When I was with Jose, “The Bruiser,” he asked me more than once:
What is your ultimate sexual fantasy?
And my white bread, vanilla pudding, tap water, plain clothes answer was always… I don’t really have any.
Which wasn’t strictly true. But I didn’t want to tell him, because fantasies are very very personal. I already felt vulnerable with Jose and I instinctively didn’t trust him with my most private thoughts. But I’ll share them with you, I’m among friends here, right?
I’m doing something very mundane, such as washing dishes or cooking, when my boyfriend comes up behind me and slides his arms around my torso and up under my shirt. He doesn’t speak. He breathes into my neck, cups my breasts in his hands, presses his hips into me. He kisses me on the back of my neck, lifting my hair, all very gently and teasingly. He knows exactly how to turn me on and takes his time about it, toying with the buttons on my jeans, fingering the edges of my panties. When I can’t hold out any longer and turn around, he lifts me up onto the counter & I wrap my legs around his waist, kissing him while I pull his shirt off over his head….
I’m in bed alone, just about to drift off to sleep when I faintly hear the sound of the key in the front door. I’m not alarmed because I know exactly who has the key, but I’m too sleepy to do more than smile to myself. My boyfriend steals into the room and undresses, then moves under the covers and begins kissing my thighs, running his hands over my legs, massaging my feet, then working his way up my body. He is slow and sweet, and as we begin to make love he has his hands tangled in my hair and he is speaking close to my ear terms of endearment in another language so they don’t sound quite as sappy as they always do in English.
I totally blame this one on watching Sleeping Beauty at an impressionable age…. Walking in the forest, it’s the end of a sultry midsummer day, but the cool is seeping through the trees in the gloaming. There are no fucking mosquitoes like there would be in real life; it’s my fantasy after all. I hear the sound of branches crackling under foot and look up to see the hot guy from down the street, also out for an evening walk. We smile at one another but both recognize that speaking would break the peaceful mood, so we just fall into step and continue through the darkening woods together. When the woods open up into a clearing, I turn to leave him and head back towards my home. He reaches out and runs his fingers up the inside of my arm, which is a universal question that I answer by stopping. He takes my hand then, kissing my palm, then sucking on my fingers, as I go down on my knees and unbutton his pants and slide them down his legs. The grass is cool under our bodies and the sound of cicadas in the trees mask any sounds we might make in the night. And did I mention, there are no damn bugs?
The psychoanalysis? God, I’m boring. These are embarassingly tame fantasies. But they have a common theme I find interesting. In every one, I am doing something ordinary and solitary (cleaning, sleeping, walking) when sex is presented spontaneously as an alternative. I guess part of what makes sex exciting to me is the power it has to transport me from my everyday life to a sensual, heightened state of immediacy where everything else falls away for a little while.
I’m an escapist.
~ Sex Kitten (with claws)