Tag Archives: fantasies

Getting Nailed

I aspire to write something good today, but for now my head’s in other spaces. This morning’s just getting started after one of my best sleeps in months. I’ve been so tired so long I’ve forgotten what good sleeps felt like. Fucking awesome is what they feel like.

Watching Weeds this morning, and it’s a great episode with lots of sexual innuendo, but the one that had me cracking right up has to do with Mary Louise Parker introducing her black (“African-American”) drug connection friend, Conrad (played by the oh-so-hot Romany Malco) as her “carpenter” for what will soon be her new front business for her drug-dealing escapades, to her uptight-bitch suburban-mom friend, Elizabeth Perkins, who’s about to lose her breasts to breast cancer and wants one last night on the town with her Girls.

Perkins’s character is seeing Conrad as being a potentially fun night of diversions and convinces her friend and Conrad to head out for a night of clubbing. During the evening, she turns to Conrad and says:

“Is it true that once a white woman’s had… a carpenter, she never goes back?”

“Damn right,” says Conrad. “When I nail something, it stays nailed.”

I need me a carpenter. Incidentally, I’ve never had a black man, or a carpenter, but they’re on the list. That long fucking list. Sigh. Ethnic guys are hot, but I’m not really into Asians. In my world, Persian guys are sexy and African guys are really sexy. I’ve had an Asian, but not Persian or African. The Asian was nothing to write home about, but I’m not holding that against the whole race, just him.

Fortunately, my sex drive’s been out of commission for a while. For some odd reason — okay, maybe it was reading about a sex scene peppered with drugs and illegal moves — the one time my drive fired up was yesterday when I was sitting with foils in my hair and my ass in a hairdresser’s high chair. How inconvenient is that? Nothing but pretentious hair chicks around and gay men. How bad of timing do my hormones have, anyhow?

And I can’t get oral sex — giving and receiving — out of my head this morning. Gah!

The Fantasy Business

The guy is asleep, about four feet to my left. He looks so different when he’s sleeping.

We were talking the other night and I told him I would have to start getting up before him for awhile on weekends, so I could write, as it’s really important to me. He understood, naturally, and began narrating, suggesting the above opening line as an opening line. I had different ideas in mind, naturally, but hey… I’m in the fantasy-fulfilling business, you know.

And maybe you don’t know it, but you are, too.

I was reading a certain high-profile sex blog yesterday in which another blog was mentioned, in both a positive and negative manner.* The former blog included a negative mention of the latter’s recent dismissal of her lover’s desire to come on her tits sometimes. The latter told her man he was “acting like an idiot,” and apparently he apologized, saying he was “horrified” with his behaviour.

Yeah. Right. Both myself and the voice of the former blog state that any notion of this guy truly being “horrified” is more hilarious than it is likely.

What is likely, though, is that she managed to, in one simple, fell swoop, dissuade her man from being anything but truly honest with her in the future. She more than likely made him feel like an idiot, though. Shame’s a killer in a relationship, and she’s going to come to regret that, whether she wants to admit it or not. Somewhere down the road, she’s gonna wonder where it all changed. Well, that’s the fulcrum there, baby.

Sex takes all kinds. We’ve all got strange little fantasies, although his wasn’t all that strange, nor really out of the norm at all. Far be it for me to suggest you do anything you’re uncomfortable with, but as far as fantasies go, allowing your guy to shoot his load on your tits isn’t exactly all that invasive.

Personally, I’ve admitted before that I’m not really into the above. Would I shut a lover down for asking? Jesus, no!

Your job, as a lover, is to listen to your partner’s wishes, dreams, and desires. That means, if they have a d-i-r-t-y fantasy, you should be listening to it. Do you have to partake? Absolutely not. But I don’t care if you’re the goddamned Queen of England – you have NO right to ridicule them or mock them for their wishes. Don’t you EVER think otherwise.

Deep down inside, I’ve always had this ridiculously stupid fantasy of having sex in an anti-gravity chamber. Yeah, loverboy and I are cracking the code for NASA and taking a field-trip. Right. (Although there was reportedly a hotel in Paris that offered the services once upon a world, if I recall correctly.) Still, I’ve thought of it more than once. It’s there, on that list, “Things I’ll do if the chance arises.” Mental note made, long, long ago.

Fantasies are what they are, and everybody has the right to them. Shutting down your lover for their wishes is akin to telling your kid they’re too stupid to be an architect. Who in the HELL do you think you are?

Don’t like the idea? Just say no. Tell them you understand why it might get them off, but you’re uncomfortable with performing that act. They’re not insulted, and you’ve made your point known. Peachy.

But in a perfect world, you’d grow the hell up, and realize that most of these things aren’t going to kill you, but they might take your lover to a place they’ve never been before. Now you decide. Do you want to be a selfish person, and just say no all the time, or do you want to explain that it doesn’t do anything for you, but you’re willing to indulge their desires, if it makes them happy, once in a blue moon?

Consider it like one of those strange food cravings we’ve all had: pickles and ice cream, a bacon & peanut butter sandwich, liver and onions. It’s not a regular part of our diet, but once in a frickin’ while you just can’t help yourself. There’s almost this shame behind it. I’m eating bacon with peanut butter. Just like that fat fuck Elvis. Is there a dire future with a toilet in front of me? We’re secretive about it. Guilt, guilt, guilt, baby, but GOD, it feels good.

Now, imagine you’re sitting there, dreaming of this sandwich, and in comes your lover, who’s always stated it’d make him/her ill to have one. And there they are, holding the sandwich with bacon cooked just the way you like it, on the best bread, with the best peanut butter, and they made it themselves. Now, I guarantee you, apart from just satisfying a craving, it’s gonna be the best fucking sammich you ever sank your teeth in. It’s a gift, it’s thoughtful, and completely selfless.

Like fulfilling any fantasy can be.

And let me say another thing: If you lord it over them (“see how generous I am? You owe me, you know,”) then you’re still a lousy lover, don’t kid yourself. It’s not about power or debt or superiority. It’s about just being there in a way that makes your lover feel a little more validated by you.

Hmm. And you know? Mine really does look a little different while he’s sleeping, and it’s time I returned to him.

Listen to your lovers. Indulge them sometimes. Never judge them. Always respect them. Is it really so fucking hard?

*I’d rather not give publicity to her in a negative way. She’s already getting slammed, and if she reads this, she’ll know it’s her.

A Game For New (And Old) Lovers

Part of the fun of a new relationship is that of getting to know each other. We get to make a mental checklist. You learn their mannerisms, routine comments, favourite phrases, what their contemplative expressions are, how they look in that moment where they’re truly relaxed, and so forth. In the bedroom, it’s no different.

(But let’s be honest. The beauty of a great relationship is that you continue learning about your lover over the long term. Hell, we never stop learning about ourselves, so how could we ever stop learning about them?)

We forget, sometimes, how truly expansive the land of lovemaking is. It covers vast territory, and the amount of activities at our disposal is legion. Sometimes, it might be nice to have a map at our disposal.

Enter this little game I’ve thought of. Let’s call it “School Me, Baby.” It’s a lusty little literary exercise, the kinda thing that turns a geek like me on.

You and your lover go to the bookstore and you each pick out a book on sexuality that best appeals to you. Now, it’s not rocket science, this book-selecting thing. Most of them will cover all the basics, but the question is whether or not it covers the best for you. I mean, self-help books are like underwear; almost any will technically do the job, but which best fits you is a highly subjective matter. In this matter, you want to ensure that the book covers everything from foreplay to positioning. If you’ve got kinks, you may have to buy a second book to reflect that, too, so go right ahead.* Take the time to scan through books. If you’re not really pro at deciding what books work for you, simply pick one subject to look up in each; say, oral. Read. Whichever passage evokes the experience best for you, that’s the book that best fits you.

So, you pick a lazy Sunday morning, head into the bookstore together, and spend an hour or two just browsing through sex books in the corner together. Decide which one each of you wants to take home, buy them, and head back to the pad.

Now you get to either head home to read in different parts of the house, or you can separate for the day and read in different areas. The only thing is, you’re going to decide how much you’ll be reading, and if you want to, what sections you’ll be covering. (Foreplay? Oral? Anal? Kinky? Old-fashioned lovemaking? Something rougher? Waterplay?)

You’ll make arrangements to meet again soon – that night, the next – for dinner.

Between now and then, your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to read the required readings with a highlighter in hand. Anything that turns you on, gets you revving, or has you touching yourself, you highlight.

You can make an evening of reading the passages together, if you like, or you can trade books and get together again the next night, after you’ve done your homework. I think it’d be kind of sexy and hot to get a bunch of candles going, toss a blanket on the floor, scatter pillows about, and open up to, say, the highlighted section on oral. Naked, sprawled on the floor, the receiver reads the passage out to the soon-to-be-giver, and when the giver’s suitably inspired, they get down to work – possibly even while still being read to.

I have this image of the guy going down, hearing about, oh, say clitoral sucking techniques, and after he gives it a valiant try, looking up, and saying “Like that?” This is one of those times you can have a dialogue while you’re doing it. Have fun, exchange feedback, make it a game where you try slight variations of each technique, and see what one provokes the best reaction. Call it the “compare and contrast” segment of the evening.

Any which way, the point is that you learn from your lover’s perspective, in clear and certain terms, what it is that they find works for them, or what it is they’d like to experience.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, no two bodies are the same. There is no one surefire just-add-water instant-orgasm trick. Everyone has different needs, and for many people, it’s really hard to express exactly what it is we’re desiring. This is one of those little tricks designed to take care of those differences between us all.

VARIATIONS:
Not only can you highlight what turns you on as far as having done to you, but you can also highlight, in another colour, the things you’d love to do to your partner.

You can buy the book for your lover, highlight all the things you’d like to have done to you, and put Post-It notes opposite those sections with little suggestive notes, such as, “And in return, I would pin you down, and then perform – turn to page 94.” On page 94, you’d highlight raunchier parts the passage of what it is you’d do. Use page tabs to mark sections.

When reading your lovers’ book’s highlighted passage, if anything smacks of something you’d like to experience that wasn’t covered in your own book, underline it and mark the page for your lover.

As mentioned above, there are kinks in the world. Kinks are made, not born, and if you’re entering a new phase with your lover where kinks are something you’re wanting to explore together, starting that phase with an exercise like this, except using books focusing on BDSM and other alternative lifestyles, might ensure you’re both on the same page when you’re starting out, or give you an overview of the possibilities the new lifestyle you’re considering might offer to you as a couple.

I Blame It All On George Michael

Creativity’s an organic process; I know what I want to write for y’all, but I can’t help it if something flicks the switch and something else comes out. This morning, I was sweeping the kitchen, dancing around, listening to cheesy ’80s music, when this posting occurred to me. Remembering some of this fodder made me laugh out loud, and I’ve still got a grin on my face. So, hopefully you find the diversion fun. I’ll deliver on the Vixen thing.

When I was in Grade 4/5, Wham! took the world by storm. As always, I was a latebloomer, and I fell for them in Grade 7. George Michael made me swoon. Those lips, those eyes, and oh, my god, that ass.

I would dance around my pink bedroom with Freedom playing on full blast. I dreamed of nothing more than somehow encountering my idol and having an affair. Surely he liked 13-year-old girls, I thought. I mean, eight more months and I, too, would be 13. We would kiss. Madly. Sex wasn’t something I’d be considering much for at least another four or five years, but kissing…

A year or two after that, I saw him walking down the street in Vancouver with this Asian woman on his arms. A few months down the road, she’d come to fame as his lover from the video I Want Your Sex, the famed torso upon which the pop star would write, in lipstick, “Explore monogamy.” I clued in pretty fast, guys like exotic chicks, not 13 year olds, and they liked sex, not kissing, and they liked flat little torsos, it seemed.

But that didn’t faze me. I still loved my George. When I discovered masturbation, George was there with me, that sexy bare chest in those little shorts he used to wear. I didn’t even have to imagine George doing anything to me. The fantasy was an album signing. He looked up. Our eyes locked. I creamed my pants. One glance from George, it seemed, was enough to do me in. Oh, George! (gush) Naturally, masturbation then consisted of dry-humping an interesting pile of teddy bears and pillows contoured in, frankly, very strange places, while holding a little teen magazine with the latest male hottie with a perfect smile on the cover. (Oh, GEORGE!)

Honestly, when I was young, I missed the bus to Hipville. It took me a while to grow out of dorkness. My mom was a bit of a hippy, and my clothes were often homemade and things like that, or just badly chosen. It wasn’t until I left private school (Catholic… think kilts and knee-highs, boys… ooh, tartan) and did public school that I finally found a clue.

George kept me company in those dark years. Corey Hart kinda helped, too, and Michael J. Fox. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been a Johnny Depp girl since 1991.

The best thing I ever did for my sex life in my teens, though, was to buy a pair of Doc Martens. My first weekend in them, Josh. Oh, Joshie, Joshie, Joshie. German and Japanese. What a fucking studmuffin. (I always remember my friend having to explain what a studmuffin was to her confused father. “Why, Daddy, it’s a stud you can really sink your teeth into.”) Josh was built for lovin’ – he was 6’4, broad shoulders, and lips that made for smothering, baby.

Yep. One kiss from Josh and I figured, huh, these boots are something. See, he spots me at a party with all our mutual friends, me and my 13-hole docs, and beelines over, commenting that cherry was always the sexiest colour for him. “Oxblood,” I corrected him. Our lips locked shortly after that for the ultimate in gropefests on the back steps. It was the first time a boy ever grabbed my boobs and squeezed and groped, the first time I knew what it felt like for a boy to fumble as to tried to get under the bra and over the breast, and the first time I ever had the distinct feeling of being moist in public.

Naturally, Josh told the world that it had been us who was making the camper a-rockin’, and a classic teen “But I’m not a slut, that was SUZY!” drama unfolded. But I learned something important then. Image was everything, and George wasn’t doing me no favours. I started experimenting with music and quickly found U2 and Front 242, and learned that bad was good, and haven’t looked back since. These days, I’m a punk rock poser-girl some of the time, but usually just a nitty-gritty indie rock kinda gal. No, no Docs these days, but my Skechers are kinda cute.

Funny thing, though. A while back, I had this guy I was sorta wooin’ after dinner. We were interacting, on the cusp of sex, but the nerves were in the way, so instead we were standing too far apart, with that invisible awkwardness barrier repelling us. My iPOD developed a mind of its own and suddenly Wham! spun on.

“Wake me up, before you go-go
Don’t leave me hangin’ on like a yo-yo”

Next thing you know, the boy and I were bouncing around the kitchen, laughing and singing, washing dishes, cleaning up, and naturally, a spot of water on the floor yielded a well-placed slip, and we collided into each other, against the counter, collectively gasped, locked lips, fumbled about, and the rest unfolded exactly as it should, upon my bed.

I guess our liabilities aren’t always what they seem, and the past is never as far away as we’d like to think. But is that so bad? That night, it wasn’t.

PS: Incidentally, of all my teen idols, GM’s the only one I still find sexy. Not my type per se anymore, but still has “it”.

Rape Fantasies & Masturbation

Please, read the questions listed in the posting below this, regarding male masturbation (questions are applicable to both sexes) and answer, if you can. As a result of those questions, I’ve just received what I think is an important email from a very articulate young man, on masturbation. He writes:

This is going to sound really disturbing to women but I think a lot of men fantasize about rape. I think that rapists are the lowest form of life. Rape is the single most disturbing and horrible thing you can do to a person. Someone that is raped is scarred forever. My best friend was raped and I would kill the man responsible if I could. That is why it bothers me so much that I have fantasized about it. I don’t want you to think that I’m a potential rapist because I have fantasized about it but I think most men probably do. If they can admit it to themselves. The fantasy part of it isn’t about hurting her or scarring her. I think its just about taking something that youre not supposed to have. I guess something thats extremely taboo is sexy to us. Thats why there are movies about rape, incest, pregnant women, etc. I think thats why guys are so interested in anal. We want what we cant have.

Whew. Rape Fantasies. Yeah. Well, I’ve had ’em. But I’m also a strong girl who can take care of herself, and I pity the bastard that tries it.

That said, this is an topic that needs more discussion. It says a lot about human nature, doesn’t it? Here’s the response I sent the guy, word for word, so I can jam and go back to bouncing around to those ponces, Oasis:

I was just playing with some photography and you emailed me as I finished up, so curious, I read it. I’m deliberately not responding to people, but you’re young and clearly disturbed by the rape thing.

IT’S VERY COMMON WITH MEN AND WOMEN!

The thing is, I think it’s a pretty sterilized fantasy — like, nothing too explicit, you know? With guys, I think it’s a subliminal desire to feel like they could have permission to demand and take what they want — but not necessarily through violence. Just a primal thing, like the caveman dragging his woman by the hair. Whereas with women, it’s more a notion of wishing someone would feel that height of desire that they need to take us then and there — but we’d want to kill any man who’d try it.

It’s a really difficult fantasy for most people to come to terms with because the real act is usually outside our ethics, but we are, at heart, animals, and every now and then I think the notion of being true to that, without all these complications of civility and social correctness would be appealing to us all — the sexual equivalent of a cabin in the woods: basic, bare, free of bullshit.

But the reality of rape is something horrific for a lot of people, in both sexes, to come to terms with. So, instead, we never talk about the fact that most of us have thought about it in that faceless-stranger-in-the-night-this’ll-never-happen kind of way.

Thanks for bringing up an important topic. I was ironically thinking of this this morning, so your timing was stellar.