"6": Fantasy and taboo

My sexual fantasies generally follow a similar trajectory: uber-exhibitionism and being a fucktoy for many men. These are the fantasies I masturbate to, the images that inevitably bring me to clitoral orgasm.

It's always been like this, for a long as I can remember.

A friend sent me a link to this article in the Economist, Secret Cinema. A few highlights from the article: "Some people, not unexpectedly perhaps, fantasise about celebrities. A handful imagine romantic tenderness with their real-life partners. But many of those surveyed say they like thinking about doing disgusting things with, to, or in front of, total strangers, or (perhaps more unsettlingly) the people they love.... The upshot is that nine out of ten people have sexual fantasies, mostly pretty lurid ones—and Mr Kahr thinks the remaining tenth are crippled by shame, guilt or repression."

We all have them. Some of us (though I'd wager it's a small number) act on them. My first foray into playing out fantasies was with a very willing partner. He had an acting background, was very animated and could improvise very easily and convincingly. He was game for every fantasy scenario I suggested: Me, office slut interviewing for a job, must fuck every employee daily; me, on my way home from grocery shopping, I am thrown into my stairwell and molested by forceful stranger, etc. However, no matter how engaged he was, or we were, the fantasies were never quite satisfying. I never felt like I was completely in them, like they could take on a life of their own.

Until I met Andre. With him, the line between fantasy and reality was constantly blurred. Since I agreed early on to concede control to him, I never knew what was going to happen next. We journeyed together into my dark places and the territory felt very real, and very fraught with uncertainty and potential danger.

I could say no at any time but I had challenged myself not to. Ever. I was a perpetual yes. I exposed to him the underbelly of my desires and let myself succumb to them. To him. To myself. The more I *realized*, i.e. made real, my internal experiences, the more the nature of my own reality began to change. By unleashing my demons, the secret, masturbatory fantasies I'd carried with me for years, I found myself feeling different after these experiences. I felt less fear. More self-assured. More whole. I felt less concern about what other people thought of me and freer to be more of who I was/am. The less I judged myself (by owning my fantasies and sharing them openly, outwardly), the less I felt susceptible to judgment by others. I simply wasn't fazed any longer about what people thought of me. I felt free to be myself. I've also found that being able to share these parts of myself with a lover, someone who accepts me, and vice verse, has brought us closer together. I think a lot of us live in fear of judgment about our sexual desires, when in reality, these experiences are amazing portals to self-realization.


This idea that the key to wholeness lies in exploring and understanding our "dark sides" is a theme that is repeated consistently in mythology and psychology the world over. I'd hesitate to label these areas as truly "dark" though. They are secret, often uninhabited areas of our psyches and, from my own experience, fertile territories for growth. For example, the Greek story of Persephone sees her banished to spend six months (half the year; quite a long time when you think about it) in the underworld. When she returns to the earth's surface for the other six months, spring accompanies her - rebirth and illumination.

Jung talks about the shadow as being areas of the unconscious that are socially unacceptable, as well as undeveloped positive potential. He suggested that the more these thoughts and behaviors were suppressed, the larger the shadow grew. "In spite of its function as a reservoir for human darkness—or perhaps because of this—the shadow is the seat of creativity."

The Senoi dreamers of Malaysia apply the same concepts of approaching "darkness" to their dream travels: whenever encountering danger in a dream, the dreamer was encouraged to confront and conquer his or her attacker. Once obliterated, the dreamer asks this now defunct "demon" for a gift. There is transformation.

The greatest gifts I've received from the people in my life, Andre being one of them, was their understanding and utter acceptance of me and my myriad shadows. This lack of judgment - of ourselves and others - liberates us. It isn't achieved without courage though, both in the revealing and the accepting.


Photos: Lauren Bentley, "Where I buried my secrets"
Other photos: Sources unknown.

"6": On availability

My sole purpose in my relationship with Andre was to make myself thoroughly, constantly available. To him or anyone he might choose to offer me to. I loved this. I loved walking around with the feeling that anyone, anytime, could grope me, manhandle me, shove me up against a wall and lift my skirt, part my pussy and impale me. I felt open. Open to my sexuality, open to life.

For as long as I can remember, I've imagined myself amongst groups of men, their plaything, at their service, absolutely willing to do anything that will please them. And make them come. There's a part of me that could happily spend the remainder of my days as a fuck-cum-slut whose only purpose is to please men. I love this idea and it turns me on immeasurably.

From the beginning, I felt that this experience with Andre would be a powerful one if I was willing to give myself completely to it. And so I did. There could be no half measures, or I might as well not be doing it at all. This required complete trust. There were a few ground rules in this dynamic: 1) I was to tell him everything and keep nothing back. 2) I deferred all sexual activity to him – including masturbation and other partners. My entire being – my body, my thoughts, my feelings – all were his domain. My autonomy no longer existed.

This access extended to my inner life. He had me keep a journal (my book of revelation) of my experiences and my fantasies and to note any changes in them. These notes I was to present to him at the end of each week for his perusal. It was a very intimate act, to write openly for myself and let him see all of that. Sometimes I would hesitate in the writing, knowing he'd be reading in the future. But I'd write whatever it was anyway.

He’d mine my writing for cues, directions of where to take me, of which part of my psyche was begging to be uncovered next. My deepest fears and most secret desires became the scripts for our adventures. He’d extract them from my writing, these confessions, (mostly a desire for cock) and amplify them in real life situations. He was a master director, and I gave him free reign. He created opportunities for me to face my demons and disintegrate them. I would come out of these evenings - later spent with my head on his chest, his strong arms around me, encircling me - transformed. He took me demon-hunting.

During my first group sex adventure with Andre, I met a beautiful artist boy. He was very pretty, with wavy, dirty blond hair, full, ruby lips and a shy smile. By the end of the evening, I was lying on a bed with about five other people. I was on my back, with my head tilted to the side, softly kissing Andre, utterly melting. Another man stood over me and rubbed my nipples between his fingers. The boy who painted murals buried his face between my legs. He was very passionate, sucking on my lips while thrusting his tongue inside me. Very focused. Very loving. It was the best cunnilingus I'd ever received in my life. I worried that acknowledging this in my writing might hurt Andre but I wrote it. This bred an incredible intimacy because instead of a haggling, “Will you still love me if I tell you this?” there was instead a complete acceptance of desires, demons and weaknesses. Without judgment.

There were other rules. I was to always wear skirts or dresses. With no panties. (It's something I still do when I wear skirts, except when I know I'll be in the company of someone who makes me very wet. For the sake of saving my pretty silk dresses from being stained, I'll wear panties.) I was always to stand and sit with my legs parted, arms and hands behind my back, and my mouth open, constantly embodying these symbols of accessibility. When he took me out, depending on where we went, these rules always applied, and usually in greater degree.

If we went to visit his friends, I was to strip naked upon entering their homes and immediately make myself fully available to them. He would place me in the center of the room, naked in some kind of position that allowed my legs to be spread. I might be kneeling with my legs open, lying down on the ground with my knees up and pussy exposed. Or, I’d be on all fours in the middle of the room with my cunt thrust high in the air. The men would be sitting on couches around me, talking about their days and their businesses. Every once in a while, one of them would come over and play with me as the others would comment in low voices. Appreciative. Encouraging. Andre chose with whom, when and how. There was a beautiful thrill in the uncertainty of never knowing who might touch, enter or use me.


I loved being the center of attention, loved my cunt being the focus of the room. Loved the fact that any of them, anytime, might reach over and explore my pussy. My pussy, that would slowly start to swell and lubricate itself, involuntarily. Welcoming.

In my day to day life, I found that men could sense and smell my availability. I'd be in a grocery store and a man would react to me. He'd be standing with his wife, waiting to pay when he'd notice me and become slack-jawed. I'd smile, warm, inviting and imagine spreading my legs for him. And I'd smile some more. I'd look at him with a look that said he could have me. Right there. Right then. On the floor. With his wife watching us. Or joining us. Either was fine with me.


Photos: Cynthia Cortes and Chip Willis