldn't resist writing. I
am twenty-six and have been married for eight years. My husband
is from India. I first started fantasizing at his request,
after we were married about five years. It really livened things
up. He enjoys it a great deal when I swear during the sex act –
I don't normally at other times. Using very filthy language, I
describe various situations he would probably enjoy seeing me
One is that I am a prostitute, and I am working for him. He
is able to see all my actions from behind a two-way mirror. I
proceed to suck a customer and kiss his balls, and it all really
drives him crazy. Then he fucks me, or if I am sucking him, he
squirts his semen all over my face.
Another is that I am being fucked by two guys while my
husband is watching. One is shoving his cock down my throat,
and the other is sucking my cunt. My breasts are also being
massaged. I can't move because of the size of the cock going
down my throat. The two guys agree to come at the same time,
so simultaneously, one goes off in my cunt, and the other in my
mouth, which I proceed to suck and swallow in great gulps.
Another fantasy is that of being gang ****d by a motorcycle
gang or of being initiated into the gang. When I am initiated,
one guy must screw me, and I must go down on each one of
them. Also the girls must go down on me until I come with
each one. In the **** scene, I am tied down to the bed and cannot
move. One guy f***es his cock in my mouth, another one
performs cunnilingus on me, and he sucks my tits. At the same
time, another bastard sticks a dildo or vibrator up my asshole.
Again I cannot scream or fight. Gradually, I become ecstatic,
and the guy doing the lick job puts his cock in me and blows
off. This is repeated with members of the gang, and of course, I
am so hot I am going crazy.
Another fantasy is one of fucking with a friend or a guy at
work. My husband wants to hear all the details of every situation.
Another is one of me and another girl pleasing my husband,
and also him pleasing me. I think of him licking me out
while he fucks her and vice versa.
I could go on and on, as I am always making up new and
varied situations (especially after getting new ideas from your
book). I have never done any of these things and have really no
desire to even see them happen in real life … too scared, I
guess … but they make great conversation in bed and make me
wild with my husband, usually bringing him to come at the
climax of the fantasy.
I have just this minute finished reading My Secret Garden,
and am I glad I read it! Now I know that I'm not the only one
who makes up stories. I'm writing this to tell you some of my
own fantasies.
I'm nineteen, with two c***dren, married, and very happy
and contented. My husband is twenty-four, and we are middleto
upper-middle-class whites. My oldest c***d is a boy, the
other a girl.
One fantasy I've just recently realized is about my husband's
car. I knew there had to be a reason why liked to drive it so
much. It's a '67 Camaro, very fast and sexy. It's a manual
transmission, which is the object of my fantasy. The gearshift
is between the bucket seats on the console and has a big
smooth knob which I love to caress as I'm driving. The motions
necessary to shift gears plus the speed is fantastic. I'm ready for
sex in no time.
Another one is from an actual incident. My husband took
me to a party at a friend's mobile home. This was a year before
we married and a month after we met. Besides him, I only
knew Dave, his best friend, and Celeste, his s****r. Dave and
Celeste have slept together on occasion. My husband got involved
in a game of Euchre and the three of us were left to talk.
I drank quite a bit of beer, and after a while, Dave took us in
the bedroom, where the coats were, to show us a chain he had
made from beer pop-top rings. I noticed some paperbacks
(pornography) on the dresser and opened one at random and
began to read aloud. We sat on the bed, and when I came to a
part that said, “and she kissed his ear following with her
tongue and warm, moist breath,” I leaned over to Dave and did
what I just read. So did Celeste on his other ear. He alternated
kissing us both, and that is where it ended, as we were interrupted
with some fat jerk yelling, “Hey, they're having an orgy
in here!” I like to fantasize what might have happened if we
hadn't been interrupted … Dave making slow, exciting love to
both of us. Me and Celeste getting it on. We both are large
busted and have long dark hair and wear glasses with similar
shaped frames. Practically twins …
One fantasy I have quite often is about myself, my husband,
and another girl. He would bring her home one night, and I'd
be there in a flowing gown. I'd kiss and embrace them both,
and we'd head right for the bedroom. After much kissing, exploring,
and foreplay, Paul would make love to her, after which
I'd go down on her to lick up both of their juices and make her
come a second time. Paul would be kissing and fondling both
of our breasts. Then he would make love to me, after which
she'd go down on me, and we would just make love until
dawn, take a shower together and sl**p all day exhausted. I
usually come during the part where I go down on her.
I feel I should tell you that my only experiences have been
with men. I never thought of another girl until my husband
brought it up during sex one time after we were married. Now I
realize that girls do turn me on, and I'd like to be able to have
the last fantasy acted out. I guess I'm what they call a bisexual.
Paul likes me to talk about this during sex, but not any other
time. I also love to have these fantasies during sex. However,
he gives me strange looks when I comment on a girl's body and
then start giving out horny signals when we're out somewhere.
Oh, well, he'll get used to it. Girl's bodies turn him on, too.
Well, thanks so much for doing this. I can't tell anyone else,
not even Paul, except the last one. But only during sex.
I guess when you say “anonymity guaranteed,” you anticipate
your letters will come with names on them, but I honestly
would not be able to write you if I had to sign this. I hope that
doesn't make my “material” less useful.
I have had other, rather mundane fantasies, but through the
years (I am twenty-three), they have fallen by the wayside because
of the dominance of the one I will describe in this letter.
One of the odd things (or is it?) about my fantasy is that it is
interchangeable among males, that is the identity of the particular
man who plays the leading role in it at any given time is
not important. (I am sure you know what “important” means in
a fantasy!) Of course, I vary the men to avoid monotony.
The key to the beginning of the fantasy is when the man (or
boy!) put his hands on my shoulders. There is usually a buildup
to this situation of varying length, but the point when the
fantasy takes on seductive and exciting overtones is when I feel
his hands on my shoulders. All that really happens is that he
f***es me to kneel by putting pressure on my shoulders, and
then I kiss and suck him down there. He doesn't have to tell me
what to do, or even push my head; all communication of what
he wants is through that pressure on my shoulders. At the moment
of climax for me, the pressure becomes very intense and
objectively painful, although not discomforting. I guess since I
control my fantasy, I increase the pressure, keeping it in synchronization
with my body's excitement. In reality, I have even
taken to sort of hunching my shoulders at climax. Luckily, this
doesn't seem to bother my partner during intercourse.
I don't know what you can make of this, but I do hope it is
useful to you.
 Many of the women in this book have talked about fantasy
during oral sex. Monica writes that she and her fiancé
have sex “quite often seven or eight times a night.” But while
she describes him as sexually large and powerful, the way he
“always brings me to a glorious climax,” she writes, is “usually
through cunnilingus.”
I think this is one of the more obvious times for fantasy to
fill the minds of women like Monica, because in a sense you
are passive, the recipient, being done to. Your body is not being
covered by and entwined with another body … your eyes
are not looking into a beloved face but into space. For many
women, fantasy fills in what might otherwise be a kind of loneliness
during oral sex.
This kind of lovemaking often comes as a later, liberated
step for many women. They have resisted oral sex earlier in
their sexual lives, before they grew confident enough to become
experimental. Perhaps they felt that it was “wrong,” or that
there is something malodorous or unattractive about them248
selves “down there.” What a sexual fantasy can do for women
with these negative ideas is drive them out, replacing them
with erotic emotions that enable women to enjoy themselves to
the full.
Other women have come to oral sex from the opposite extreme
– they enjoy it so much that they never want it to end,
and through certain sexual fantasies, they have found they can
prolong their period of foreplay excitement before reaching
climax. This enhancement role of fantasy, either during oral
sex or intercourse itself, is a valuable idea for those women
who experience no trouble in reaching or enjoying their orgasm;
knowing they will arrive in due time, they like to imagine
a mental scenario that helps them enjoy the trip even more.
They pace their excitement in their minds, letting their motor
slowly build up speed until it gloriously runs away with them
toward an ever more heightened orgasm. Needless to say, these
are the women who have long got past the idea that thinking of
a man different from the one in their arms smacks of mental
adultery or betrayal; they have recognized that their own excitement,
no matter how it is achieved, is one of the greatest
sexual gifts they can bring a man.
I have always maintained that women are experts at fantasy.
It is a natural gift that most of us have denied ourselves simply
because, in a man's world, it was “known” that men … and
therefore everybody … did not fantasize during sex. Today, we
hear more and more reports of the growing rate of impotency
among men. If women can in time learn to accept their gift for
fantasy, can we not also teach this form of erotic excitement to
our men – probably now at the very time when they need it
most? If it works for us, why shouldn't it work for them?
Sexual fantasy during sex is not merely a matter of need. It
is a matter of more complete sex. Would you consider a part of
your body untouchable during sex? Why then rule out your
mind – which is what got you into bed with that specific other
person in the first place? A man will not propose sex to a
woman unless he is already aroused; it is his fantasy of being
in bed with her that has brought him to the point of beginning
the seduction. Having been brought to sex by his fantasy, why
leave out your own? 
I've just finished My Secret Garden, and all I can say is
“what a trip.” I just couldn't put it down; it had me creaming
from cover to cover.
I don't think I ever realized just how big a part of my sex life
fantasy actually was. I have had a fairly active sex life since the
time I was sixteen. I am twenty now and about to be married.
My first sexual experience was with my future husband in the
back seat of a '62 Chevy. Needless to say, it wasn't the fireworks
I expected. But it has been getting better all the time.
My fiancé is hung quite well, as his full erection measures a
good – and I mean good – eight inches. We have sex quite
often when we are together very often seven or eight times a
night. His imagination is limitless, and he always brings me to
a glorious climax, usually through cunnilingus. Although I
have been dating him for five years, my sex life has been punctuated
with a few, very interesting affairs. It is these affairs that
I find myself fantasizing about most – and always during intercourse
with my fiancé.
The most remarkable lover in my life came along when I
was s*******n years old. He was a phys. ed. teacher, and we
worked together during the summer. I just came every time I
thought of his godlike black body. Just looking at him made
me wet and achy for his cock. I had never experienced such a
feeling before, and I was completely overwhelmed. When the
occasion finally came when we could be alone, I was so shaky
my knees gave out. He was so gentle and satisfying with his
foreplay, I reached several climaxes while he manipulated my
clitoris. And when he entered me from the rear – I just saw
stars. He filled me up so much I thought I would burst from
sheer ecstasy. As we weren't using any birth-control, he withdrew,
and I sucked him off. When we reached our final climax,
he came with such a groan, heightened my pleasure immensely.
I got such a mouthful of his wonderful come that I
felt it was Christmas. This was the only time we ever fucked,
and I feel it's better that way.
I think of this glorious black man often when I am going
down on my fiancé’s beautiful rod, as it heightens the pleasure
I am able to give him. I merely think of that black cock filling
my mouth, and we come off in great fervor.
Please excuse the sloppiness of this letter, as I am masturbating
and cannot take the time to recopy it as I fear exposure.
Thanks for the wonderful book.
I would like to compliment you on your book entitled My
Secret Garden. It is about time that men are no longer protected!
Women think about sex also!
I was pleased to realize that women had fantasies such as
mine. I never thought myself to be strange, but I wondered
what other women thought about. I found it very interesting
and sometimes exciting. I have two fantasies that I would like
to share with you. I hope that after reading them you will enjoy
them as much as I do.
I imagine that I am in jail, and I am put in a cell of lesbians.
The “queen” lesbian decides I need training in female love, so
she takes me on as her private student. This all takes place in
her cell, with the other women watching. She tells me to undress,
and she admires my body. She tells me how beautiful it
is, and what she is going to do to me. She then undresses herself
and tells me to suck her tits. I am apprehensive at first, but
I catch on quickly. After I suck her tits, I work my way down
to her cunt. The fantasy is so strong, that I can even smell her
odor. I suck her clit and finger her ass, and she explodes in my
mouth. Then it is my turn. She works on my clit, and as I am
about to come, I beg to get fucked. At the right moment, she
shoves this dildo in my cunt, at which point I actually do come.
I change the fantasy around, but this is the basic plot.
I have had quite a few lovers in my life, but two stand out.
Robert and Henry. They were built like brick shit houses, and
they play a large part in my fantasies. My current lover is a
novice, so he has a long way to come. (No pun intended.) I
can't wait for the day when I tell him about my fantasies. I'm
dying to tell him now, but he couldn't accept it. While I am
making love to him, if I am on top, I have the following fantasy.
I imagine that I am impaled on Henry's cock, and Robert is
easing his cock in my asshole. When I am completely filled in
and starting to move, a faceless woman walks in. She fondles
my tits and rubs my clitty. At this point, I am jumping around,
almost going out of my head. I just concentrate on what they
are doing to me, and I have one of my strongest orgasms. Then,
of course, I come back into reality, and it's funny. My real lover
thinks that he sent me into outer space, while I know for fact, it
was my imaginary three. Oh, well.
Thank you for letting me express myself.
I'm sending you two of my many sexual fantasies. I am
twenty-one and am black. I went to various religious schools
and am a college graduate. I moved to California in 1972, and
now live there with my fiancé, a gorgeous blond with green
eyes and a fantastic body. I was prompted to send you my fantasies
after reading your book. Here goes.
Fantasy 1: I fantasize that this really great-looking guy (he's
white) k**naps two high school girls. One is black, and one is
white. The black girl is very pretty. She has small breasts and a
neat slim figure. She's rather innocent and a virgin. The white
girl is a pretty blonde with big breasts and an overall voluptuous
figure. The man tells them that he wants to make love to
the pretty black girl and that if she doesn't consent he'll have
her friend subjected to a very brutal sexual routine. The girl
refuses. He calls in five men and have them strip the white girl.
He turns to the black girl and tells her that he's going to let the
men have her to do with as they please if she doesn't consent.
The white girl tells her friend never to consent. The man nods
his head and the men begin. They put her on the floor and
spread her legs wide, and a man holds each leg apart. Her
hands are tied to posts in the floor. A man touches her cunt and
starts to play with it. Another sucks her nipples. They start to
finger her then one after the other, they fuck her. After the last
one gets off her, the man who had k**napped her snaps his
fingers and in comes a huge black man. He comes to her and
puts a pillow under her ass and looks at her, laughing. His
cock is huge – at least nine inches, and he tells her he's going
to fuck her until she sees stars. She starts to breathe heavy, and
he kisses her mouth and then her breasts. He sucks her nipples
and rubs them with his fingers. He pinches them until she
starts to moan. He puts two fingers in her cunt, and the girl
starts trying to fuck his fingers. He puts his mouth to her open
pussy lips and kisses the lips. He sucks them and her clit. Then
he thrusts his tongue in her wet pussy. She's wild with passion.
Then he moves between her legs and guides his erect and
throbbing cock into her hot and wet cunt. She's so wet, he almost
slips out. He thrusts a couple of times, and she comes
one, two, three times. He hasn't come, but he takes his wet
penis out of her hungry pussy, and she starts crying for him to
fuck her more. He laughs, and the men move to her and wash
her out and give her a douche. The black man tells them to
untie her. They comply, and she rises to embrace him, but the
men put her on her stomach and spread her legs wide apart.
The black man starts to finger her pussy, and she starts moaning
and getting wet. The black man fucks her pussy, and she
cries out. He spanks her ass and spreads her ass and starts fingering
her asshole. She begs him to fuck her in the ass, and he
laughs. He moves down and starts licking and sucking her wet
snatch. She has another big orgasm. The man who k**napped
the two girls now tells the blonde she belongs to the black
man. She kisses his feet in gratitude. The k**napper now looks
at the pretty black girl and asks her if she will forgive him, that
he loves her and would be forever grateful if she would stay
with him. She agrees. The End.
The next fantasy I was too embarrassed to tell my fiancé. He
knows I like gay guys, but he doesn't know that they are to me
the focal point of the majority of my sexual fantasies. Sometimes
when we're making love, I think it would be great if he
would have a scene with another great-looking guy, and I
could watch and touch them.
Fantasy 2: This fantastic-looking k**, about s*******n, is
walking on the beach looking for a spot to sunbathe in the
nude. He's wearing a short kimono and comes to a stretch of
beach where he spreads his towel down and removes his kimono
and, lying down, falls off in a light sl**p. Two guys are
coming down the beach and spot him. The k** doesn't hear
them coming, but feeling their presence, he opens his eyes, and
they're standing over him running their eyes up and down his
body. He's quite embarrassed, but the guys put him at ease and
introduce themselves. They ask him if he'd like them to put
suntan oil on his body. He says okay. They take some oil and,
rubbing it into their hands, tell him he's got a great body. They
start, slowly and sensually, and when they reach his stomach,
he becomes erect. They very gently move him on his side. One
of the guys moves to his erect cock and takes it in his mouth.
The other first puts his finger in his ass, and the boy starts to
writhe. He puts oil on his cock and enters him. The boy starts
to protest that he's hurting him, but the man enters him slowly
and starts to fuck him, pumping hard and fast. The boy meets
his thrusts and comes in the other guy's mouth as the guy in
back shoots his hot juice in his tight asshole.
My most delicious fantasy is centered around a motorcycle
ride. I have come to an old boyfriend's house for a rare long
weekend together – since we now live so far apart. Although
he doesn't own his own motorcycle, he has borrowed one from
a friend for us to take on a romantic cheese-and-wine picnic.
We rise early Sunday morning to avoid any traffic, and the fall
air is crisp and clear as we roar away, the wind blowing my
hair onto my neck. I have driven the bike briefly the day before,
and when we reach the lush countryside, I yell over the roar
that I want to take the controls. Because the cycle is not his and
is such a powerful machine, I really have to coax him (as only I
know how!) until he finally relents.
When we switch positions, we both decide to remove our
denim jackets. I feel the smooth rush of power available to me
whenever I ask for it, and as we reach the crest of a short hill, I
accelerate just enough to raise both of us slightly from the seat.
As my tight pants stretch across my crotch, I become aware of
the engine's throbbing heat against it, as if I were riding a huge
flying cock.
Quickly, my neck flushes, and I realize how my nipples are
erect and aching. The pulsating warmth has crept over me until
it is released in a sweltering burst.
Slowing slightly, I deftly reach back my hand and guide his
to cup my breast. Quickly, his free hand undoes my bra, and
his warm palms caress me. As I bend back to hear what he
says, he tongues my ear so that I swerve the bike slightly. Then
he takes the controls and drives the machine through a small
culvert and into a secluded pine forest where the sun. sifts
through the swaying branches.
Before he can get to me, I undo his pants and kiss his ferocious
cock on all sides, on top, before sucking it into my
mouth. He falls back onto the pine needles with a groan as I
slip his warm meat into my mouth and then completely encircle
it with my tongue, which I love to do. We undress one another
completely as my mouth continues to play with his dick.
Tenderly, he pushes me onto my back as he goes down on
my cunt hairs, already wet. I stare up passion d***k at the treetopped
sky until our frenzy f***es me to shut my eyes. He
tongue-teases me all over my body until our mouths meet, and
then slowly, ever so slowly, he puts his fire up my cunt. It
seems to continue going in forever deeper, deeper. I move side
to side as he thrusts away, matching his rhythm. Suddenly, his
juices go straight in me, just as I am washed away in my ocean
of orgasm. At this point, my real orgasm with my real lover
coincides with my fantasy orgasm!
 One of the great misconceptions about sexual fantasy is
that they are suppressed wishes. The first shock is to accept the
fact that not only do women have feelings of lust, too, but that
they like to use their imagination to heighten these erotic desires.
But once past the notion that all women are “ladies” –
meaning sexless – there is a great, fuzzy-minded leap forward:
if women enjoy thinking about these bizarre sexual events, it
must mean that they really want to do them!
The notion that a woman may be thinking these highly
charged thoughts puts many a man off. Anxious ideas of competition
are aroused; how can he match the prodigious feats of
the athletic Adonis in her mind? It is much easier for him to
feel she doesn't merely get a kick out of thinking about these
things. He decides she really wants to do them, probably has
done them in the past with other men. In this way, she has
been safely put into the category of “freaky,” “strange,” and
“different.” There's nothing wrong with his sexuality; she's the
crazy one.
“What does your husband think about your wanting to be
fucked by two strange guys at a football game?” men leer at
me, having read the opening pages of My Secret Garden, in
which I talk about one of my former favorite fantasies – which
took place in a football stadium. Another guy nudges me:
“Hey, I have two tickets for the Baltimore Colts' game. How
about it?”
When you put your name to a book of sexual fantasies, you
automatically come to be thought of as a woman who wants to
act them all out. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I have
no more real desire to be fucked at a Baltimore Colt-Minnesota
Viking football game by two unknown men, than I do to be
fucked by anyone, anywhere, than in the usual place(s) my
husband and I do it. If my fantasies sound outrageous to many
people, it is probably because of the conventional manner in
which I was brought up. Had I been raised in a whorehouse,
perhaps the images that would arouse me to tremendous passion
would be scenes of a handsome knight in white armor –
looking a bit like Robert Redford – who would make love to
me in a house designed by Bride magazine, while an organ
played “Oh, Promise Me.”
My c***dhood and adolescence were studded thick and fast
with sexual rules very much like yours. It left me with an
imagination that gets off on the wildest, most forbidden sexual
imagery – all of which has little to do with how I live in the
real world. I relish the totally unacceptable in my fantasies. I
love my life the way it is. If I try to understand without judging
the extraordinary diversity of sexual experience available to us,
it does not necessarily mean I contain within myself all the
points of view put forward by the several hundred women
whose fantasies I published. And yet I have appeared on various
radio and television talk shows where the hosts and other
guests have actually become angry when I wouldn't bend the
entire meaning of my understanding of sexual fantasy to conform
with their ideas: namely, that sexual freedom, greater
sexual pleasure, must mean having all our sexual dreams come
true. “What, you only think these ideas and don't act them out?
Isn't that hypocritical, copping out?”
My answer is, No. As you will see from this chapter, there
are many people who have found sheer bliss in joining with
their partners in acting out their sexual fantasies as if they were
dramatic scripts for two (or more) players. That's terrific, for
them. But most of the women who have written me are far
from wanting to put their fantasies into fact. They go out of
their way to say it to me in so many words: “I love to imagine
these things but I have no desire to really do them.” If that is
where they draw the line, they have every right to. They are no
less “daring” or adventurous than the people who act out their
fantasies. Just different.
Probably the greatest sexual and social gain we could reach
will be when we become liberated enough to allow each one
his or her own sexual inclination. We are still so insecure in
our own sexual tastes and identities that people with other
ideas make us anxious. We hold to whatever norm has been
okayed in the latest book and is most widely held to be right by
our neighbors. Anyone who dares to operate an inch outside of
this accepted area is ostracized as odd, perverted.
The people in this chapter fall outside neat categories. Not
only do they have sexual desires that other people never talk
about, but they have mentioned them to their lovers and/or
husbands. They've even gone wilder than that: they've proceeded
to act out what was on their minds. Whether or not they
found pleasure in following their erotic scenarios is their business;
what is more important to our discussion is understanding
that they felt free enough, accepting enough with each
other, to acknowledge that's where their desires lay, and to act
upon them.
I think that for every person who has written to me about the
joys of performing their sexual dreams in reality, there have
been three or four who knew in advance that it wouldn't work,
or who tried it and were disappointed. Whether or not you decide
to try yours out in reality is up to you, but I would argue to
the death with anyone who says that unless you do you are only
going halfway. What turns them on is their business; what
turns you on is yours. The U.S. Commission's Report on Obscenity
and Pornography showed that both men and women
responded with far more excitement when they were asked to
imagine something erotic than when they actually saw it.
But if the majority of people I have heard from say it is more
exciting (or less threatening) to keep their sexual fantasies only
in the mind, it is still not the whole sexual truth: to be honest
about sex, you can't merely count heads and pronounce judgment
democratically. Individual differences must be considered
and accepted to be as valid as the tastes of the majority. The
people who have put their erotic fantasies into practice are neither
braver than you or I nor more or less daring or selfdestructive.
They have simply found that a whole new dimension
is added to their lives when they act out their fantasies.
They have found their own path to a more vivid life. Who's
against that?
If you are truly liberated, you must be able to accept that
someone who does or thinks something abhorrent to you is not
a sexual threat. You have to get over thinking that just because
someone else does something that you must do it too (this u*********s
feeling that someone else's action is a dare to us to
do it, drives us to put up a wall of dislike and disgust between
them and us). Next, accept the reality that there are sexual
events going on, fantasies being acted out, that you would
never imagine. Some of the nicest people you know may be
doing the most extraordinary things behind their closed doors.
“It may be just because two people get off on the most outrageous,
antisocial conduct when they are alone together in their
bedroom,” a psychiatrist friend said to me recently, “that they
very often can be the nicest, easiest, and most socially delightful
people to be around at other times. They have expressed all
their negative drives with each other, and so are ready to turn
their nicest face forward when they meet you.” This is no more
dishonest than to say you're not hungry after you've eaten.
In psychoanalytic parlance, there is a technical phrase
called, “acting out,” and while I have used this phrase myself
often enough in this chapter, I wish to be clear that I am using
it in the common, everyday sense, and not technically, as the
doctors do. To them, acting out means that a person performs
certain actions, usually self-destructive or self-defeating, for
reasons she does not understand. Because the basic motivation
is repressed to a level below consciousness, the actress is not
aware that her behavior is an expression of an u*********s
fantasy, nor does she have a significant area of choice in the
matter: her neurosis compels her through a hidden logic of its
own, to find only married, unavailable men attractive, or to
behave in such a manner that she is always the victim, getting
fired, being taken advantage of, etc., etc.
The women in this chapter, on the contrary, are very much
aware of their fantasies: the choice of bringing them into reality
or not is entirely their own. Therefore, even though we may call
these actions acting out, it should be remembered that the way
I intend to use the phrase entails very conscious decision.
Above all, while the fantasies they decide to live out may at
times entail a degree of psychic or physical pain, that is not
what they are all about. These women are not about self-defeat
and martyrdom – their true goal in acting out their fantasies is
the greatest possible pleasure. Carolyn writes that acting out
her fantasies brought her so much fulfillment, she has introduced
them to her new lover. “He loves it!” she writes ecstatically.
“It's a totally new space for him to be in … . I don't think
I've been in a constant state of turn-on like this, ever. Can't
wait until he gets back to act out some more of this lovely state
of being.”
“… this lovely state of being.” I like Carolyn's phrase.
Finding our way to it is the essence of life, but there are no
guaranteed roadmaps. It is a place of the spirit, of course, but
lovers have always known that it can be reached by physical,
sexual means. “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom,”
said William Blake.
Carolyn has found her way; other women in this section
have found theirs. 
Okay. Just finished your book and wished with all my being
that I didn't have to wait two weeks to share the incredible
turn-on I feel from reading it. Masturbation at this level is a
“reliever” of sorts, but just doesn't work totally.
Seems to me that what prevents most people from copping
to their fantasies to the other person is your basic all-American
fear of taking a risk. We're all scared of being thought of as
crazies, perverts, or whatever.
I remember the first man who tuned into my fantasies before
I even knew I had them. We were both extremely stoned and
making foreplay. Suddenly, he stopped doing what he was
doing and took a little velvet rope out of his pocket. Without a
word, he began to tie my wrists to the bedposts. I could feel
that within the little red velvet rope there was a thin, steel
chain, so that while the red velvet protected my skin, inside the
velvet rope there was this hard, cruel chain that I could never
break. I have never been so turned on so fast in all my life. At
first, I was afraid that he wasn't going to do what I thought
(wanted) he was going to do. Then I was afraid he wouldn't
complete the whole act to my satisfaction. But he did – taking
more velvet chains from a hard-leather executive-type briefcase
that he always carried with him, but I had never seen him open
before. He slowly tied me in a spread-eagle fashion to the four
bedposts, with my arms pulled up and back of my head, my
legs spread wide apart and held that way by the chains. He
never spoke to me while he did this. He moved like someone in
one of my dreams, knowing instinctively what I seemed to
want, but never asking me if he was right or wrong about how
much I wanted it. He knew, and just proceeded with it, crooning
to himself all the while, never saying a word, just this intent,
bemused, almost gurgling kind of half-humming, halfchuckling.
At the end, I could not move a muscle. I was totally
in his hands, totally open to whatever he wanted to do to me. I
can never remember feeling so incredibly tingly in my whole
life. He didn't even have to come near me to get me aroused.
All the while I was lying there, I could see that he was looking
at me. Really looking. He kept putting his head between my
legs, examining the lips of my cunt, taking the flesh delicately
in his fingers to hold them open so that he could look in more
deeply. But he never went further. As a matter of fact, just
leaving me tied up there and leaving the room as if nothing
unusual was happening at all was an even greater turn-on. The
one feeling I can recall at that moment was one of enormous
relief. All these fantasies I could never cop to having were actually
being realized by me, and by someone who had the incredible
sensitivity to know what I wanted. In this case, he was
the one who had taken the risk, and for that, I'll forever love
him, even though the affair is gone.
My fantasies range along the general line of tie-me-downspreadeagled-
(as long as it doesn't hurt). I adore being victimized in a nonthreatening
way. Even though, so much of this kind of fantasy
does depend on trust of the other person. Trust that he won't
slit you from your guggle to your zatch while you're lying there
stark naked on the bed, unable to move. The possibility of this
happening (remote, one hopes) makes it even more exciting
I am currently dating a man, much older than I, who's a super-
lover. But “straight.” So, for the first time in my life, I took
the risk and turned him on to what turned me on. He loves it!
It's a totally new space for him to be in, and it's k**-in-thecandy-
store time for him (and God knows, for me). I get long
letters from him communicating how excited he is with his
new state of being. Hear, hear!
Thank you a lot. I don't think I've been in a constant state of
turn-on like this ever. Can't wait until he gets back to act out
some more of this lovely state of being. If you ever write Volume
II, I probably won't be able to get off my bed for the next
P.S. I am single and twenty-eight years old.
I read your book, and just couldn't resist a chance to tell
someone. I'm s*******n, and eight months pregnant and single.
I am a very liberated person, sexually and likewise. Sometimes
I wonder if I'm perverted or not; I guess I just love sex and
always have. I've been having sex (intercourse) for two years
now, and have really been the route. I mean I truly feel quite
experienced for my age. My first time in bed was with a fortytwo-
year-old man, or should I say, my girl friend's father.
Maybe it sounds pretty lewd, but to this day just the excitement
of thinking about anyone finding out about us has an unbelievable
effect. We had intercourse several times. One exceptional
time was when I stayed at their house for a small slumber
party, and when he thought everyone was asl**p, he came and
got me, and we fucked away in a reclining chair in the living
room; well, to add to this, his daughter walked through, but to
this day I still wonder how much she really saw. Isn't that a
I also have this fantasy about large penises. I've always enjoyed
very large, filling penises; they seem to excite me the
most. I've had the fantasy about being laid by a horse many
times, since they are so large, but I don't think it would be pos262
sible to live out, but if I had a chance, believe me, I'd jump for
it. The most filling fuck ever.
When I was younger, it was my dog that excited me. This
was when I was a virgin. I have fucked my dog (German shepherd)
many times though. I always wanted a man's penis but
was chicken, so I laid the dog. I would lay him on his back on
the floor and push the sheath of his penis all the way down, so
his penis was just loose, and he would suddenly become so
hard and growing, that the skin couldn't move back up. He
would even start into motion before I was on him. I would
squat over him holding that delicious penis straight up, and
then I'd come down on him, and, man, that dog could go like
hell, sometimes as long as a half an hour, which is long for a
dog. He could come and come … so would I, ummmm…. This
I haven't done since I've had intercourse with men, but just
thinking about it now makes me wish the dog was around, but
someone stole him. I even thought of giving him fellatio, but
I have a friend who I am spiritually very close to. I had had
fantasies of making deep love to her. One night, she wanted me
to meet her lover. She also told me how large he was, which
just heightened my curiosity, but I had no intentions of going to
bed with him, for I would have felt too guilty. We arrived at his
apartment, where there were a few people already there. It was
just a social thing at first, sitting around talking and getting
high. Well, the conversation somehow came to massages, and I
mentioned that I was good at back massages and jointcracking.
This guy said he was too and offered to give me a
back massage. I said sure, 'cause I love them. This went on for
a while, with me lying facedown on the floor with him sitting
on my rear. Next thing I knew, everyone else was too, but they
were all in their underwear; then my clothes were being removed,
and I just let it happen. By this time, I was getting excited
almost to the point of climax, for this guy was sitting on
me in his underwear, and I could feel that bulge growing larger
and ever warmer and harder. He then tells me to turn over, and
he'd give me a front massage, and I thought okay, buddy, I'll
play your game and beat you at it too. As my clothes had been
removed, I was lying breasts up, looking him right in the face
while he sat on my pubic area. He's massaging my stomach
and breasts and sending tingles all through my body as I can
now see the enormous bulge in his shorts. I am then led into
the bedroom and gently laid on the bed while he goes down
between my thighs headfirst to further stimulate me with that
probing tongue going ever deeper. (My girl friend is sitting
beside the bed with that Mother Earth smile, telling me she
was just sharing with me what she had found so fulfilling). I
was on fire wanting him to enter me, but he teased, further
drinking me till I thought I was dry. When he did enter me, I
was so alive and eager just begging for more that I came time
and time again, while he remarked how good I was in bed, and
then it was all over, and we left. This was the most exciting
time I ever had, not just because he was so big and good, but
the thought of this girl actually sharing this with me. I fantasize
about it often now. I loved it. Well, that's enough, my
hand's tired, and this is getting a bit long.
My fiancé and I both read My Secret Garden. We. enjoyed
it immensely. I'd like to give you some background before I tell
my fantasies. I'm nineteen and engaged to be married later this
month. I lost my virginity, at f******n, but never masturbated
or had many fantasies until I met Lewis. He and I share our
fantasies, and there are several that we have acted out or want
to act out.
My most frequent (and Lewis' favorite) is that I am at our
new home, and a girl that I work with comes over. She is very
thin but nicely proportioned. We talk and eventually the conversation
comes to sex (which she and I often talk about in
reality). We end up sitting there masturbating, which leads into
touching each other. We go to the bedroom and touch and kiss.
I imagine that she licks and nibbles my breasts (which are
large) and eats me. Then I eat her and lick her everywhere.
While we are still engrossed, with my mouth against her cunt,
Lewis walks in, sheds his clothing, and joins us until we are all
There are some variations: other girls that we know; same
girl, but her husband walks in too, and there is a quartet, etc.
Lewis and I would really above all like to get into a threesome.
Another fantasy goes something like this: I am at a party
with Lewis. As we are sitting there, I tell him that I forgot to
put on my panties. I am wearing a short dress, but it is not
quite short enough to allow him to see anything. All through
the party, he is going mad by knowing how I look under that
dress. When we get home, I sit down and begin masturbating
in front of him. I lift my skirt periodically so that he can see me
fondling my cunt and flicking my clit. But when he wants to
touch me, I refuse. I do a striptease, again without letting him
touch me. Finally, he becomes so hard and so turned on that he
tears off my clothes and tries to grab me by the cunt. But I
dodge him and make him watch me. I let him lick my fingers;
they are running with my juices, but he is not allowed to touch
me. He goes mad and tells me that if I don't let him touch me I
will be put over his knee. But I still don't give in. He finally
catches me and spanks me. Then he bites my breasts (lightly –
I'm not hard-core S&M), and puts his cock against my lips. For
a moment, I struggle (playfully), and then take his Gorgeous
cock into my mouth as though it would save my life. Then he
goes down on me and eats me until am in sheer ecstasy. Then
he makes me beg for his cock. He teases and tempts me – turning
the tables on me – until I am almost crying for him. Then
he puts his cock against my cunt and ever so slowly goes
deeper. Then he pulls almost all the way out, but just when I
think he's going away entirely, he suddenly thrusts deep into
me, and we fuck and fuck and fuck, and it is glorious!!!!
We often (in reality) bond one another. The free one teases
the bonded one, then touches and kisses and caresses till we
are both frantic with longing. Then the free one unties the other
and we fuck away. My favorite thing to do when Lewis is tied
is to squat above his mouth, then raise again, just before he has
time to lick me. Then, after I masturbate a little, very close to
his face, I come down on his mouth. We are very, very happy
in our sexual life, and we very much enjoy our fantasies.
Thank you for listening.
P.S. Although I am not interested in making it with an a****l
I thought you might be interested in knowing that reading
your chapter called “The Zoo” did turn me on!
 While the women whose fantasies appeared immediately
above found that acting out their sexual fantasies were unalloyed
bliss, this is not always the case. In translating images
from our mind into actual practice, a kind of one-way street
opens before us. If something we imagine turns out to distress
us, we can always shrug it off. “Oh, well – it was only a passing
thought.” But once you have put something into action, you
can no longer dismiss the reality of it, nor forget the memory if
the experience turned out to be unpleasant after all.
The first rule I would suggest if you want to act out one of
your fantasies is to be sure you know your lover well and that
there is a strong bond of affection between you. Above all, it is
important that you have some intuitive feeling that he is doing
it just for the kick of it – as you are – and not to express some
deeper layer of sexual distortion or rage within himself. If there
is a kind of disgust or anger mingled with his excitement – or
if he can only go through with the idea of acting out a fantasy
when high or d***k – look out. There may well be a post-coital
period on his part, not only of sadness, desperation, and regret
but also of real fury. His motives for acting out were ambivalent,
and not totally about fun. He will try to displace some of
his self-contempt upon you.
Rose Ann tells us that she once fell in love “with a rather
sadistic woman-hater.” While he was excited by acting out
spanking fantasies with her, “the more we got into this, the
more I loved him … and the more he lost respect for me.” Fortunately,
as we see in her letter, this did not end in crippling
her self-esteem. Her basic health and self-acceptance seem to
have won out in the end.
What I find interesting about Nessie's approach to acting out
her fantasies of “deference and obedience,” is that while it
turned out that both she and her husband had secretly harbored
these desires, they had never mentioned them to each other –
each partner in the marriage thought only she/he liked these
things. Another example of the deadly silence that rules most
bedrooms, killing our desires by suffocating our favorite
It was only after she had read My Secret Garden and had
encouraged her husband to read it, that Nessie decided that
since other women liked these pleasures, too, she must not be
unique. She found “the nerve to tell him [her husband] about
my special fantasy and asked him to act it out.”
He agreed, and they began by taking one tentative step. He
slapped her. Then they had another talk, in which each one told
the other how they felt about , it. They both liked it, and Nessie
suggested going the next step.
I heartily endorse this experimental, step-by-step approach,
especially the effort to try to talk it all through in advance, so
that neither one develops new or frightening ideas that the
other is not ready for. Once you're into these scenes, the emotions
aroused can go right to the head more fiercely than a rush
of amyl nitrate – limits must be set up front, especially if you're
flirting with the emotions entailed in S&M scenes. What must
be agreed in advance is that either partner has the right to say
stop at any point, and no reason has to be given except that the
pain of the experience has begun to outweigh the pleasure. If
this is understood in advance, the other partner is not so likely
to get her/his feelings hurt, or feel rejected.
“At first,” Nessie writes, after they had agreed to go to the
next step, “I was nervous that the whole thing was going to be
a disappointment, but after he hit me just once, I knew there
was no danger of that. It was fantastic.”
One woman's pain is another woman's heaven.
Lizzy's letter may not strike you at first as a fantasy at all –
until you remember that the entire idea that Lizzy engage in
“lesbian sex” with Ethel was the erotic fancy of Lizzy's husband.
Before her first date with Ethel, he eagerly entered into a
little foreplay with his wife “until I began to lubricate. Then he
said, `Now you're Ethel's,' kissed me and left.” In the end,
Bill's fantasy has been much more completely acted out than
perhaps even he dreamed; it has become what sounds like an
extraordinarily open and joyous way of life for all three people.
An interesting, if minor, note to Lizzy's letter is that while
she tells us how ecstatically happy she is when in bed with
either one of her two beloved partners (and I for one find her
very convincing), she nevertheless remains true to the basic
theme of fantasy: when she is in the arms of one lover, she
closes her eyes and fantasizes that she is with the other. 
Rose Ann
Thank you for your book. How needed it was. I'm glad to
have the opportunity to give you some of my experiences. I
hope they're interesting.
I'm twenty-three, single, college grad, working as a secretary,
gong to grad school for psych in the fall. I've had at least
twenty-five sexual relationships with men, half that number
with women. I really like both, although it is easier to be passive
with men, and as you will see from my fantasies, this is
pretty much where it's at for me.
At age four, my six-year-old girl friend and I would play
“Witchdoctor.” This consisted, from what I recall, of her bending
me over a box in my mother's closet, pulling down my
pants, and inserting her finger into my ass. I really used to get
off on this (age four?), and the Witchdoctor theme has persisted
until now (with hundreds of variations, of course), until
now it is almost impossible for me to climax without a form of
this fantasy. Since reading your book, I have discovered that it
works to think of the simple act of fucking, or of a woman (in
whom I may be interested at the moment) eating me. I never
thought these kinds of simple thoughts could turn me on
enough (too normal) to help me come. But thanks to you, my
“fantasy bank” has suddenly doubled in value.
About me: I masturbate all the time. Most every day
(whether I'm having a relationship or not). Lot of times, if I
stay home from work one day or on a Saturday when I don't
feel like going out, I can lie in bed all day and come again and
again and feel like I haven't wasted my day at all. Last night, I
came nine times before going to sl**p. Anyway … let's get into
my fantasy.
The main elements are my passivity at the hands of this doctor
or whoever (it's never a r****t). (Once after going through
customs on the way back from Mexico, and being told by the
customs guy that “We can strip you, you know, if we think
you've got dope on you,” I did a whole new fantasy on being
examined and searched by these sex-hungry customs men and
women. They're never rough, always very calm and methodical,
even when they're making me suck them off.)
In the main fantasy that I've had since c***dhood, a mad
doctor has somehow a*****ed me. I am in his laboratory (he is
in a white lab coat – faceless, of course). He has me strapped
down to an unusual examining table. Sometimes the table
branches out into a “v” at the bottom, so my legs can be securely
strapped wide open to each arm of the “v,” and the doctor
has easy access to my genitals. There are little metal caps
which are placed over my nipples. Wide metal circular bands
which fit around my breasts, which hold them up straight into
the air. Sometimes hot needles are inserted into my nipples (I
have done this myself sometimes and have been very stimulated
if I don't hurt myself too much). I am usually blindfolded
and gagged, or my mouth is propped open. The main apparatus
has, as its base, a huge black ceiling-height metal thing (like
the X-ray business in a dentist's office) …. From this, on the
end of a spring kind of thing, comes the actual device that will
penetrate my genital/anal areas. This latter, when inside me,
will buzz, vibrate, be electrically shocking in some way. The
device for my lower regions is three-pronged. From the center
of it protrudes a phallic thing, shiny metal, smooth, and huge.
This is inserted into my vagina. (By the way, the “doctor” always
uses words that are very clinical: “vagina,” “anus,” etc.,
never “cunt” or “ass.” Sometimes there is an assistant there
whom the doctor, orders about, “Insert the anal device,” “Hold
her down,” “Strap her arms securely,” “Spread her wider,” etc.
Hearing these words is very important. I say nothing, except an
occasional, “Oh, no, please don't.” But the doctor is constantly
talking, if not to his assistant, then to me: “Just relax,” “Hold
still,” “That's good,” “Don't move,” “Just lie still,” etc. He is
always extremely calm and self-possessed, never becoming
excited or anything.) The second “arm” of the device is a
smaller version of the vaginal device, it is for my anus. The
third section looks like a miniature floor waxer. It is a little
round rubber thing (something like a washer for a faucet)
which is on the end of a short metal rod. This is positioned on
my clitoris. It will, when activated, spin 'round and 'round like
a floor waxer, “waxing” my clit to climax.
Although certain things vary, this is basically the one fantasy
to which I've climaxed for like eight years. I also get off on
thinking of being gently, but forcibly bent over a table or something
and being penetrated by a finger or a cock or a vibrator in
my ass. Actually, having hemorrhoids, I can't do anything like
this, unfortunately.
I have had the good fortune to have almost acted out my
doctor fantasy. This doctor is not your typical professional, as
you will see. Coming back from Florida one summer with a
bad case of scabies, I went to this guy on the recommendation
of a friend. Going late in the afternoon (after work), his office
was empty except for me and his nurse, and she was off someplace
far from the examining room. Instead of giving me a
gown or something or calling in the nurse (as I believe doctors
are required to do by law), he just told me to “take down my
pants and bend over the table” (the scabies were on my ass).
Needless to say, I immediately became so aroused I thought I
was going to faint. But all he did was poke around at the scabies
and give me a prescription and a date for a second exam.
Well, by the time the day for the second exam came around, I
was determined (encouraged by his unorthodox methods) to
have something happen. Just what that would be, I wasn't sure,
but I was determined. So, after a repeat of the first performance,
I began my spiel. “Dr. So-and-so, I don't really know
who else to tell this to, or where to turn for help. I'm twentytwo
years old and have never had an orgasm. I don't even know
what it feels like. What should I do?” I went on and on and on
with this oh-so-sincere look and tone of voice. He began his
answer by telling me what to tell my boyfriend to do. I countered
by saying that I had told my boyfriend things, and that
nothing worked. I wouldn't even know what an orgasm was if I
fell over one, etc. etc. That's when he told his nurse to go home
(it was about 6 P.M.), and I knew I had it in the bag. His next
line almost made me laugh out loud with elation. He said,
“Have I given you a pelvic? Maybe there is something wrong
with you physically. Take off your clothes, and get up on the
table.” No gown, nothing. Just me COMPLETELY NUDE
climbing up on the table. I was so excited I didn't know if I
could keep from passing out. Well, the good doctor, surgical
glove well lubricated with surgical goo, went straight, and I
mean straight, for my clit. His “How does that feel? Tell me.
Tell me” bullshit was ruining it, though, and I had to tell him
to shut up. Anyway, I came, but was surprised to find that I
still had to fantasize that I was bound and tied up before I
could make it. Afterward, he wanted to fuck me, but he was
actually an ugly little man, and I very hastily thanked him and
split. Frankly, it was pretty dreamlike. I couldn't believe I had
had the nerve to do it, or that this fantasy had actually come
true. But, also frankly, the fantasy is much more satisfying and
exciting than that experience was.
Another “fantasy-come-true” happened with a rather sadistic
woman-hater that I was falling madly in love with. He got
off first on spanking me. Gradually, we progressed to his tying
me down to the bed and whipping the shit out of me with his
belt till my breasts, thighs, and ass were bruised for days. I
didn't get off on the pain per se, but on the psych of the thing,
especially when he would kiss and caress and pity the wounds
he had just inflicted. The whippings themselves didn't make
me come. I would usually have to masturbate while he was
whipping and fucking me (from behind), but if I did concentrate
on what was actually going on, it helped to get me off.
The mercy trip was the crucial thing here, I think. His loving
those parts of my body that he'd just finished wounding. (Story
of O?) Anyway, the more we got into this, the more I loved
him and felt possessed and owned by him, and the more he lost
respect for me, and there went that relationship. He wound up
calling me a sicky, and telling me how bad I was for him and
all. For a while, this made me feel really sick and perverted,
but I now realize, at least, that it takes two to make a sick rela271
tionship, and besides, what the fuck? How can you say something
that is “you” is sick or normal? If it makes up what is in
totality “you,” it is as unique and unlabelable as is each person
walking around this earth. So, that guy's hang-ups, as far as
I'm concerned, are his own.
When the .movie The Devils came out, a whole new fantasy
world opened to me. I don't know if you're familiar with it. The
sexual-means” type of thing. Vanessa Redgrave, the
nun in question, had to go through the most delicious f***ed
tortures (having her breasts bound with barbed wire, etc.) It
turned me on so I had to leave in the middle to go home and
masturbate. The **** scene from Rosemary's Baby did the
same. At age seven or eight I saw a television flick about these
Martians that landed and were taking over earth by nabbing
the town's most prominent folks and drilling these little computerized
control devices in to the backs of their necks. Watching
that movie, I can remember feeling my cunt throbbing like
the dickens for the first time. Watching this beautiful, utterly
passive woman, her neck bent forward, and this drill beginning
to enter her neck … wow. I remember my mother came in and
wanted to tell me something just as this was happening, and I
threw something at her. I was so wrapped up and throbbing
and angry that she'd disturbed me. Of course, she thought I
was just into the flick. She didn't know why, I'm sure, but she
didn't talk to me for days 'cause of my throwing something at
I usually don't fantasize about women while I'm masturbating
or fucking, except rarely, when I've met a woman I'd really
like to sl**p with and don't know if she's up for it or not. Since
reading your book, however, I've found that I can fantasize
about a (prospective) female lover eating my cunt deliciously.
I'll wind up calling her name and coming like a bitch.
Anyway, best of luck. What you're doing is really dynamite.
I have just finished reading My Secret Garden, and I
thought I would write this as a kind of “thank you.”
I bought your book for myself, and that's why I was quite
surprised when my husband – who never reads anything –
seemed interested in it. It was that that finally gave me the
nerve to tell him about my special fantasy and ask him to act it
Ever since I was a little girl, I have been turned on by the
idea of getting spanked. My parents never did so I don't know
how it happened to appeal to me – but it did. As I got older and
knew more about sex, my horizons broadened a bit, and I enjoyed
the thought of being beaten with a belt.
My whole personality is geared toward male domination – I
hate guys who let women walk all over them. Taking this into
consideration, my husband is the perfect partner for me, the
kind who treats a girl fantastic in return for a little deference
and obedience:
But to get back to the subject, sometimes when we were
fucking, I'd ask him to slap me, and he always would, although
he seemed a little resistant.
The night after we had been reading your book, I got him
started slapping me while he fucked me, and after it was over, I
thought “what the hell,” he knows that other women like weird
things, so I'll ask him. I said, “Do you like hitting me?” and he
said, “Yes.” I asked him if he'd ever thought of trying it with
something else. “Like what?” he asked me, and I said, “Like a
He seemed to like the idea, but we were both a little unsure
how to get started. I suggested we start with a spanking to sort
of warm up. He took me across his knee and slapped my buttocks
about ten times; then we got into a foreplay thing, with
him kissing me very deeply and fingering my cunt.
I had smoked a joint before all this and that, plus the anticipation
of what was going to happen, had me more turned on
than I can ever remember being. He asked me if I was ready,
and when I said I was (was I ever!) he undressed me and told
me to turn over on my stomach.
At first I was nervous that the whole thing would be a disappointment,
but after he hit me just once, I knew there was no
danger of that. It was fantastic! It hurt (although not terribly),
but I wanted it to go on forever: I can't really describe the feeling,
except that I loved feeling helpless, and that he was so
much stronger, more dominant than I was.
We talked about it afterward, and it turned out that he'd always
dug that type of thing too, but was afraid to broach the
subject to me. Thank goodness your book gave me the nerve to
bring it up, or I might never have known.
So I guess that while some fantasies aren't ideal when
turned into reality, this one sure was. And it's all because of
you, really, so thanks a lot.
I have just finished reading My Secret Garden, and found it
to be one of the most interesting books I've read in ages. I
thought I might enjoy sharing my thoughts with you.
I am twenty-three years old, and my husband is twenty-six.
We have been married for six years and have two c***dren.
I was surprised that most of the men you talked with were
so closed-minded about the existence of women's sexual fantasies.
My husband not only admits that they exist but gets very
turned on when I share my fantasies with him. Our sexual relationship
has always been good, but it gets more exciting all the
time, due to our fantasy-sharing.
I suppose my fantasies are typical. My favorite being that I
am seduced by an attractive man; sometimes he is someone we
know; more often, he is a stranger. I later tell my husband all
the details, relating it exactly, word for word, action by action.
Telling my husband what has happened to me is probably the
most exciting part of the fantasy. My husband insists that he
actually wants me to act out this fantasy. He wants to perform
cunnilingus on me (which has always been included in our
lovemaking) while I tell him what went on with this fantasy
man. He wants to hear everything the man does to me, just as I
tell him about it in my fantasy. He says just thinking about it
makes him climax. I admit that I am seriously considering
doing it, but I'm afraid of jeopardizing our relationship. My
husband and I are very close to each other, and this is important
to me. The interesting thing is that my husband is very
jealous and possessive of me, and I'm afraid that if I really did
act out this fantasy, that it might not have the desired effect.
However, he insists that it would not hurt our relationship, but
would add to it, as long as I am completely honest with him.
Another fantasy of ours is making it with a black man.
Yes, my husband would actually like to “go down” on a
black cock with me watching all the action. Even though most
men would not admit to being turned on by another man's
cock, my husband does and is. He actually had an experience
with a black man when he was in the service, and had been
drinking quite a bit. He told me everything that happened, and
it did not repulse me in any way. In fact, it had quite the opposite
effect. It does not make him less of a man in my eyes I
know he is not a true homosexual, as he has proven that
through our relationship. But the thought that he enjoys sex so
much, that he thinks of pleasing men too, makes his sexuality
all the stronger to me. Know what I mean? I really dig his honesty.
Well, I guess I've gone on long enough. I hope that I've been
able to add something useful to your studies.
P.S. My husband has read this letter and has approved my
sending it to you.
I've just finished a wonderful experience – reading Secret
Garden – and am taking advantage of your request to send on
further experiences.
It was great to know that I'm not alone in fantasizing, or in
actually using four-letter words, which I now love. In your
sequel, I hope you will pay more sympathetic attention to lesbian
relationships, which changed my own life.
For background – I am thirty-eight years of age, married fifteen
years to a wonderful man whom I love dearly, and we
have three lovely c***dren. My dear husband paid every possible
attention to me during our marriage, and made every effort
to give me sexual satisfaction. Over the years, he fucked me
constantly, entered me from the rear, went down on me, gave
me hours of foreplay, all to no avail. No matter what he did, I
simply couldn't come. Incidentally, I was a virgin when we
married. He tried being gentle, rough, ****d me in the middle
of the night, and nothing helped. I enjoyed being close to him,
and during any sex, I'd start to lubricate, get soaked, and then
I'd dry up. By the time he'd come in my cunt, I was just waiting
for him to finish.
My husband was frantic to make me come, the darling, but
of course he was enjoying me less and less, as he felt very selfish
coming when I didn't. Then he brought some magazine
featuring male nudes in an effort to arouse me, but they did
nothing for me. When those failed, he brought home some
girlie magazines, the porno types, featuring lesbian sex acts. I
found those exciting, and told him so, so he had me read them,
and then he'd go down on me, or fuck me, and while it was
more exciting, I still couldn't come.
After some weeks of this, my husband told me that his opinion
was that our problem was that what I subconsciously
wanted was sex with a woman, and, as he put it, this might
open the dam. When I objected, he reminded me that our own
sex acts were getting more and more infrequent, and he admitted
to me this was because he preferred to masturbate rather
than subject me to the torture of being aroused and then frustrated.
So I asked where one would find a woman, and he
laughed and said that if I opened my eyes a bit, I'd see that a
certain very dear friend of mine was more than casually interested
in me.
Well, for several weeks after that, I watched her very carefully
each time we had coffee together, or went shopping, etc.,
and little by little, I became convinced that my husband might
just be right. My girl friend, who was also married and several
years younger than I was, certainly displayed more interest
than I had noticed. I noticed, for one thing, that each time we
met, her eyes went over my figure from top to bottom, with
special emphasis in the area of my tits, which are a firm 37.
Now that I'd been alerted, I noticed also that as we'd have coffee
or lunch, her eyes were much more on my chest than on my
face, and I concluded that my husband had read the signs correctly.
Also, I began to look her over, and found her very sexylooking.
I began to fantasize what it would be like to really
make love to her. I practiced, in my mind, and really enjoyed it.
Then, little by little, she introduced the subject of sex, and after
a while lesbian sex, which she said she practiced and loved.
When I asked if this didn't lessen her pleasure with her husband,
she said that, quite to the contrary, it added to her marital
relations. She (let me call her Ethel) told me her husband knew
and fully approved, and had in fact joined her and her girl
friend at times, and that these experiences stimulated both of
them to better and wilder sex. At one point, she told me outright
she was propositioning me, that I was the sexiest-looking
female she'd ever seen, and had always wanted to go to bed
with me. Incidentally, she was a believer in earthy language,
and what she actually said was that she wanted to suck my tits,
go down on me. My husband had never used such language
with me, but I found myself quite excited when she talked
about “fucking, sucking,” etc., and I also enjoyed her references
to tits, cunts, cocks, pricks, asses, etc.
Briefly, my husband continued to encourage me to try sex
with Ethel, with whom I finally made a date to, visit at her
home one morning when her husband would be at work. My
husband, whom I'll call Bill, was delighted for me. In fact,
before he left for work that morning, he subjected me to some
foreplay, ended by going down on me only until I began to
lubricate. Then he said, “Now you're Ethel's,” kissed me and
I showered, dressed, and drove to Ethel's. When I arrived,
she was wearing just a sheer negligee, through which I could
quite plainly see her tits, and the vague outline of her cunt.
When she saw my reaction, she smiled, kissed me on the lips,
her tongue parted my lips and entered my mouth, and she had
my juices flowing again. From here on begins the fantasy
which I indulge in now whenever my husband goes down on
me, fucks me, front or rear, and we have a sixty-nine. When I
am particularly desirous of a long fantasy, Bill will go down on
me for an hour or more so that I can relive my experiences with
Ethel. All these experiences, in the rest of this letter, when we
lived together in fantasy, have really made my real sex life
After a bit, she led me to the bedroom, where she first removed
her negligee. Her naked body did excite me – her tits
were smaller than mine, but beautifully shaped, with sexy nipples
which were erect. Her body was lovely, and what stimulated
me greatly was that her cunt was clean shaven. She was a
beautiful sight, and looking at her, realized how right my husband
had been – I found her extremely desirable.
She came to me, kissed me again, placed my hand can her
tit, which I must admit felt terrific. I never expected a woman
could feel so exciting, which I suppose sounds very naive.
Then she began to undress me, while I continued to fondle her
tits, to my own surprise. When nay bra came off, she exclaimed
over my beautiful tits, caressed them, rubbed the nipples, and
sucked them till they came erect. Last off were my panties,
whereupon she knelt and kissed my cunt. Then she told me
how beautiful I was, that I had the most desirable body in the
world, that she wanted me desperately, etc. Between her talking
and playing with me, she had me going very nicely, you
can be sure. It also served to make me forget that she was female,
and she became just someone else who desired me passionately.
She then laid me down on the bed, laid down beside me,
and subjected me to a very long period of foreplay. She kissed
me from head to toe, turned me over, and did the same to my
backside, turned me back, kissed me with her tongue in my
mouth for a long period, sucked my nipples, lingered at my
thighs, kept telling me how much she wanted me for what
seemed like hours, with me getting more and more aroused by
the second.
Finally, when I felt that any more would be unbearable, I
begged her to get on with whatever she had in mind. With that,
she smiled, turned me to lie across their large bed, my hips at
the edge. Then she placed two pillows under my head, explain278
ing that half the thrill of getting sucked off was to be able to
watch it as well. She then knelt before me, spread my legs,
lifted them until my knees were at my chest, and began the
most incredible experience of my life. Her tongue ranged my
thighs, came up to my cunt, roamed the outer lips, came down
and through my inner cunt, circled the clitoris, came down
again and circled the inner lips, the inner wall, repeated this
innumerable times, came slowly up after I don't know how
long, circled the clitoris, flicked across it, sideways, then up
and down, then sucked it in between her lips, licked it rapidly
now, circled it more rapidly, began to lick me faster and more
demandingly, brought me up several times more, till I thought
I'd go mad. Finally, she decided to make me come, and now
she concentrated on my clitoris, licking it up and down faster
and faster. And then it happened! I had expected that I'd soon
begin to dry up as usual, but seeing Ethel's loving head between
my legs, feeling her magnificent tongue in me, I found
my juices flowing more and more; then suddenly, I felt my
stomach muscles begin to contract violently. Every feeling was
centered in my cunt, my legs went down and closed around
Ethel's head, and as she continued to lick me, I felt as if I were
exploding, and I began to come. My body convulsed, my hips
came up off the bed, and Ethel had all she could do to stay with
me. With my first orgasm, my darling Ethel just sucked in on
my clitoris; in between, she licked it rapidly, and with each
succeeding orgasm she sucked me in, then licked me again,
etc. You must understand that each orgasm was a real convulsion,
each one f***ed a shriek from me, as this was the culmination
of so many years of frustrated sex. According to Ethel, I
had somewhere around twenty orgasms that first time, and I for
one can believe it. After my last orgasm, Ethel kept her tongue
in my cunt, no movement, just holding it comfortingly against
the upper wall and clitoris, ready if any further orgasms occurred.
After some five minutes or so, I did have one of those
delayed spasms, so she merely licked the clitoris very gently till
it was over.
Nancy, she was real good, but so is Bill, and the difference
was in having a woman go down on you, seeing a female head
between your legs. How right Bill and Ethel both were! As
long as I live I will never forget that first climax, and will always
be grateful to Ethel.
After I had rested awhile, lying in Ethel's arms, full of gratitude,
I put my hand to her tit, which again felt wonderful,
kissed her, feeling that I owed her quite a bit, then ran my hand
down to her clean cunt, which fascinated me. I had never even
thought about going down on a woman, had often thought that
the odor or taste must be unpleasant, but with Ethel, it was
different, as I didn't give these things a thought. I was so grateful
I'd have done anything for her. As I proceeded with foreplay,
Ethel said it wasn't necessary for me to reciprocate, that it
would be enough for her to masturbate, and her husband would
give her anything she required. I'm glad to say I was woman
enough to insist, and I followed the type of foreplay she had
used on me, although not so long. When I put a finger in her
cunt, I found her very wet, which excited me to think I could do
this to her. When I got around to using my tongue on her body,
I loved sucking her nipples, her thighs, and, rather to my surprise,
I found that her cunt not only smelled great but tasted
wonderful. It was at that moment that I understood why Bill so
enjoyed going down on me.
As an aside, if my typing is a bit erratic, Nancy, I've been
masturbating through much of it, because the memory is so
intensely exciting that my juices flow like mad when I think
about it, let alone write about it. I've come twice so far, once
with a finger and once with a dildo, so I can now continue.
Well, I ended that first time by sucking her off in her favorite
position – I lay flat on my back, she straddled my head,
lowered herself till I could reach her cunt and clitoris easily,
and she kept her upper lips spread to give me full access. Also,
in this position, she had me feel her tits throughout, rubbing
her nipples, fondling her, etc., and right before she was ready
to come, she had me put one arm around her, and insert a finger
in her ass. She explained that the combination of my finger
with the strain of straddling me, made for a more intense climax,
and judging from the results, she was right. I just loved
sucking her off, and licking her stiff clitoris was out of sight.
When I came before, I was somewhat embarrassed that I had
shrieked with each spasm, and when Ethel came very violently,
I was delighted that she also tended to scream while coming.
When I was through with her, I felt like a million, because my
first time out, I had enjoyed the greatest of all thrills – making
somebody come intensely, most especially a woman, as making
a man come is automatic.
Before we finished that first day, Ethel introduced me to a
female sixty-nine, which I also loved, and we fucked each
other, at the same time; as strange as that may sound. Ethel
had what she called a double dildo, eighteen inches long, with
an imitation head and balls on each end. Before our first sixtynine,
she and I had mutual foreplay for some time. Then when
we were both flowing greatly, she opened a drawer and took
out this giant dildo and explained its use to me, asking if I felt
like trying it. By then I was ready for anything, so I said fine.
So she lay me on my back, inserted about five or six inches in
my cunt, had me turn on my side with one leg raised. Then she
lay opposite me, put her legs between mine and slowly worked
her way into her end of the dildo. With that, she began to
pump, told me to do likewise, and we developed a nice rhythm
as I do when fucking Bill. It was marvelous! The rubber dildo
felt like a man's cock, you could control how much you
wanted, and I could watch Ethel fucking away just as I was. I'd
never thought such a thing possible, but you live and learn.
Anyhow, we spent six or seven hours together that day, and
Ethel made me come I don't know how many times. Before I
left her that day, she'd made a woman out of me, that's for sure.
When I got home that day, I was all female. I should mention
that, before I left Ethel that day, she was very concerned
about my relations with Bill. After she and I had had a great
deal of sex, about an hour before we were due to part, she said
I must be prepared for Bill. So she gave me about an hour of
preliminaries, got me lubricating thoroughly, and then sent me
Well, I told Bill all about it that evening, of course, and excited
him no end. He was delirious at the thought that I had
actually come, and couldn't wait to get to me. While we were at
dinner, he kissed me, felt my tits, put his hand under my dress,
tongued me, and in spite of all the times I had come with Ethel,
he had me flowing again. When I felt his cock, it was hard as
could be, and when he fucked me well before dinner was done,
for the first time in our married life, I came! Then he went
down on me, and I came again. Finally I went down on him,
and believe it or not, while I was sucking his cock, I myself
came once more! All this I owed to Ethel!
Bill insisted that I continue to see Ethel, which I, of course,
was most happy to do, and I've continued to have sex with her
since. I keep Bill fully advised of what goes on between Ethel
and me, which stimulates him no end. When I came home after
my first experience with Ethel, Bill and I had a whole night of
sex – he fucked me, went down on me, we had a sixty-nine. I
must admit that, after Ethel, Bill looked better to me than ever
before, and more important, the first time Bill sucked my cunt,
I came beautifully, and even more significant, when he fucked
.me, I came for him, and this was the greatest gift he could
have received!
Since then, Bill has expanded his thinking on sex. With his
urging, I still see Ethel several times a week, and I religiously
tell Bill everything that goes on between Ethel and me. After
each time I have sex with Ethel, sex with Bill is much more
exciting and satisfying.
Additionally, Bill has now brought me some new appliances,
as I've also learned to masturbate satisfactorily. He
brought me, for instance, a very sophisticated dildo with a rubber
bulb, which one fills with warm soapy liquid. When I jerk
off with it, which is frequent because Bill travels quite a lot, I
use it to fuck myself (it's nine inches long, like Bill), but when
I'm ready to come, I just squeeze the bulb, and the warm soapy
liquid just like Bill's semen squirts into my cunt, so it's pretty
much like having Bill there. More often, though, Ethel is with
me and fucks me with the dildo, or sometimes Bill himself
does it for me. The point is, Nancy, that either Ethel or Bill can
make me come today easily. Bill travels quite a bit, and when
Ethel is not available, he telephones me at night and directs me
in the use of this great dildo.
Ethel made it possible for Bill to make me come almost at
will. Today, he can fuck me and make me come, go down on
me, screw me in the ass, and, very strangely, even when I go
down on him, I can also come. All of this because I'm thinking
of Ethel at all times.,
I must mention that Ethel also introduced me to another
marvelous act. At one point, she inserts a dildo deep in me, had
me across the bed; then she sits beside me, spreads my cunt's
lips, and licks my clitoris while she fucks me with the dildo.
Bill does this also, now – very effective!
While I was with Ethel, she suggested to me that my cunt
would be much more attractive if I would shave it clean. She
said she'd be glad to do the job for me, or Bill could. When I
suggested this to Bill, he was thrilled, and that very same
night, he stripped me, undressed himself, first used a scissors,
then a woman's electric razor, and shaved me clean. When he
saw my naked cunt, he went down on me at once, and my cunt
had the same effect on Ethel. Both said it was the most beautiful
cunt ever, and since then, Bill and Ethel have taken turns
shaving me. After each time, I get sucked off, which is great.
Now, Nancy, I come regularly, with almost anything that's
done to me. Bill fucks me, and I come; he goes down on me,
and I come; he fucks me in the ass, and I come; he puts a dildo
in my cunt and sucks my clitoris, and I come; Ethel goes down
on me, and I come; she fucks me with a dildo, and I come;
with her or Bill I have a sixty-nine and I come; when I masturbate
with a finger or a dildo, I come. (Time out right now for
coming with a dildo in my cunt.)
Whether you use any part of this letter or not, Nancy, it's
been a great pleasure to write it. More than anything, it's great
to be able to use basic language, as men do. Since my experience,
with Ethel, my husband uses appropriate four-letter
words, which thrill me. Where before he used to say, “let's
have intercourse,” he now says, and I answer in kind, “Let's
fuck, dear, or I want to suck your cunt or fuck you with a
dildo.” In reply I tell him, “Fuck me, Bill, screw me in the ass,
suck my cunt, or I want to suck your cock.” Ethel uses the
same type of language, as I do with her, and she'll phone me,
for instance, and say, “ Lizzy, darling, let's get together today
so I can suck you off, fuck you with a dildo, or let's have a fuck
with a double dildo.”
Also since Ethel, I've masturbated almost daily, as I find I'm
much more sexual than I had thought. When I'm in real need,
I'll phone Bill at his office, and he'll instruct me how to masturbate
over the phone. If he's alone, he'll also jerk off while
we're talking. He'll tell me to arouse myself by feeling my tits
and nipples, jerk myself off with a finger, then just how to insert
the dildo, fucking me by phone and always making me
This is the point of it all, Nancy, which is that for some
women such as me what it takes is another woman. For this
reason, I urge that, if you are publishing a sequel, a bit more
attention be paid to lesbian sex, which has saved me from a life
of frustration, and also figures to do the same for many other
women. After every session I have with Ethel, Bill is sexier
than ever. After a day spent with her, Bill spends most of the
night fucking me, going down on me, having sixty-nines, etc.
All through sex with him and Ethel, I just keep coming like
crazy, and if you ask me who's more effective, I couldn't really
say. Now that my curt is clean-shaven, Bill fucks me and goes
down on me more than ever, and he insists that I have sex with
Ethel at least a few times a week. As Bill predicted, the dam is
broken, and I come almost at will. Also, I don't have to tell you
that to be aroused, I don't need the actual experience, just the
fantasy of it will do the trick.
So, Nancy, if you do publish a sequel, please stress lesbian
sex much more, as there must be thousands of women who are
in the position I was. Bill and I were never happier, never had
more sex, and I enjoy both of them completely. Bill fucks and
sucks me off on the average of ten or twelve times per week,
plus at least two days with Ethel. In addition, I masturbate four
or five times per week when Bill is home, twice that when he's
As a postscript, Ethel is now after me to join her and her
husband in a threesome, but I've suggested that she join Bill
and me instead. In a foursome, I suppose it would be expected
that the two men have sex as well, and this is not for Bill, although
Ethel has hinted that her husband might not be averse.
We shall see! I'll keep you advised.
Again, Nancy, it's been a great pleasure to be able to write
frankly. Sex with women and men is wonderful, and I would
like to think that I have helped many other women .make up
their minds.
P.S. I've masturbated three times during this letter, so
whether you use it or not, I've benefited by three great climaxes.
Like I said, just thinking or writing about my past experiences,
my fantasies, turns me on.
 I have chosen the letter that follows to be the last in this
book, because it sums up for me all that is best about women's
sexuality. Joni acts out her own fantasies, and those of her
lover too; she even made a living “for three months” out of one
of them. Her fantasies are as varied and unexpected as some of
the best kinds of sex itself – cheerful, self-accepting, and even
humorous, but filled with women's unending desire to see sex
as a vehicle for a more abundant life. Joni is serious in her
writing, but never heavy, imaginative to the point of approaching
science fiction, but so filled with the erotic juices of life
that her futuristic machines are never more important than her
lusty women and men.
Joni tells me that her letter contains her “own very genuine
fantasy.” The fact that she has put it into skillful story form
does not mean that the emotions are not as real as those in any
other woman's fantasy. All fantasies are “made up.” Joni's are
made up by a writer. That's all. 
Since c***dhood, I've wanted to be a dancer – with a streak
of exhibitionistic sexuality involved. There is something sexually
seductive about performing dances. In earliest puberty (or
before – I can't remember exactly) I daydreamed such oldfashioned
things as being a maiden captured and f***ed to
dance naked for the enjoyment of a sultan or Arabian prince
(who no doubt fell in love with me and married me to make the
fantasy proper and respectable). In adolescence, I admitted to a
secret desire to be a stripper. But to my inhibited and puritanically
raised mind, such an ambition could never be realized,
and so I used to dream of being a movie star who played the
role of a stripper in a film. Talk about inhibitions! This desire
of mine was certainly never mentioned, let alone fulfilled, after
I married a very puritanical husband (he was a lousy lover, and
we were never good friends, either), but, luckily, I met a man
who uninhibited me (we've been living together for almost
seven years now). His own fantasies centered around the element
of the brazen femme fatale – strippers, women who pose
in provocative stages of dress and undress in men's magazines
– so in his presence, hurray! I can live my fantasies and please
both of us! When I told him of my secret desire to be an honest-
to-God stripper he encouraged me.
I put together an “act.” And I performed it to an audience in
a topless bar for over three months. The audiences were impressed
– they grew larger every week. I was as sexy and seductive
as I could possibly be – putting on an act, that is.
Something about patterning it, performing over and over,
makes it grow stale – a job to be done. It was really marvelous
fun, at first, but to keep on creating new acts and dances and
props was distracting to my number one Art, that of writing.
And the old got boring, and not particularly sexy after a while.
I was an actress, performer, creative artist, more than a woman
involved in sexual pleasures. I gave it up, but not before I'd
enjoyed the sensation of inspiring desire in many men, and
pretty well fulfilling – as best as reality can – my secret ambition.
I still love to dance seductively. And I've added a dimension
to sexual fantasies (my own) I never had before.
In my fantasies now, it is the future, and I have transcended
time. Sexual mores have changed. I am a professional exhibitionist-
seductress-prostitute. Every night, I do my job, perform
my art, and fulfill my sexual needs – all at the same time. In an
amphitheater, a large Sex Machine (miracle of science) has
been installed. An audience of more than a hundred men pay a
big admission price to participate. I am the star. I wear gorgeous
clothes – the slinkiest dresses, furs, gloves … the most
delicate, sexiest underwear. I wear something different every
night. I enter the center stage – a sort of glass domed affair
with soft spotlights. The men can watch me from little cubicles
– one for each man, so he can't be distracted by the others.
Electronic waves produce sensations and effects for each man
inside his individual room. The glass wall between us is supposed
to be one-way, so that they can see me but I don't see
them (some are still shy, self-conscious despite the new morality),
but actually, I wear contact lenses that enable me to see
them all very clearly.
Inside the stage, I begin to seduce them. I slink and recline;
dance a little, slowly remove my garments, one by one. I wear
a see-through bra and panties, sit on a low couch, one leg
drawn up. I roll over, move about. I take off the panties and
bra. I dance and move as if I were making love. All the while, I
can see each man in his condition of stimulation. A whole sea
of erected penises (aroused by my actions) encircle me. I can
watch while some of them go into the spasms of orgasm,
ejaculating fountains of semen, while they enjoy the exact sensations
of having entered my body as I move, as I do … and
look so desirable. Of course, the Sex Machine works for me,
too. Unknown to the men, I can choose any one of them I want,
and recreate his exact actions and form in my own body; or I
can push any number of buttons (they are hidden under the
cushion of the couch) and, in effect, be copulating with ten of
them at a time. The sight of me in the midst of orgasm and
multi-orgasm makes all those who haven't yet climaxed, come,
and those who already did, do it again. It's a gigantic orgiastic
vision all around me, while I copulate with over a hundred
The future holds a promise of much sexual fun for me. Perhaps
I am one of the few science-fiction-sexual-fantasists
around. Perhaps it's a good way to escape the mundane and the
residue of Puritanism. The future … or life on another planet.
What if there were a planet where sexuality had NEVER had
an element of forbidden evil? What would it be like? I like to
imagine … . On this planet (Earth), all pleasures but one are
enjoyed without secrecy. We like to eat, and we go to dinner
parties and gourmet restaurants. We dance and sing at social
functions. We perform and watch the arts. Some of us become
gourmets and connoisseurs of various pleasures and arts. What
if we could treat sexual pleasure the same way? No, neither
brothels nor modern swinger's clubs work the way I have in
mind. They lack something – erotic finesse, style… Maybe
what I'm thinking of is impossible, because the best sexual
designs work between two people who are in tune to each
other. It's pretty hard to share and incorporate such personal
intimate needs with those very different from yourself. Or is
that a false concept created out of my time and place? So far it
has been true, but for me in fantasy, one can be a time and
space traveler as well as a designer of everything to suit oneself.
I travel, to a very far distant time. Life-styles have changed
enormously. Sexual needs can be fulfilled in different ways.
One can stay home with a lover … or go out to charming
places. Pleasure Places. A little like a combination of a fine
hotel, nightclub. Lovers can go together, for that matter, to
enjoy the entertainment and stimulants. Or, lacking a lover,
one goes alone. There are many choices – things to suit different
tastes. The decor is always charming, and conducive to
pleasure. There are foyers and hallways that are museums of
beautiful erotic art. Statues, paintings, I have my favorites –
Hercules pleasuring Aphrodite, done in enormous white marble,
every detail marvelously executed and visible. I like the
warm-water, perfumed baths with their fountains and waterfalls
and underwater lights. Of course, whenever there are
dancing girls, I'm one of them (often the star). I can do everything
from a Moulin Rouge can-can to a harem girl's gyrating
belly dance, not to mention a tableau of naked statues come to
life – Venus and Apollo; a nymph and a faun, consummating
their desires in a ballroom that recreates a misty green forest.
Couples can dance, in many ways … costumed; naked; in dim
light making love as they move to waltzes, tangos. There are
rooms where a handsome, naked masseur pleasures me with
massage … his skill matched by his enjoyment of his job.
There is a large room where men and women walk about, exposing
their bodies while they sip champagne. They fondle and
examine each other in the manner of enjoying tasty canapés
before a banquet. This is entertaining to me, because most of
the men have erections – a room filled with erected penises is a
dream room come to life. What fun to see so many shapes and
sizes – to give one a little tweak, another a nice rub … . A certain
type pleases me most. We all have our preferences. Occasionally,
a man will slip one to me … right inside. Then I can
tweak or rub him with other than my hand. We are a parade of
beautiful bodies, engaged in little dancing and fondling movements.
No ugliness here. No pot bellies, pendulous breasts, no
wrinkled skin (cosmetic surgery corrects all those things by
now; I think it was Marlene Dietrich who said, nudity is easy
for the beautiful; difficult for the ugly). If one wants to grab a
quick orgasm, one can, but there's more to come. Sometimes
you just can't help getting carried away. Fulfillment is a delight
at any given moment, titillating those who are not directly involved.
I couldn't help myself for a moment there; he just
popped it in while we were dancing, and we spilled champagne
over my breasts (we got rather active and excited), so I
think I'll go bathing … . The pool is languidly warm; I swim
like a fish after playing in the cooling fountain. Beautiful men
swim by me with erections like fish nosing into the crevices of
my body. One pokes gently at my backside while another
teases my pubes. The silhouettes of our bodies look graceful
with the underwater lights shining. The lights turn rose, then
blue, then green, then gold … then rose again. I spread my legs
for the pleasant sensation of catching fish … my breasts are
being stroked by wet slippery hands. Erections swim at me
from every direction … I think I've caught a good one. He is
strong enough to hold me above water while I squeeze his penis
up inside me. The water froths and bubbles. The water has
a delicious Jacuzzi movement – waves pulsing and lapping,
inside and out. I'm a bit of a glutton, but this is one gluttony
that never makes you fat … Again … just hold it there another
moment. I can hear applause. They applaud me, and I applaud
myself. It's clever to be such a glutton … I could do it again
and again … but then I'm not trying out for the Olympics or
anything. Big deal. I'm just here to enjoy myself.
The invitation comes from a most interesting man – the impresario
of my favorite Pleasure Place. He has a lot of style and
is rather jaded. They say he has a special, room where the most
extraordinary things take place. Rumors are that he's so used to
all this, it takes something quite beyond the ordinary to please
him. He's a bit of a voyeur of course (but that's fun and allowed
Looks a little bit like Humphrey Bogart … George Raft …
Rudolph Valentino … and maybe Alonzo Cludish (he was
twenty-first century, so anyone reading this, twentieth century,
wouldn't know whom I was talking about), Marcello Mastroianni
– of course, Marcello in 8½ would do quite well … .
The impresario this particular fellow … all jaded and Don
Juanish, it is said, has a room where women come, and go out
of their minds with desire. He has a machine, they say, where
twenty-four-hour-orgasms are produced and used to write the
most crashing symphonic music (his son, a composerconductor
of great genius takes credit)… That is, you see, if he
can drive a woman crazy enough in this room of his, the electronic
impulses of her agony-ecstasy are reproduced in musical
form. It's just a rumor, what he can do … but of course it's
scientifically possible.
His invitation has nothing to do with music. It seems, on the
surface, to be purely part of his own lucrative business. (He is
the businessman, his son the genius. Sort of a Godfather thing
… .) What he wants, he says, is that I become a giantess for a
week or two. He can extend the cellular structure of my being
(sexual and otherwise) to as great a degree as he wishes by the
use of a new machine he has purchased. I can be enormous;
mountains for breasts … a vagina like Carlsbad Caverns … .
I don't get it …. What's the point?
Men have never fulfilled their real sexual desires, he explains.
They dream of crawling about like hungry worm-babies
in mountainous, squishy breasts … and then they would like to
go further … be sucked into the soft, deep caverns of the
womb. God knows, it was the best heaven they ever knew … .
We've never been able to give anyone this opportunity before.
The machine I bought for you cost me a billion.
Why me?
I've been watching you … when you come here to enjoy
He watches me with admiring, appreciative eyes. There is
something fascinating about the dark wisdom of jaded, knowing
eyes. I like them better than questioning, worried ones.
Watching me? (Little old me … .)
Yes, and I'm sure you'd really enjoy this, and I would enjoy
your enjoying, and so could hundreds of others. Picture yourself
… an enormous giantess. Your body a universe. Each man
a phallic symbol. You are the sea, and they can swim in you.
You are the moon rising above them. Your tremendous orgasms
shake the earth. People would like to see that … feel the
tremors. Can you imagine?
Something is missing, I say. Who could satisfy me now? A
penis the size of the tip of a used toothpick? And can you picture
how ugly my skin would be? Pores that would look gutted
by the acne of meteorites. You ever see pores under a magnifying
glass? I don't want to be a monster.
That would be a simple thing to correct with the machine.
We can program it to make your skin as smooth as you wish.
You will be entered by a team of scuba divers. Their equipment
is not the clumsy old-fashioned kind that would be irritating
and in the way. Think of it … penis-sized men struggling up
into your depths – as many as would please you. You would be
the first woman in history to experience orgasms by the entry of
the entire body, and being, of a man into your tunnel of love.
You can return to normal size anytime you wish.
Listen, I say, the contractions inside my vagina during orgasm
might squeeze a poor little man to death….
No, that's not possible. They would enjoy the sensation of
your orgasm over their entire bodies – it would be a sexual
First of all, on this night when I'm to become a giantess –
the greatest sex goddess of all time – I get to pick the vaginalastronauts
of my choice. All fine specimens, muscular, stronglooking,
possessing my favorite type of cocks. I choose more
than I figure I'll need, just for the fun of choosing. Then, because
there is no inside building large enough to contain a giantess,
we go outside into a very lovely, starlit, moonlit night.
We won't need any spotlights, I say. The moonlight is just perfect
(I'm still a little worried about how my skin will look). I
step inside the designated few acres of space and walk to the
center. I'm wearing a lacy, push-up bra and little panties. Because
on my body they are as much a part of my cellular structure
as are my fingernails and hair, they will enlarge with me.
The machine is beamed on me; its rays feel rather like a warm
breeze. I can smell the faint odor of ozone produced by the
tremendous rush of energy. I begin to grow, quite painlessly –
a pulsing sensation. I am rising up toward the starry sky. It
seems. as close as a ceiling. The moon is a glowing light bulb.
I can see for miles, lights and buildings, roads and mountains,
rivers and seas. Down below me, hundreds of miniature people
stare upward in wonder and awe. A big safety net is being
quickly constructed on my acre of space (which seems only a
few feet to me now). My squadron of deep-sea divers stand
ready and waiting at its edge. They are naked except for suitably
shaped helmets on their heads (like the reddish tips of penises
– outsized to them, but now quite suitable to me – a sixor
seven-foot man, the equivalent of a six- or seven-inch cock
…). Dance music has been turned on over loudspeakers, but it
is faint and far away to me. “Turn up the music, please,” I say,
and my voice, louder than any loudspeaker, reverberates over
the landscape. The Lilliputians below clasp their hands over
their ears. The music is turned up, and I can hear the drumbeat.
I sway to the rhythm. I am a beautiful giantess-sex-goddess.
No one has ever seen anything like me before. I pull down one
side of my bra, exposing a soft white mountain of a breast. I
draw down the other side, and two heavy, mountain-breasts
swing over the crowd, joggling as I dance. Some of the little
men (overcome with the sight, it would seem) faint or collapse.
I feel very heavy, but it is a pleasant, slow heaviness like slowmotion
films. I have a beautiful, monstrous, symmetrical body.
I put my fingers on the top of my panties and begin to push
them down. I push them down to my thighs, exposing a naked,
slowly gyrating pelvis of unbelievable size. Little heads crane
upward. I can see their wide open eyes and mouths. I have to
be careful when I draw up one leg (I'd hate to lose my balance
and step on anybody). I pull my panties off, one leg and then
the other, stand with my legs spread apart. “So, Little People
… “ I whisper very softly, although my voice still echoes from
mountaintop to shining sea. “You've never seen anything like
this before?” I rock my pelvis and spread my legs wider apart
as I bend my knees. For a moment, my bed-sized clitoris is
exposed above them. They jump up and down with excitement.
“Let's see it again . . again . “ I can hear them crying in little
voices like mewing kittens. “Please, Great Sex Goddess …
show us again!” I fingertip my labia apart for a few seconds,
smiling down on them. The moisture of my excitement creates
drops of falling rain. Giant Goddesses do everything on a grand
“Well, my cocky astronauts …” I whisper to my crew. “Are
you ready for your journey?”
This starts a flurry among them. They scurry about under the
safety net, carrying metal parts. In a minute, they've fashioned
a towering (to them – only loin-high to me) erector-set stepladder
between my legs; I watch them clamber up. The first and
fastest cock-man reaches the top, and I pick him up and press
his naked little body against one of my great breasts. He
squirms and rubs himself into the flesh appreciatively. When I
take him away from my breast, I see that his adorable toothpick-
tip-sized prick is sticking straight up. “You darling little
things you … “ I whisper (loud as a foghorn) and ever so gently,
hold him up to my mouth, licking him all over. His legs
spread and kick delightedly in the air while my big wet tongue
licks his loins and bottom. I fit his tiny cock like a pencil tip
between my lips. He hangs on to my loose-hanging, twentyfoot-
long hair, and I can hear little groans and moans coming
from under his helmet while I suck as if his cock were a small
straw, wriggling my tongue against it. In a few seconds, he
collapses limply in my hand, and I can taste a few miniature
drops of semen on my tongue. My other cock-men have
reached the top of the ladder by now and are probing and examining
my giant clitoris. It tickles quite pleasantly. I spread
my legs to make the most of it. “Ummm …” I murmur echoingly.
They certainly know their business. Some of them may
have been special masseurs before this adventure. “Well … “ I
whisper to the limp one in my hand. “Do you want to go on
with the others, or do you need a breather?” There are noises
from under his helmet I can't quite hear. I put the phallic tip
into my ear. “What did you say?”
“I said I want to go on. rd like to be the first one in if I may.
A big step for mankind, and myself as well!”
I repeat these brave words in a whisper for the crowd's benefit.
They applaud – an oddly squeaky little sound. I put the
cock-man back on the ladder top with the others. “He's first,
remember. After all he got to the top of the ladder first.”
His phallic-tip helmet enters my cavern smoothly. Then he
seems to get a bit stuck, pushing hard with his feet against the
ladder. He is a bit broad in the shoulders for a cock. I have to
help a little – turning him this way and that until his shoulders
work through. I can feel the pressure inside me of his squirming
and pushing upward.
It is quite an extraordinary sensation. “Wow … “ I say, forgetting
the Lilliputians' delicate eardrums, but most of them are
too wonderstruck and excited to bother covering their ears.
They've all undressed by now and are empathetically imitating
myself and the cock-men. The women with wide-spread legs
and rocking hips; the men shuddering and wriggling as if trying
to squirm into my body. My number one cock-man has
disappeared, but I can feel him working inside me like crazy.
By God, I can tell you, a broad-shouldered cock with arms and
legs is something else!
The next one needs some assistance, too. I'm getting so
steamy and ready, I shove him rather violently into me when he
gets stuck. The two of them fill me up. If they keep wriggling
like that, I'm going to come any minute. My torso is shaking all
over the place. I jerk my hips, and my feet jump a little, shaking
the ground. But now the second one has disappeared after a
moment of legs sticking out and kicking. I do like to have
something stretching apart the opening, rubbing my clitoris. I
assist a third, as far as he'll go, which is just about right. Penishead
inside and broad shoulders where I need him outside.
With the three of them overflowing my insides and moving like
snakes or fish, I'm almost out of my mind …. It's going to be
an orgasm to shake the earth; I hope I don't hurt anything … or
anyone… . But I've gone this far, and it's going to have to come
… . “Look out!” I say, like a crash of thunder. I dance wildly,
and the world shudders and shakes. The moon-bulb in the sky
jiggles, and the stars whirl around. It's coming, and it's going
to be big; oh, so sweet and big!
The first orgasm expels a cock-man like a ping-pong ball
into the net. I don't stop, but just keep working at it, and the
second jolt sends the second man whirling out like a t****ze
artist. I've got one good one left … I can feel him moving from
the depths of my insides like a hearty eel. I can't help screaming
with the pleasure of this last one – shudders in my whole
body that make trees sway and rocks come rolling down mountains.
As I complete my giant orgasm, number one cock-man
shoots forth from my inside Pleasure Place; his darling little
prick is ejaculating a tiny fountain of semen into the air.
I sit down in my small space, a little out of breath, being
careful not to disturb anything or squash anyone. The earth is
still shaking. I see that my Lilliputians are having the orgy of
their lives, and a few thousand orgasms – even in miniature –
can create quite an earthquake.
The next night, I request that I be given a longer, larger area,
because I think it would be great fun to have more cock-men,
some of them rolling about and squirming and climbing over
the soft flesh of my gigantic breasts, belly … while others take
turns climbing up my great loin-crevice to dip themselves in
and out of my soft red bathtub clitoris. This would have to be
done while I'm lying down, stretched out to my full seventyfive
or eighty feet. Then I can just lie there and feel them pushing
themselves up into my cavern until the sensation drives me
out of my mind ….
During the week that I was a Giant Sex Goddess, the impresario’s
son wrote some of the greatest symphonies of his career.
As late as the twenty-third century, people were still going
into orgasmic spasms just listening to them …. Then everybody
got too jaded for that. Some rather extraordinary genital
evolutionary changes had occurred … but then, that's another
 I have been able to print only a fraction of the letters I
have received since publication of My Secret Garden. As I
stated in the opening chapter, the overwhelming note of selfacceptance
in these letters, the low level of guilt about sex,
places this collection of material a generation ahead of those
women who contributed to Garden.
In a sense, it took more courage for the women who appeared
in my first book to talk about their fantasies. That was
still a time when it was widely thought, even by ther****ts, that
only “troubled” women had fantasies. The subject had not yet
been given mass media okay, it had not been widely discussed
on television, in newspapers and magazines.
The women who appear in these pages, above all, had the
comfort of having read My Secret Garden before they wrote
me. It helped them to look at themselves and their sexuality in
a new light; it gave them information on the most intimate
ideas and experiences of other women with which to compare
themselves: As you have noticed, almost every letter contains
the phrase, “Thank God, I'm not the only one.”
But women's sexuality is only half the picture. If we believe
in liberation, we must accept the logic that women cannot be
free if our men are still chained to old, outworn, macho notions.
If women are experts at sexual fantasy (as I believe we
are), perhaps our outspokenness about it, our honesty about
what we really think and feel will encourage men to reassess
their sexual lives too.
Half the mail I have received since Garden has been from
men. Most of them have been fascinated to find there was an
aspect of female sexuality that up to now had been hidden or
closed to them. I originally wanted to include these letters from
men at the back of this volume. I thought it would be informative
and exciting for women, but I thought men too would receive
reinf***ement, finding broader dimensions to their own
sexuality. It was this latter idea – plus lack of space – that
made me change my mind and go along with the suggestion so
many men made in their letters: why not give male sexuality
the space it deserved, and do a totally separate book on men's
sexual fantasies?
If Garden had freed women to roam in wider sexual latitudes
than they had believed possible or were capable of, it had
also suggested to men that they too might be erotically more
imaginative than their own literature and culture had so far
depicted them. Any person reading Garden, or this book, can
feel how liberating it is for a woman to know that even her
most bizarre tastes and ideas are shared by other women. It is
the compelling emotion of both books: “Thank God, I am not
alone.” I used to think men shared some mystic mass camaraderie,
that simply being a man meant you belonged to “The
Club.” I have come to believe that many men, in their sexuality
at least, are as hidden and lonely as we women have been.
The fact is, I don't know anything about men's sexual fantasies
… except for the glimpse I've been given in the mail to
date. The main thing it has taught me is that I have been wrong
to assume that male eroticism was the simple stuff on which
we were all raised: the films, magazines, advertisements, and
so on, that depict men in our culture as compulsive consumers
of the Penthouse Bunny, the man who can't get enough tits and
ass, who dreams of devouring women like peanuts, and who
doesn't feel sexual unless he's aggressive.
At the close of this book, there is an address where men can
write me. I hope they will be as frank as the women whose
letters we have just read, and will send in their fantasies – during
sex, masturbation, and those that pop into the mind at all
other times, too – for a forthcoming book. Please use the language
which is natural to you, and include as much autobiographical
detail as possible. What makes a fantasy most interesting
and valuable to a researcher is an understanding of the
life out of which it grows.
I expect to be surprised by what I receive. It is time that men
too were released from the normative bludgeoning of the media
that equates cowboys in cigarette ads with masculinity, and acold heart with virility. If we have been surprised by the variety
and extent of women's sexual imagination as seen through their
fantasies, why should we not expect to find a new dimension in
men's sexuality as well?
And if we do, won't both sexes be all the better for it. 
In my continuing work on women's sexuality, I would be
grateful for readers' help. I would like to hear your sexual
fantasy. Please be as detailed as possible about what happens
in the fantasy; include as much of your own autobiographical
history as you can: age, sex, marital status, f****y
upbringing, sexual preference. As always, I guarantee
your anonymity. Please write to me: c/o P.O. Box 634,
Key West, FL 33040
July, 1982
297... Continue»
Posted by DrunkenDiablo 2 years ago  |  Categories: Fetish  |  Views: 32169  |  
  |  2

I Love My Hairy Mom: Chapter 1

I Love My Hairy Mom: Chapter I


I guess my interest in my mother started by seeing my mom naked in her room while she was getting changed or in the bathroom while she was taking a bath or shower. You see, my mom raised me and my siblings to see that nudity is natural and not anything to be weirded out about or taken so seriously, which meant that I saw my mom naked a lot. I guess you can say that these experiences also led to my absolute love of the most erotic, hot, and sexy thing I could ever think of; hairy bush.

Now I know many people these days think a hairy pussy is a dirty pussy, but that is complete bull in my mind. Only a couple decades ago bush was all the rage, but for some reason the porn industry was able to influence a lot of the minds of today into thinking that shaved is better due to all the porn stars of recent being mostly shaved completely bare. I’m 23 years old now so I guess you can say I was born in the wrong decade. I would have thrived if I was born in the beginning of the 60’s and was a teenager in the 70’s due to all that bush that needed to be conquered, but I’ve been able to make due with what I have in the here-and-now.

Every girlfriend I’ve had so far has stopped shaving for me and actually loved it, and actually the main reason they shaved in the first place was because they thought, “every guy likes it shaved,” which is very wrong. I told them that a hairy woman is a WOMAN not a c***d, which is exactly what the shaved look makes me think of. Also, a hairy pussy is different with every single female based on thickness, color, curly or straight haired, length, size, smell, and covered area. I’ve seen plenty of shaved pussy and, in my opinion, they all look the same to me. Being Italian probably adds to the infatuation as well.

Ok now that I got that off my chest I can get back to the story at hand. So I’m guessing now that you’re wondering what my mom looks like naked? Well first off my mom has very curly brown hair that’s cut to about her shoulders and stands at about 5’7” and weighs about 155 pounds. She is 47 years old and has had three c***dren total. Her boobs are big but a little saggy, her stomach has a little weight on it and her ass is very big. The most attractive and amazing part of her body is the big thick dark area between her legs. My mom’s pussy, since I can remember, has always been covered in very curly, thick black hair that reaches about 2/3 of the way to her hips on both sides. She has never shaved her bush and only trims the bikini area during the summer, but never has cut or shortened the hair on her pussy. Her bush has the total look of a 70’s porn star and my mom actually reminds me, in looks and body type, of Kay Parker from the famous Taboo series of porn films from the 70’s.

Now here’s the part where I guess I have to talk about my body to give you guys an idea of what I look like. I know every guy tries to make himself sound like he has an amazing body but I feel no need to lie about what I look like so I hope you trust my explanation of myself. I’m 23 years old, about 6 foot tall and I weigh 180 pounds. I work out a lot so I’m fit and I have 6-pack abs too. I have a pretty big dick that grows to 9 inches when I’m fully hard and I don’t like to shave the hair around my dick on my pelvis but my shaft and balls are always shaved smooth. I guess I just love the hair. I have dark brown hair on my head, and, like my mom, my pubic hair is black.

Like I said earlier, I have always loved hairy women. Past girlfriends have had full hairy bushes grown out just for me and I have loved every minute of it. As of right now I am single and just living life and enjoying women without being tied down, which also means I haven’t had a hairy girl in a long time. The girls I have had sex with recently have all been shaved, which is disappointing but it won’t stop me from fucking. I have gotten my hairy fix by downloading and watching a lot of porn with hairy women in it and reading erotic i****t stories where boys fuck their hairy mothers, but it has never really been enough for me. I feel that the stories never had enough detail in them about hairy bush and the porn videos were more of a tease because I wanted to feel the bush and not just see it on a screen.

I would love going into the bathroom to see my mom laying in her bathtub with her washcloth over her tits and her hairy bush seemingly floating on the top of the water because of how long the hair is on it. The hair would slowly move back and forth with the little waves in the water that my mom’s movements would make and sometimes the soap would stick to the hairs to make a black and white soapy bush for me to look at. My questions have always been ones that I would make up on the walk to the bathroom just to be able to see her naked like, “Mom what’re you doing tonight?” or “What’s for dinner tonight?” They were never questions that had any relevance or point, but that didn’t matter to me. I’d also pop into the bathroom when my mom was drying off her body and her pussy because after drying off, her bush became a huge black curly afro sticking out from between her legs. While talking to her, my eyes would always wander from her eyes down to her bush constantly, but always purposely. I’m sure she knows what I was doing but never paid any mind to it and just answered my questions and let me go on my way.

So now I’m sitting in my room at about 4pm looking at hairy porn videos on my computer, with my door locked of course, and I’ve come across a few “keepers” that I like so I guess I’ll download them to my external hard drive (I have to be safe). My external has over 160 hairy pussy videos along with i****t stories and pictures of bushes for me to jerk off too. Right when I’m about to get naked and jerk off to this beautiful brown bushy female getting fucked on my computer screen, my mom knocks on my door.

“Can I come in hun? Why do you lock this door all the time? You know it’s only your f****y in this house what’s so secretive?” Little did she know.

“Yeah hold on,” I say while getting dressed quickly and closing my laptop so she can’t see the fucking on my screen. Damn I would love just to answer the door with my dick fully hard and a hairy pussy on my computer screen in plain view for my mom to see.

“Dinner’s ready. Come on down.”

“Ok mom.”

I have always wanted to talk to my mom about hairy pussy and how much I love her bush but I don’t know how to start such a conversation with her.

I’m eating my steak and all I can think about is my mom’s hairy pussy sitting right next to me. Being interrupted right before jerking off isn’t helping my situation right now either. Dad is quiet like usual and my b*****r is texting while my s****r leaves and goes into the living room to watch television. I scarf down the rest of my food and rush upstairs to finish myself off.

Right when I find another nice video to watch I hear my b*****r head out to his friend’s house and my s****r’s friend’s mom is at the door to pick her up for a sl**pover. There’s no way I’m jerking off with people socializing ten feet away from my door. My dad is heading into work tonight to work a party so he’ll probably be home at like 5am since he always goes out with friends after work anyway. “I like how this is panning out,” I tell myself while sitting naked in my bed with my cock laying on my bush of pubic hair on my pelvis, “I’m gonna talk to mom tonight.”

The house is empty now and I hear the bathwater running. “Don’t be a pussy,” I tell myself and I walk into the bathroom. There’s my mom laying naked in the tub with her big tits floating on the water and her large pink nipples staring right at me. Her black hairy bush is swaying in the water, which makes her naked torso look like a face smiling at me.

“What’s the matter?” she asks.

“Nothing just seeing what’s up.”

“Can’t you ‘just see what’s up’ when I’m done in the bathtub?” she asks.

“Does it matter? I’ve seen you naked a thousand times mom so I think I’ll stay in here.”

“Excuse me? Ok, whatever. Why do you want to talk to me in here while I am naked in the bathtub?”

“Well, I was wondering if I could ask you something. I know we talk about anything and everything but this is kinda personal and I wouldn’t want you to get weirded out by it…”

My hands are so cold and I’m shaking so much that I think I am about to pass out.

“Just tell me. What is it?”

“Well after all these years I’ve noticed you don’t ‘shave down there’ and I was wondering why you don’t do it?”

“I don’t know I just like it I guess. I hate shaving because of the ingrown hairs and it makes it itchy and uncomfortable for me and it becomes too much to shave everyday.”

BINGO. I was in. “Well another thing is, I like it. I don’t know why girls feel the need to shave these days. I think it’s ugly to shave and it makes every girl look the same down there and I also think the porn industry has a lot to do with girls shaving too.”

“Yeah but I guess that’s just how the times are today and if you don’t like it shaved you just have to tell the girl so she can stop doing it for you.” She definitely likes this conversation. She’s moving around in the water more, and her pussy may be getting wet with me talking about the subject. “Did your exes stop shaving for you?”

“Yeah. I just told them that I love it natural. The hairier the better for me. They let their pussies get really hairy for me and I loved it.”

“Wow that’s a lot of detail. Remember I’m your mother.”

Crap I got carried away…

“Sorry mom. I guess I just got carried away. I’ll stop…”

“No. Actually, it’s ok. Why do you like it so hairy? You can tell me and don’t worry about being subtle. You can tell me anything I’m your mother.”

She’s starting to squeeze her legs together. I think she’s getting excited.

“Well, to me, a hairy woman is a real woman. Also, a hairy pussy is different with every female based on thickness, color, curly or straight haired, length, size, smell, and covered area. I’ve seen plenty of shaved pussy and, in my opinion, they all look the same to me. It’s kinda ugly to see it shaved. I also like rubbing my face in it and how it feels on my di-…“

“WHOA WHOA I didn’t know you’d get into that much detail!”

“OH GOD mom I’m so sorry! I really didn’t mean to talk about sex and all…I feel so embarrassed.”

“Well, you are a man. You’re 23 years old and you have finished college now so you’re a full adult who knows what he wants and loves. I knew you weren’t a virgin anymore but a mother never wants to admit her son is all grown up. You are my first son and I am very proud of you. I’m guessing you’ve had sex with more girls than just your exes?”

“Yeah, but they were all shaved besides my exes.”

“I see. I guess you didn’t like them too much then.”

“Not really. I love bush.”

“Oh yeah? You love it huh? Well before I cut you off you were saying it felt real good on your what?”

“Umm…my dick…”

My nerves are killing me and trying to hold this boner back is not working.

“What do you mean it feels good on your dick?”

She’s starting to wash her body with the washcloth now. She rubs the wet cloth around her breasts gently and moves toward her stomach. I don’t think she’s doing this to clean herself.

“I like rubbing my dick in the hair. It tickles my dick when I rub it through it and when I’m having sex. I like getting a handful of it too and pulling on it a little bit. It helps the girl orgasm harder.”

“Wow I never thought of that. Your dad just does his thing then walks away. It’s never really exciting anymore. Do you shave yourself? Do you like to be hairy like your women?”

“I just shave the shaft and balls. I like them to be smooth so I can feel the hair rub against it. I leave my pelvis and all hairy. I like it a lot and I like playing with it when I’m bored.”

“Hmm that sounds nice babe. You walk around in your underwear all the time so I know you are hairy on your pelvis and your ‘treasure trail’ but I can’t tell past your boxer briefs. I do know you have good genes though.”

“What do you mean?” this is incredible…

“You are well endowed sweetie. I can see you swinging around when you walk and your bulge is pretty huge. Looks like you got your father’s genes and more.”

“And more?”

“Yeah because it looks like it’s more than his.”

“Ohh. You mean it looks bigger?”

“Yeah but I can’t really tell because you have your boxer briefs on.”

“Yeah true I guess.”

“Well we do talk about everything and you are my son…” (I hope she’s going to say what I think she is) “but I haven’t seen you naked.”

“What do you mean mom?”

“Well I’m naked in the tub and you’re just sitting on my sink talking to me and staring at my body.”

“Staring? No I was just talking to you that’s all.”

“No, you were staring at my bush when you were talking to me.”

“I’m sorry mom I really didn’t mean to. I didn’t even realize. It’s just so amazing….”

“Did I yell? It’s fine honey I know you always come in to talk to me when I’m showering or naked in here and stare at my body. I’m not stupid.”

“Oh. Yeah I guess you would have eventually figured me out…”

“I don’t know why you stare though. This body is old and I feel ugly and so out of shape.”

“No mom. Your body is great for your age not all skinny and fake like a celebrity’s body or something like that. You have a woman’s body.”

“Well thanks. Now like I was saying…”

“Saying what mom?”

“Let’s see if your genes are better than your dad’s. You’re my son anyway it’s not a big deal.”

“You want me to get naked in here?”

I’m so excited I’m about to explode right now. My voice is so shaky and my hands and feet are numb with nervousness.

“Yeah it’s a bathroom. People are usually naked in bathrooms or taking clothing off. Besides we always keep stuff between us so it’s not like anyone will know sweetie.”

“You promise you won’t tell, mom?”

“Yes I promise. Now let’s see it.”

“Ok mom…”

I am shaking so much. I took my shirt off first to build up the anticipation at least a little bit. My mom is now sitting up in the tub and her pussy is hidden under the water. Her hands are both under the water too, but her arms are moving back and forth, which makes me think something is going on under that water.

“Oh honey, you working out has paid off so much and those protein things you eat and drink really help.”

“Thanks mom.”

As I am taking off my basketball shorts, my mom starts to sit up to get a better view. Her eyes are glued to my crotch and her mouth is open with her tongue moving around inside.

“Come on just take them off already you don’t need to do a striptease for me I don’t have the patience for that!”

“Ok mom I just want to enjoy this.”

“Honey I don’t think this will be the last time.”

“Really?! I hope not!”

I pull down my boxer shorts and step of out them. As I stand up tall, my dick is nearly fully hard and stands up in unison with the rest of my body.

“YES. YOU ARE BIGGER.” My fantasy has come true. My mom is looking at my fully erect cock. “You’re so thick too. What are you like nine inches?”


I’m so nervous right now…

“I love how thick it is sweetie. It’s like the perfect cock. I’m so happy I didn’t have you circumcised either.”

“Yeah I like it uncircumcised mom. It feels better when I masturbate and have sex.”

“I’m sure it does. It’s like a hidden treasure inside. And I love how your hair situation is. Your dick and sack are so smooth and your pelvis is so hairy. I bet that feels great as a girl when you’re all the way inside and your pelvis hair tickles the clit and stomach.”

“I wouldn’t know mom but I’ve heard them say it feels good.”

Just as I say that, my mom just stands up in the tub. The soap and water are dripping down her body while the light reflects off of every curve. Her body seems to shine and I swear I hear an angelic choir singing “ahhhhhhhh” while this is all happening. The soap on her bush is dripping into the water while the hair hangs down like a wizard’s beard. My mouth is just hanging open right now and I don’t know what to do.

“Come in here please,” says mom, “it’ll be better to see up close.”

I step into the tub, which is pretty big but not huge to be far from one another. I’m literally face-to-face with her now.

“It’s hard to see when we’re face to face mom.” I said with a trembling voice.

“I know honey but it’s probably better to feel it.”

With that, she puts her arms on my shoulders and pulls me into her like she is giving me a hug. I almost slip at the shock of this but catch myself on my mom and hug her to keep balance. Now my nine inch fully hardened cock is smashed between my stomach and my mom’s bush.

“OH GOD MOM I’M SO SORRY! I slipped I didn’t mean to!”

“Shut up it’s what I wanted to happen. How does my curly bush feel on your big cock?”

“Oh god mom it feels so good. I never thought this would happen. I’ve always thought about this every single day.”

“Good baby. I’ve thought about it a lot too. Do you like when I do this?”

She starts grinding up and down against me. Her hairy pussy is pretty much jerking my dick off while my mom holds my chest up against her tits. She’s staring into my eyes while biting her lips. I’m completely in shock. My dick is pulsating and throbbing so much that I think it is going to pop any second.

“Oh my god mom. You’re so fucking hairy I love it. Your bush feels so good it’s like jerking me off right now. God I love how hairy you are and how huge your bush is. It’s so dark and thick and curly and soft.”

“Good baby it’s yours.”

Then all of a sudden she stands on her tippy toes and pulls me closer into a bear hug. With this, my dick springs outward directly under the opening of her pussy lips. My eyes widen and my jaw drops. My mom is staring directly into my eyes with a serious look on her face while her face is red with blush. She starts to lower herself.

I feel the beginning of her gigantic bush tickle the head of my cock. My dick seems to burrow through miles of curls and thickness until I feel the beginning of the lips. Her hairy pussy lips seem to open up like a mouth and slide over my nine-inch shaft. As my mom lowers herself, she lets out a shaky breath and water builds up in her eyes. Her bush rubs against my stomach then down my pelvis and ultimately entangles itself with my black curly pubic hair. My mom now closes her eyes and shoves her tongue in my mouth as we both lower slowly into the bathtub.

I’m now sitting in the tub with my mom’s legs wrapped around my back. She’s bouncing on me so hard that the tub may go through the floor and fall into the kitchen below. I can feel her hairy bush rubbing hard against my stomach while the skin on my uncircumcised cock slides up and down inside my mom’s hairy pussy with the motion of her body. I put both of my hand around her huge ass and feel the thick trail of hair that leads up her ass crack.

Then, I stick two fingers into my mom’s ridiculously hairy asshole and finger her ass as she rides me. She is moaning so deeply as she kisses me passionately. This seems to go on forever until I feel myself about to cum.

“Mom I’m about to cum let me pull out.”

“Are you crazy? No I had my tubes tied after your s****r was born. You had better cum inside this thick bush, and you better do it hard.”

“Ok mom. Mom, I love you.”

“I love you so much sweetie. You and your massive thick nine inch cock.”

“God I love how you talk mom. I love how hairy you are, seriously.”

“Well I can get hairier for you if you want baby.”

“Really?! Oh my god. Yes please. I have so many things I want you to do now.”

“I’ll do anything baby we’ll talk later. Now cum inside my hairy pussy like you want me to have your c***d.”

I never came so much in my entire life.


My mom was screaming so loud I would be surprised if the neighbors heard us. I was cumming in unison with my mother, the woman of my fantasies, the woman whose bush was always on my mind; the bush that was so big and curly and thick and long and black. The bush that was now mine.

“Oh my god. That was incredible,” said mom. “I will never get enough of this.”

“You don’t have to mom. I love you and I’m all yours.”

“I love you too baby. Now let’s talk about our first hair idea together…”

End Part I
... Continue»
Posted by daitalianjob 4 years ago  |  Categories: Fetish, Taboo  |  Views: 5491  |  
  |  15

I wish I Could Be A Beautiful Soft Submissive Girl

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I So Wish I Would Have Been Born With a Female Body
I Envy Women and So Wish I Could Be A Beautiful, Soft, Submissive Girl I love to watch xxx adult films. Mainly, because I love to watch heavily hung male studs do the things they do to women. Most of the women in the adult films are beautiful and I wish I could be the girl. Watching a woman allowing a man to penetrate her and take full advantage of her feminine charms is thrilling, and I would happily trade places with her. I fantasize about being soft like a woman with tender breasts and a tiny shaved vagina. In a short revealing dress I show off smooth, shapely, spectacular legs on top of sexy high heels. The heels show off dainty little feet and perfect pedicured toes. The dress can't hide a breathtaking round butt made for hard male slaps and pinches. The top is revealing, showcasing lovely, scrumptious decolletage cut right to the nipple. The look is topped with salon perfect hair made for ragdolling and manicured delicate, girl hands to wrap around a rock hard love muscle. The perfect face sports painstakingly applied salon make-up, eyeliner and luscious, lickable, kissable, wet lipstick. It's all the bait a rough man needs to come and get me and work over my petite little body. I fantasize about sitting across from a horny guy and I spread my legs wide so he can look directly between my spectacular, creamy thighs all the way to my pretty panties. The see through g-string can't hide the tiny, camel toe he is going to get. The budding pink lips are also tiny, but they are swelling with desire and moistening and bursting through the cloth. My eyes look deeply, directly and hungrily into his so he knows I am spreading my legs for him. But he can't take his amazed and widening eyes off the heavenly view I'm treating him to up my sexy dress. When he approaches I tell him I want to be his humble, subservient love slave. He takes me by the hand to a place where he will have the privacy to take complete advantage of me. His talented hands quickly and expertly slide off my beautiful dress. Standing behind me he lowers my bra straps giving him full access to the lovely globes of flesh. As he fondles them I begin melting inside and feel my love tunnel beginning to ooze my girly lube. The tongue nibbles and licks up and down my long, lovely neck. His teeth and lips become more f***eful and he humiliates and marks me with hickies. In gratitude I turn my head and his tongue slides between my soft sweet lips and we passionately swap spit. Knowing he is in total control he lifts me in his arms to the bed where he is going to deflower me. I am literally melting in his powerful arms. He begins by suckling and licking my tender breasts and I feel his warm saliva all over them. I spread my legs wide open, thrilled about what is about to happen to me. He spits a thick wad on his fingers and rubs my clitoris and f***efully spreads my pulsating passageway. He slides his tongue down my smooth stomach until he reaches my pink vagina lips. He pushes my dainty panties aside and slides his tongue inside my tiny slit and gives me a deep darting inspection. His tongue bathes my lovely pink lips and clitoris and my erupting passion mixed with his spittle is dripping between my thighs. His tongue probes up and down between my creamy, spread butt cheeks and beautiful legs to my tiny toes. He kisses and licks my smooth gams again and again from my sexy heels to where the legs meet. The passion is uncontrollable and with a girly moan I surrender a shuddering and trembling release. I reward him by taking his bl**d engorged spear in my soft hand. Just touching that burning rocket erupts a new fountain of love juice in my creaming honey pot. I lick the sides and lube his rod thoroughly with my tongue. I lovingly and repeatedly kiss the pink head and eat his pre-come. To show him that he is my master, I lick and kiss his wrinkled and hairy testicles. I take each of them in my mouth and then lick them like they are delicious chocolate-covered strawberries. There is salty man juice in there I can hardly wait to be injected with. I intend to milk every last drop I can get out of those testicles. I beg him to shower me with a cloudburst of come from his balls. On my knees he rubs my beautiful face all over his hairy, sweaty scrotum and I wallow with pleasure in his masculinity. He grabs my long, beautiful hair and lays me down on my back. He f***efully puts his thick, engorged weapon in my little mouth. With his strong hands wrapped in my hair and my head pinned to the mattress, he uses his powerful hips to thrust brutally and cruelly in my mouth. My head is literally filled with manhood and the tears spurt out uncontrollably. I absolutely love it! He is relentless and more tears stream out making a mess of exactingly applied eyeliner and make up. Unable to breath, I gag on the manhood filling my head releasing streams of my own spit like a river into my nostrils, eyes and hair. He sticks a big hand f***efully down my throat and triggers the gag reflex to release a whole new layer of spit on my face. To complete my humiliation, he rubs his thick tool all over my face creating a beautiful, perfect mix of tears, spit, makeup and mascara. I'm hoping he doesn't burst my tonsils with testicle wad. I want that life-giving liquid to thoroughly inundate my awaiting, fertile womb. Sensing my need, he pulls out and pulls me up to my knees by my long beautiful mane and he looks down at me and stands over me triumphantly. Kneeling helplessly at his feet, I am a whimpering, sobbing, degraded little girl wallowing in a thick facial goo. I am crying uncontrollably and the tears are spewing and streaking all down my face. I am loving every second of it and I beg him for more. Fortunately, having completely demolished my face, he is ready to do the exact same thing to my defenseless puss. He pins my stilletos all the way back to my ears and sticks his enormous tool so deep inside me I can feel it in my stomach. My pretty panties are still wrapped around my creamy, white thighs. I love the thought of the man nailing me in the missionary position so I can look into his lust filled eyes. My little hands grab my high heels and hold them down behind my head. His massive male hands squeeze my inviting, sensitive melons. His ragged beard and mouth part the delicate cleavage and he sucks deeply. He suckles me like a thirsty man in the desert. Then he plants his thick, manly beard on my soft mouth. With his strong hands behind my head he plasters my delicate face and mouth with his coarse, rough beard. With his tongue planted deep in my throat I feel his hot male saliva filling my mouth. My feet are still pushed back to my face and I watch my gorgeous high heels wiggle uncontrollably. Once again he takes my little toes in his mouth and sucks deeply on them. His hairy, masculine chest is mashed against my soft, womanly breasts. My pretty hands run through his matted male chest rug and I can't resist licking his thick carpet and tasting his bitter sweat in my mouth. I look down to see his manhood impaling itself deep within me. He is truly bursting and splitting my vagina wide open. He is screwing me so hard the bed is shaking, creaking and rattling loudly. My perfect pink camel-toe is turning shocking red as the bl**d flows to it from the relentless pounding it's receiving. Without warning he pulls out of me and spits thick glop in my cleavage. His tongue slobbers the spit over every inch of my bosom. Still on my back, his tool slips between my jiggling breast flesh and his hands push them together and he gives them a hard, painful squeeze. His manhood pistons into my soft rack with power and speed. I watch as the thick member appears and disappears in the large mounds of pillowy soft flesh. Even though they are covered in our mutual slobber, my defenseless milk jugs are beginning to ache under the merciless assault from his powerful weapon. Thankfully, he is ready to return to plundering my equally defenseless puss in the same exact way he plowed my quivering, heaving breasts. I am afraid the bed will finally collapse into rubble underneath us with the merciless screwing he is giving me. Although I love the feeling of being conquered and overpowered when I'm on my back, there is another position I love almost as much. My stud pulls me off my back and lays me on my hands and knees. My sublime butt is hiked up, but my smooth kneecaps, pretty hands and gorgeous face are pushed firmly to the sheets. I'm perfectly positioned for rough male hands to alternate between slapping my bottom, squeezing my sensitive nipples, fingering my clitoris and fish-hooking both sides of my mouth. I only wish he had four or five hands so he could swat and squeeze me the way a woman should be. He f***efully spreads my pouting vagina lips apart and spits thick gobs of saliva on them. The spit shots that miss my panochita splatter all over my alabaster white thighs and hanging panties. I look between my legs and adore seeing his spit and my girl come dripping down between my legs to the sheets. He can't resist stuffing his thick male hands in my little hoochie coochie to give it another rampaging finger screwing. His fingers heartlessly widen and pull my vagina lips and walls apart. Then he spreads my beautiful legs as wide as they will part. For good measure, as his schlong penetrates my puss, he inserts a wide thumb up my rectum and I have that completely full feeling. While screwing me doggy style with a thumb up by butthole, he squeezes my tiny waist and f***efully swats my smooth and firm behind until it is dark red. He marks his territory by leaving a red hand print on the side of my smooth bottom. As he takes me from behind his rough hands squeeze my tender breasts still covered and dripping with his spit. I love the rough way he squeezes them so hard. He pulls mercilessly on my long beautiful hair to show me he is my master and I absolutely love it. My pretty hand reaches back instinctively and softly fondles his sweat drenched balls. My hand is quickly covered in ball sweat and his pubic hair. I greedily eat his testicle hair and sweat. He is gaining power and speed with each thrust and it feels like a jackhammer between my lush, ivory thighs. To degrade me further, he decides to press his pole into my virginally tight sphincter. The pain overwhelms the pleasure as he travels that muddy road. But I am determined to be ravaged and scream in pain but beg him to continue buggering my butt. While pulverizing my bottom, he can't resist plunging four fingers into my ravaged vagina that is drenching my panties and thighs in girl come and man spit. I am hoping he doesn't deliver a mud pie inside my aching guts. I want to feel his sweltering hot load inundating my pink vaginal walls. Fortunately, my puss has a way of milking him he can't resist and he quickly returns to ravish that forcibly widened tunnel. Although he loves mounting me doggy style, he uses one quick and powerful motion to chop my legs out from under me and f***e me down on my stomach. I am pinned down on my belly in total submission. His full weight and muscle is on top of me and I cannot move. I am totally helpless underneath him and can barely breathe. I am thrilled how powerful and masterful he is and how weak and powerless I am. His testicles slap against my pink turned dark red vagina lips and tattered panties. He pulls my long locks repeatedly and hard to remind me who is in charge. His hands roam from squeezing my milkers and hips to swatting my aching bottom. He shreds my still-hanging panties to ribbons. He stops the hard pounding long enough to leave his swollen manhood impaled to the balls, motionless and buried deep in my belly, pressing uncomfortably against the womb. I am thoroughly enjoying the power he has over me as I feel his baby maker throbbing inside me with ready to erupt passion. I hope and pray he is going to explode and flood my insides with baby batter. But he is not through enjoying his compliant love object. He lifts me and holds me up in mid-air, still buried inside me. In a reverse cowgirl with my legs dangling in the air, he thrusts his muscular hips with all his might. I am suspended in the air, helpless, and boned deeply. His massive arms can dangle my petite, feather-light frame in the air like this for an hour while I wiggle helplessly on his spear. I am creaming and quivering in ecstasy on the thick pole. I cry out loudly, THANK GOD I AM A WOMAN! With brute strength he flips me around and I am facing him, but still wrapped in his thick arms in mid air. I wrap my arms around his neck to hang on for dear life, knowing my widened thighs are about to get knifed into. He again f***es my perfect, delicate face across his rough, whiskery mop. The brillo pad beard rubs my face raw and red with pain and pleasure. Fortunately for me, I have many avenues of pleasure for him to take advantage of, and my little body is spinning in yet another direction. With agility and prowess he lays me on my shoulders in the pile-driver position. He can now penetrate me with total abandon and he is in even more complete control than ever. My smooth bottom is in the air and he f***efully spreads my silky, curvaceous legs as wide as he can. My beautiful high heels are planted firmly on the the floor behind my head. I am his completely overwhelmed and submissive **** object. His hot masculine sweat drips down like rain on my bosom and face into my open mouth and mingles with my sweet feminine scent. I swallow his salty sweat like it's beautiful pure rain falling from heaven. My vagina is covering his thick male pole with another thick coat of white girl cream as I tremble with both pleasure and pain. I beg him to pull out long enough so I can lick his mast and eat my girly pearl. He obliges and I taste a delicious soup of manly pre-come and spit intermingled with girl come and tampon. For good measure I take his testicles in my mouth again and I eat the sweat from his balls. He enjoys the wick cleaning but quickly returns to pile driving into my defenseless puss. He rips my shredded panties from my sweat and spit drenched thighs. His big male hands stuff my throat with my own panties to silence my cries and screams of perverse pleasure. Now he can't control his passion any longer. With a thundering male groan he busts his impregnating virility in waves deep into my unprotected womb. I love the thought of being injected with a thick, massive load of male essence. As much as I would like the seeds to implant themselves in my core, I can't help but stick my pretty fingers inside so I can capture his come and eat as much of it as I can harvest. I love it as it spurts and gurgles of out my girlhood and covers my creamy thighs. Or, maybe he will grab me by the hair and shoot a thick load that splatters all over my beautiful face and in my hair. Thick gobs of goo drip off my forehead onto my eyes, lips and mouth. Long loogies drip off my chin and coat my gorgeous cleavage. Other streamers run down my throat and puddle on my lovely milk wagons. I fantasize about being degraded with long streaks of his testicle juice in my hair that dribble all the way down my back to the crack in my thick and firm butt. I am bathing in his sweltering sweat and millions of his come babies . He finishes me by taking his pole and using it to spoon thick splatters off my face and milkers into my mouth. I hungrily lick the remaining splooge off his throbbing spear. My mouth is full of his seed and I savor and love the salty and bitter taste. I swish it around in my mouth for what seems like forever. As much as I love that testicle come in my mouth, I know I must swallow every heavenly drop for his conquest of me to be complete . I want his domination of me to be to be undeniably thorough, to show him I am a soft, submissive woman. If he did his job correctly, my head will throb with pain and I will be sore from head to toe. I will walk funny for a week and everyone will know I was on the receiving end of an intense, brutal pounding. I have another fantasy that a group of four or five male studs come by and give me the same treatment. I can imagine taking three at a time inside me as they penetrate each opening while the other two slap me silly and verbally abuse me while waiting their turn. Sandwiched between three powerful male studs I am corn holed, vaginally skewered , and throated. I wriggle and squirm helplessly like a bug on a pin as they screw me mercilessly. For their added pleasure two of them stretch me to the breaking point by double penetrating my fully ravaged puss. My delicate body is drowning in the stench of five dirty men covering me in their profuse, a****listic sweat. Finally all five bust nut all over my face and hair. I am completely screwed and come-gooey. But I am greedy and I imagine what dozens of loads would feel like not only on my face, but in my screwed puss and battered bunghole. Afterwards, I wonder if any of the many loads that traveled the tunnel of love managed to split the egg. My deepest desire is to be impregnated by a virile man and watch the changes to my body. My double penetrated baby hole has been excruciatingly widened for just this purpose. And I further appreciate how my soft and lovely c***d bearing hips were made not only for rough pinches and hard swats from cruel male hands, but to bring my man's baby into the world. My man loves to grope my prego stomach and enjoy what he has done to me and the power he has over me. He also can't resist my softness and femininity and he continues to screw me silly and release his passion on my body even as his is c***d growing inside me. To add to my submission he releases his love juice all over my now growing belly. Even though his c***d is incubating in my heavenly oven, he continues to use me as a complete **** toy for pure pleasure. My body aches from the pregnancy and even my tiny, delicate hands swell with water. Though I am bent over on my knees with morning sickness, I get up off the toilet to cook him breakfast. Then I get down on my knees and give him his morning BJ and my breakfast is the distillation of the same eggs and sausage I just served him. Yummy! As the gestation progresses, my breasts begin to feel like they will overflow and burst with milk as I am ready to give birth to his c***d. Just days before I'm set to drop he continues to use me, sodomizing and screwing me vaginally. I imagine the agony of c***d birth as the baby enters the world. I fantasize about what it would be like to repeat the cycle of sex and insemination again and again. I'm in heaven with the thought that many men will use my beautiful body completely and repeatedly to satisfy their unquenchable a****l lust. Whenever I see a beautiful young woman, I look at her and I wish I was the one in the short revealing dress, high heels, beautiful makeup and long luxurious hair. When I see her sit down and cross her smooth, perfect legs, showing off her stunning, breathtaking femininity, I ask, why couldn't that have been me? Every hour of every day I ask, why couldn't I have been born a woman? Why couldn't I be the girl in the overflowing tank top showing off my smooth, delicate mams? Why couldn't I be the girl in the itty-bitty bikini, the shorts cut right to the crotch that show off my smooth butt cheeks, or the short-short skirt revealing breathtakingly smooth and curvy legs? There is nothing more beautiful on planet earth than a stunning, perfect woman! ... Continue»
Posted by estephania 5 months ago  |  Categories: Fetish, Hardcore, Shemales  |  Views: 1047  |  
  |  8

Nancy Friday My Secret Garden Women’s Sexual

My Secret
Women’s Sexual Fantasies
who believed in this book
when it was just fantasy
FOREWORD by "J," ......................................................... 1
THINKING ABOUT,” HE SAID.............................................5
FRUSTRATION.................................................................... 17
Madge, Dot
INSUFFICIENCY.................................................................. 21
Louella, Irene, Annette, Maria
SEX ENHANCEMENT......................................................... 27
Patricia, Suzanne,
FOREPLAY .......................................................................... 34
Bertha, Bellinda
APPROVAL.......................................................................... 38
Sally, Vicki, Francesca, Sondra
EXPLORATION.................................................................... 46
Karen, Abbie, Hilda, Heather, Kitty
SEXUAL INITIATIVE........................................................... 53
Carol, Faye
INSATIABILITY................................................................... 60
Clarissa, Annabel, Iris, Nora .............................................. 65
DAYDREAMS...................................................................... 66
Corinne, Molly, Alicia, Lily, Eliza, Esther, Shirley, Lillian,
MASTURBATION................................................................ 74
Patsy, Norma, Adair, Mary Beth, Elizabeth, Mary Jane,
Amelia, Alix
THE LESBIANS.................................................................... 86
Marion, Jeanne, Lisa, Zizi, Kate
ROOM NUMBER ONE: ANONYMITY.............................. 100
Linda, Pamela, Marie
ROOM NUMBER TWO: THE AUDIENCE......................... 108
Caroline, Elspeth, Mary Jo, Melanie, Celeste
ROOM NUMBER THREE: ****....................................... 116
Julietta, Gail, Dinah, Sadie
Barbara, Edith, Rose Ann, Amanda
ROOM NUMBER FIVE: DOMINATION............................ 133
Nathalie, Poppy, Heather, Ingrid
Johanna, Anna
Emma, Donna
Monica, Betty, Phyllis
Vivian, Marina
ROOM NUMBER TEN: i****t........................................ 168
Bella, Dominique, Lola
ROOM NUMBER ELEVEN: THE ZOO.............................. 175
Jo, Rosie, Dawn, Wanda
Margie, Raquel, Lydia
ROOM NUMBER THIRTEEN: YOUNG BOYS.................. 185
Evelyn, Victoria
ROOM NUMBER f******n: THE FETISHISTS ........... 188
Christine, Dolly, Bee, Venice, Lilly, Rita, Mary Beth,
Viv, Lee, Willa, Dana, Cara, Celia, Theresa, Tania,
Michelle, Sandra, Patty
c***dHOOD...................................................................... 209
Theda, Lindsay, Fiona, Felicia, Sonia, Phyllis, Marlene,
Kay, Trudy, Mona, Stella
SOUNDS............................................................................. 221
June, Nina, Meg, Holly, Evie
WOMEN DO LOOK ........................................................... 225
Fay, Sukie, Constance, Deana, Anna, Vera, Una, Lois,
Liz, Winona, Rudy, Gale, Imogene, Francine, April,
Myrna, Laurie, Jeanie
SEEING AND READING.................................................... 234
Mary Jane, Miranda, Margaret, Alexandra, Stephanie
RANDOM ASSOCIATIONS ............................................... 243
Susie, Adrienne, Doris, Lulu, Daisy, Kit, Flossie, Josie,
Brett, Sarah, Maud, Gelda
WOMEN’S GUILT.............................................................. 257
Christiana, Hope, Lil, Alison, Clare, Penelope ................. 267
MEN’S ANXIETY .............................................................. 268
Tina’s husband ................................................................ 269
FANTASY ACCEPTED........................................................271
Gloria, Hannah, Sophie, Bobbie, Paula
FANTASIES THAT SHOULD BE REALITY ....................298
Sylvia, Babs, Elizabeth, Winnie, Loretta, Sheila,
Claudine, Jocelyn
SHARING FANTASIES ...................................................... 311
Lynn, Jacqueline, Doris, Bonnie, Jessie, Esther, Posie,
Marx, Joan, Adele’s husband
Quickies .................................................................................327
by Martin Shepard, M.D., psychiatrist, ................................ 340
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
c***dren 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 f***e
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 ****, 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 f***es us to acknowledge the probability
that fantasies are as necessary to our sexual well-being as dreams
are to healthy sl**p. 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 c***d 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 f****y 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 u*********s 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, f****y 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 f***es 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 **** 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 oldfashioned
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 openminded
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 sl**p.
All this time, and especially afterward when I know he’s
asl**p – 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 f******n. 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 f***ed to kneel in front of
him, and when he tells me to, I am f***ed 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 f***ed 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 f***es his massive prick in my
mouth and holds my nose so that I am f***ed to suck and
swallow his come. It seems to squirt endlessly dawn my throat.
As a final act, I am f***ed 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 sl**ping 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 v******e 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 sl**ping. 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 bl**dy 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 c***dren 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 k**napped 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 "****" 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 f***e me to have it with him, in
the hope that he might sort of **** 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
****d, 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 l, 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 oldfashioned
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 s*******n, 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 ****d.
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 c***dhood 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 k**s 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 Harrison’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 c***dren 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 c***dhood 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 c***dren’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 f****y 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 u*********s 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 f******n, 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 c***dhood 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
f***e 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 f***e; 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 c***d … " [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 c***dren 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 d****s, 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 f***ed
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 c***dren 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 c***dhood’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
c***dren, 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-mâché, 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 f***e 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 u*********s 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 sl**p 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, k**," 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 sl**p, 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 c***d 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 c***d…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 b*****r’s room, showing Dagwood 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 f******n, 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 ****d 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 c***dren. 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…anything 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
[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 k**s, 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 k**s 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 a****l. My sexuality, while
a****l, 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. I 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
c***dren. 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 i****t 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 bl**d 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 ****s 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 k**s 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 ‘l 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 c***d 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 k**, 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 c***dhood the
phone calls, and my mother crying. I can even remember saying
to myself as a k** 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 r****g 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 a****l 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 a****l 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 a****l thrusts. Renee cries and moans with pleasure, and
finally she begins to rotate her hips as I watch Anjou’s long
a****l maleness move in and out of her exposed cunnie. The
fleshy lips cling to his a****l 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 a****l maleness, since I feel she
might be disturbed, thinking I would prefer an a****l 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 a****ls. 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 a****l, the donkey. I follow this
through from beginning to end: the a****l 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 sl**p 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 asl**p 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
**** 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 s****r? 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 r****t’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…I
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 scène. 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 whiprnaster 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
asl**p. 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 sl**p.
A man’s shadow falls across me; he stands looking down at me
as I sl**p. He’s very tanned and wears only swimming trunks. He
watches, and as he watches me sl**ping 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 sl**p 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 sl**ping 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 c***d. 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 reinf***es 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 m