Fantasy...
I had an interesting epiphany the other night, thanks to a 2am conversation over coffee and a cigar with a lover.
We were talking about words, and the power they have to turn him on. How they're said (or whispered), what they mean... the whole shebang. He likes words.
I, however, like actions. Words tend to make me giggle, uncomfortable, and squirmy. I haven't had many lovers who can turn me on with nothing but words. Especially since I'm not the most patient sort. If what you're saying sounds good, it's going to feel even better. So lets get down to feelin, k?
But he has an intensely personal, inventive, awesome fantasy life. He can live in his head for long periods of time, emerging to gulp social interactions down, then submerging again. And he's been slowly (very slowly) teaching me to enjoy that realm of fantasy.
It's funny. I actually have an extremely vivid imagination. I can sit on a bus or in a coffee shop and entertain myself for HOURS, never opening a book or needing to be distracted. But when it comes to sex, my fantasies are broken down. I don't imagine scenarios, or specific scenes. I see fragmented glimpses of things, singular moments. I see a woman I'm attracted to, and I imagine running my hands down her hips. I see and feel this in vivid detail; her skin pebbling into goosebumps under my hands, my fingertips tingling as they brush down skin like silk, making small indents as I grasp more firmly. I don't imagine her response in that moment. That's a seperate moment.
When I see a guy I'm attracted to, I imagine what it would be like to suck his cock. Pulling it out of his pants, already hard. That first incredible, wonderfully tactile sensation of silken marble. The coloring, which could be a faint blush, peach and ivory and rose, or darker hues, blue veined, blood pumping close to the surface. That smell, that wonderful smell. Musk, pheremones, a little tangy; like a hayfield on a hot summer day. The sensation on my tongue as I first lean in and lick, that feeling of pebbling skin, sometimes hard and smooth as rock, sometimes softer and textured with extra skin to be played with.
The next step, the next part of the process, is a seperate moment. These thoughts can flash through my head in a heartbeat, and I'm on to the next thought process. I rarely linger over the thoughts as I would over the person.
Even when I'm making the effort, when I'm masturbating and deliberately giving myself time to think of nothing but what would please me, my fantasies are disjointed. Flashes of a man laboring over me, imagining what I would be feeling with his cock inside me and his hands grasping and greedy on my breasts. Then on to the next picture, the next mental image. I think of a thousand different moments in that short space of time, a hundred different lovers and scenes. Sometimes it's all one person, often it's remembered moments of intense pleasure from my past.
But it's never, ever a story. And I'd like it to be a story. Strangely enough, I had sexual fantasies that were stories when I was very young. Some of my first experiences masturbating were to stories. I vividly remember a daydream of being kidnapped by pirates who were led by a boy in my class I had a crush on. The story was straight out of a trashy romance novel, complete with satisfying defiance on my part, and culminating in being forcefully dragged down onto the deck and kissed. I was actually too young at this point to know what sex really was, and had never before read a romance novel. You can be sure I found them shortly after, though, and became thoroughly addicted.
I think that's a part of my problem. I was a virgin till I was 23, and before that point my sex life consisted of other peoples stories. Everything about my fantasy world was handed to me on a platter comprised of perfect scenarios, unrealistic sex, and happy endings. I started to gravitate towards more extreme stories, vivid and violent stories of love and fucking, because the rainbow edged stories of soft, safe, silly drama and sex felt so stupidly unrealistic.
When I finally started having sex, it was with one partner. I experimented a bit before that, but every experience I had was still defined by my deeply unrealistic fantasies. And I wasn't willing to be disappointed, which I knew would happen if I let myself have sex with the many guys I mercilessly teased before J.
Fortunately for me, my first partner was a pretty freaking amazing lover. We were intensely attracted to each other, and he was a kinky, inventive man. My first memories of sex are that of fantasy fulfilled.
And when we broke up, I went on a quest to define my sexuality. I knew I was the type of person to enjoy pushing boundaries, I knew I needed more, wanted different things than most of the rest of the world. Thinking about what I really wanted had always made me frightened. My sexuality had always scared me, mostly because I'd been taught to be ashamed of everything but the most vanilla of world views.
So, instead of thinking about it, I just did it. And I enjoyed almost every moment of it. There are a few moments here and there that make me nervous to think about, where I know I went too far, too fast. I have an intensely vivid memory of looking up and seeing the shadows of a large group of men surrounding me after I'd fucked someone in a public theatre, and getting overwhelmed. With fear, remnants of shame, and sheer lust. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. I wasn't ready for that moment, and I'm still not. But it's not something I truly regret.
So I've lived out many of the things I'd have fantized about in the past in the past couple of years, and I've thoroughly enjoyed it.
But I've grown, and I've become pickier, more discriminating. Fantasy is a connection to self, it's a connection to your own needs and wants. Without it, you're definied by the whim of the moment, and at the mercy of other peoples desires.
I want to KNOW what I want, what makes me happy, not to just experience it. I want to be unashamed of what makes me hot and horny, comfortable enough in my own skin to think unabashedly and fully about the stories those fragmented glimpses of fucking come from.
I guess the next part of my journey is going to be mostly inwards, and I'm used to thinking of that as kind of boring. Somehow I doubt my fantasy life will be boring, though...
It's funny. I actually have an extremely vivid imagination. I can sit on a bus or in a coffee shop and entertain myself for HOURS, never opening a book or needing to be distracted. But when it comes to sex, my fantasies are broken down. I don't imagine scenarios, or specific scenes. I see fragmented glimpses of things, singular moments. I see a woman I'm attracted to, and I imagine running my hands down her hips. I see and feel this in vivid detail; her skin pebbling into goosebumps under my hands, my fingertips tingling as they brush down skin like silk, making small indents as I grasp more firmly. I don't imagine her response in that moment. That's a seperate moment.
When I see a guy I'm attracted to, I imagine what it would be like to suck his cock. Pulling it out of his pants, already hard. That first incredible, wonderfully tactile sensation of silken marble. The coloring, which could be a faint blush, peach and ivory and rose, or darker hues, blue veined, blood pumping close to the surface. That smell, that wonderful smell. Musk, pheremones, a little tangy; like a hayfield on a hot summer day. The sensation on my tongue as I first lean in and lick, that feeling of pebbling skin, sometimes hard and smooth as rock, sometimes softer and textured with extra skin to be played with.
The next step, the next part of the process, is a seperate moment. These thoughts can flash through my head in a heartbeat, and I'm on to the next thought process. I rarely linger over the thoughts as I would over the person.
Even when I'm making the effort, when I'm masturbating and deliberately giving myself time to think of nothing but what would please me, my fantasies are disjointed. Flashes of a man laboring over me, imagining what I would be feeling with his cock inside me and his hands grasping and greedy on my breasts. Then on to the next picture, the next mental image. I think of a thousand different moments in that short space of time, a hundred different lovers and scenes. Sometimes it's all one person, often it's remembered moments of intense pleasure from my past.
But it's never, ever a story. And I'd like it to be a story. Strangely enough, I had sexual fantasies that were stories when I was very young. Some of my first experiences masturbating were to stories. I vividly remember a daydream of being kidnapped by pirates who were led by a boy in my class I had a crush on. The story was straight out of a trashy romance novel, complete with satisfying defiance on my part, and culminating in being forcefully dragged down onto the deck and kissed. I was actually too young at this point to know what sex really was, and had never before read a romance novel. You can be sure I found them shortly after, though, and became thoroughly addicted.
I think that's a part of my problem. I was a virgin till I was 23, and before that point my sex life consisted of other peoples stories. Everything about my fantasy world was handed to me on a platter comprised of perfect scenarios, unrealistic sex, and happy endings. I started to gravitate towards more extreme stories, vivid and violent stories of love and fucking, because the rainbow edged stories of soft, safe, silly drama and sex felt so stupidly unrealistic.
When I finally started having sex, it was with one partner. I experimented a bit before that, but every experience I had was still defined by my deeply unrealistic fantasies. And I wasn't willing to be disappointed, which I knew would happen if I let myself have sex with the many guys I mercilessly teased before J.
Fortunately for me, my first partner was a pretty freaking amazing lover. We were intensely attracted to each other, and he was a kinky, inventive man. My first memories of sex are that of fantasy fulfilled.
And when we broke up, I went on a quest to define my sexuality. I knew I was the type of person to enjoy pushing boundaries, I knew I needed more, wanted different things than most of the rest of the world. Thinking about what I really wanted had always made me frightened. My sexuality had always scared me, mostly because I'd been taught to be ashamed of everything but the most vanilla of world views.
So, instead of thinking about it, I just did it. And I enjoyed almost every moment of it. There are a few moments here and there that make me nervous to think about, where I know I went too far, too fast. I have an intensely vivid memory of looking up and seeing the shadows of a large group of men surrounding me after I'd fucked someone in a public theatre, and getting overwhelmed. With fear, remnants of shame, and sheer lust. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. I wasn't ready for that moment, and I'm still not. But it's not something I truly regret.
So I've lived out many of the things I'd have fantized about in the past in the past couple of years, and I've thoroughly enjoyed it.
But I've grown, and I've become pickier, more discriminating. Fantasy is a connection to self, it's a connection to your own needs and wants. Without it, you're definied by the whim of the moment, and at the mercy of other peoples desires.
I want to KNOW what I want, what makes me happy, not to just experience it. I want to be unashamed of what makes me hot and horny, comfortable enough in my own skin to think unabashedly and fully about the stories those fragmented glimpses of fucking come from.
I guess the next part of my journey is going to be mostly inwards, and I'm used to thinking of that as kind of boring. Somehow I doubt my fantasy life will be boring, though...
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