FOREWORD (38 page)

CRAIG

I am twenty-four years old, a college graduate, and have a very sexy girl friend. She is still somewhat reluctant to discuss her fantasies with me; but after reading your books, she has become a little more open. I have admitted that I have had sexual fantasies, but have yet to tell her about a single one.

One fantasy goes like this:

The couple next door have been transferred to another, section of the country. He has already left to start to work, and his wife is staying here to try to sell the house. She (I’ll call her Betty) is about twenty-six years old, five-nine (slightly taller than I), 37-26-36, and sexy as hell. I receive some of their mail, so I go over there. It’s about ten A.M. I go to the back door (as usual) and find it open. Looking in, I see Betty lying on her back completely naked, with her collie licking her cunt. Betty is wriggling around on the kitchen floor, moaning with pleasure, urging the collie on. She spreads her legs wider and pulls the collie’s nose and tongue into her. I am watching silently, getting a tremendous hard-on. Suddenly, she pushes him away, and spinning around on Nancy Friday

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the floor, she grabs his prick and begins to suck him off. She swallows practically all of the pink, fleshy cock. I begin to strip off my clothes as she shifts positions again. She rolls over and gets up on her knees. The collie knows what to do.

He’s up on his hind legs and over her ass. She reaches around and guides his cock into her dripping cunt. His cock plunges in and out as Betty pushes her ass back to him. Before I can finish stripping, Betty lets out a low, long moan. The collie shoots his prick into her harder and faster, and is ready to come. Betty lets out a scream as the collie shoots his wad into her pussy. After a few moments, she pulls away from him, leaving him whimpering. The collie licks her cunt when she rolls onto her back to rest.

Now, for the first time, she notices me. She smiles and tells the collie to go downstairs. Then she takes my cock and leads me to her bedroom. I lay on my back as she begins to suck my cock and stroke my thighs. She drives me crazy –

licking, nibbling, stroking, sucking, pinching my cock and balls. She then mounts me, her boobs bouncing up and down as she rides me. When I near the point of no return, she hops off and kneels next to me on the bed. Her boobs surround my cock when she leans over and rubs her breasts together. In a few moments, she’s back on her knees with her ass sticking up. I get behind her and drive my throbbing cock into her slippery cunt. Reaching around, I grab her boobs, stroking them and pulling on the nipples. She yells for the collie, and in runs the panting canine. “Let him fuck your ass,” she moans, “he knows how.” The collie jumps up behind me and begins to search for my asshole. I reach back and grab his cock, place it at the hole, and push it in slowly. He shoves it in quickly and begins humping. I’m going wild!! My cock is ready to explode as I feel Betty’s cunt tighten around it. The collie’s cock is filling my ass to the point of tearing it (and me) open. Heavy breathing is interrupted by Betty’s loud moaning scream, followed by my orgasmic gasp and the collie’s LOUD high-pitched yelping. We collapse on the bed, Men In Love

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the collie pulling out and hopping to the floor – my cock still in Betty.

PAUL

I am thirty-five years old, happily married, and have two children.

My fantasies are usually in the form of daydreams prior to going to sleep or any time I’m alone and relaxed. They are not always accompanied by masturbation. A very exciting one goes this way:

I am in Africa, in charge of crating wild animals. I have a lioness drugged and secured with leather straps so she can’t move to bite or claw. The big cat is in heat, her pussy is hot and inviting, and I am very hard but also very much afraid of her, aware that she is a dangerous animal. The shamefulness of the act and the fear of discovery add to my excitement.

She growls and strains against the straps as I approach from the rear. The hair is up on the back of my neck as I touch my penis to her cunt lips. My body is tensed for a fast withdrawal. I penetrate her slowly and she responds by arching her back and moving her lips sensuously. The sensation is out of this world, very intense. Her cunt is very hot and fits me perfectly; my thrusting becomes faster and I come quickly and copiously.

I am immediately ashamed and look around to see if I am discovered, but all is well and I promise myself to do it again and be one of very few or perhaps the only one to have experienced it and lived to enjoy it.

I have had this one first as a night dream and since as a fantasy. A tigress, Saint Bernard, mare and heifer have all been fantasy partners even though in real life I have never had my penis in an animal.

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One of the persistent legends of history is that the insatiable Catherine of Russia was killed while attempting sexual union with a horse. The sling broke; the weight of the animal crushed her.

Men need no proof of their own sexual desire; the bulge in their pants never lies. What becomes almost more important, therefore, is to find a woman who is equally aroused, who gives evidence of it – not in equivocal words, but in acts as indisputable as an erection. This is why animal/human sex has always had a vivid place in the erotic imagination. It is the logical culmination of ideas previously discussed: women in heat, women hungry for sex, the woman out of control, who masturbates, takes another woman to bed, or even seduces the male – all these notions about the wantonness of women find ultimate expression if she will turn to a dog or horse for sex. All their lives, men have dreamed of a woman who will match their “animal lust.” Women like Catherine are the Queens of Fantasy.

All this having been said, let me hasten to add that the idea carries a certain ambivalence for men. One sex therapist tells me that his patients often talk of porno films about women and animals. “They can do this,” the doctor said, “because the movie is not something they thought up. When I ask them, since these scenes held their interest so strongly, if they ever have such fantasies themselves, the answer I invariably get is ‘no.’ The emotions let loose in these fantasies are just too threatening to admit.”

This leads me to risk repeating what must be a familiar lit-any by now: We must not confuse fantasy wishes with desires we hope will come true. Some people would like to act out their fantasies. Others would be repelled or frightened.

Many a man finds a woman who is ready for a Great Dane sexually provocative – but only if she is safely locked up inside his head.

13

“She Made Me Do It!”

I am awed by the work of the unconscious. I awake in the morning, go to my typewriter, and find problems that defeated me yesterday have been solved in my sleep; new words, fresh ideas flow – at least for an hour or two, until repression sets in again. Fantasies perform similar work, offering alternatives to knotted, conscious, logical thought.

They are safe playgrounds in which the imagination can experiment with problem solving. “How would it feel if I did this, if she did that...?” Time and space along with human events are being rewritten; roles and reversals one might not dare assume in life are tried on for size.

Many men describe their reality as a place where they must be “strong.” (How I hate that word. Isn’t it too simpleminded to explain anything so complex as human relations?) Only in fantasies can they relax their rigid definitions of masculinity – occasionally allow themselves to follow, for instance, instead of lead. The woman is assigned the sexual initiative, and God, doesn’t it feel good!

It may seem lusty and dashing always to be the one who chooses the woman, who decides when, where, and how the bedroom scene will be played. But isn’t her role safer? The man is like someone who has suggested a new restaurant to friends. What if it doesn’t live up to expectations he has aroused? The macho stance makes the male the star performer. The hidden cost is that it puts the woman in the role of critic.

Having tasted the pleasures of abandoning sexual responsibility in their fantasies, some men wish they could carry over these attitudes to daily life. Younger men in particular seem to feel that this is little risk to their gender identity.

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found a woman who likes to lead, wouldn’t she regard them as lacking in manliness? Wouldn’t they themselves?

The preceding chapters dealt with women so hungry for sex that they masturbate, take other women or even animals to bed-scenes in which the man just watched or occasionally joined in. Here at the heart of this book, we come to the logical culmination of such notions: fantasies of sexually secure, dominant women who invite, take, or even force the man.

One of the major-themes in male fantasy is the abdication of
activity in favor of passivity.
Role reversal.

In these scenarios, it is not the man who is the seducer, but the woman. Only one idea is more popular among the men I’ve heard from: sadomasochism. And even in S&M, as we will soon see, more often than not
it is once again the woman
who takes the commanding role.
What the two chapters have in common is the profound desire in men to be relieved of women’s anger, sexual guilt, fear of rejection and/or poor performance. Men may put up a facade, broadcasting their eagerness for the role of ever-ready sexual stud. And in fact, they often do enjoy playing it out. But in their heart of hearts, right along with this active desire, is a passive one: let
her
do it for once.

These ideas may puzzle people who take the surface appearances of male sexuality for the whole. Once we are aware of the masculine conflict, the glamour of these ideas is overwhelming; the man’s rage is eased, his love doubled. The beloved figure who once denied him sex is now making him do it, seducing him in ways that have always been beyond his wildest dreams.

Earlier in this book, I granted that my contributors were special; I don’t think that if Mr. Gallup polled the male American population he would come up with the same results. (How can you poll the unconscious?) Nevertheless, I feel these ideas represent the yearnings of some buried part of every man even if, because they threaten conventional notions of masculinity, they become unconsciously disguised.

The hypochondriac, for instance, may secretly enjoy surren-Men In Love

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dering responsibility to his wife, but his various “maladies” enable him to say he doesn’t enjoy it at all. This is what I mean by an unconscious fantasy: one that denies itself, but happens anyway.

Let’s take the woman who asks a man “What are you thinking about, sweetheart?” He might be lolling back in the dark, lost in a reverie of being seduced, having sex thrust on him, passive and inert while the dream partner does all sorts of unspeakable, pleasurable things to him. “Thinking?” he says. “Nothing. Only you.” My point is that this man is not consciously lying. I have mentioned often enough that women’s favorite fantasies are about rape/force/”He made me do it!” It turns out that men’s favorite fantasies are not about raping/forcing/making women do it. In fantasy, men want exactly what women want: to be done to.

Is the average man going to admit that? Probably not even to himself.

Is what Michael (below) describes really rape? Is he hurt, humiliated? Fundamentally, is what happens to him really against his will? There is no more pain or reluctance on Michael’s part than there is in similar fantasies, beloved by women, of the demanding male brute.

The force being used in both cases is an excuse, a psychic guilt-alleviator. Just as women’s fantasy attackers “make them” open their legs so they can innocently get all the uninhibited fucking Nice Girls are otherwise not allowed, so men like Michael feel they must be “raped” in order to get the kind of lovely, sexually done-to pleasures they’ve always wanted but feared would show them to be unmanly. The simple taking in of love, passivity, is the common and universal ground from which both sexes start, a yearning none of us entirely outgrow.

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MICHAEL

I am black, twenty-two, and boyishly cute (according to a lovely woman I work with, who is ten years older than me). I earned a B.A. in political science recently, and am using it well – as a junior high school English teacher. This is not bad except that I wanted to fly with the Air Force. (I’m a frustrated fighter jock.)

Okay, that out of the way, I have a fetish which forms the basis of my favorite fantasy.

I fantasize being raped – by a woman. I have heard of it, but don’t know how the victims got it up and kept it up. Anyway, my rapist is a young lady who works in the guidance office; she’s my age, quiet, sweet looking, and she has one maddening quirk – we’re the same height shoeless, but she wears platforms. (I spent some time as a cadet in a paramili-tary search-and-rescue unit as a teenager, so I habitually wear black low-quarter shoes). I hate platforms) We’ve never really done anything together; she’s not a bit like what myself and my buddies find, feel, fuck and forget on the singles bar scene we usually prowl. I like her too much to think of her that way, which is a happy first for me. We are so busy in our separate jobs that we don’t even see each other much.

One other thing; she is hard to talk to; this is because I’m a victim of the good old all-American male double standard; she’s no pickup, so I get tongued-tied around her. To her, I must be the picture of studied indifference.

In the fantasy, we’ve been on our first date, a rather nice evening of quiet dinner, movie and conversation afterwards in a favorite cocktail lounge. Now, we’re at her doorstep, and I kiss Evelyn (her name) good night. Her door is opened as I turn to walk away – and suddenly, I feel hands on my shoulders and a shoe kicking my knee. My balance is gone and I’m falling, victim of a perfect rear takedown. As I fall, I’m sorting things out; where’d he or they come from, and I better start fighting back; they’ll hurt her!

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