Stuff about fantasy

I’m talking about fantasy because that’s all I know, other than the Internet. And I wanted to articulate a bit, if I can, what that’s like. This post does include some content that might be considered graphic, so consider yourself warned before you click beyond the break.

There are fantasies that entertain me, amuse me, make me feel cozy and comfortable. This ranges from the very vanilla—cuddling, boob-feeling, making out, occasionally actual penetrative sex—to the slightly kinky—bondage, and a little D/s, oral in a D/s context, service-type stuff. Little scenarios about the guys and girls I crush on, sort of relaxing, “Wouldn’t it be nice?” stuff. The way I think my sex life might turn out satisfyingly if I had one.

And then there are fantasies that make me burn with desire. That involve dark scary things that are not okay in real life, that would be downright criminal on so many levels. I create worlds in my head and all the while I’m thinking, “This is not okay. This is terrible. What am I doing?” And all the while I can feel my clit aching and I know that if I dared touch myself, I could get one fucking awesome orgasm out of this one. Just writing this now makes me think of that creepy thrill, lying in my bed late at night, and all thoughts of sleep banished because I am fascinated by what I can imagine.

Perhaps some context is necessary for this monologue, but I don’t even want to talk about what I can think because it seems so embarrassing, so uncool. And it also seems misogynistic, anti-woman, perverted, criminal, psychotic. And despite everything I read all the time about how fantasy is not reality, and how emphatically I believe in consent, and how I recognize that a lot of other people probably have fantasies just like mine, it is not okay on some level. If I could masturbate… to masturbate to these thoughts would be wrong.

It’s strange that I have them, too—but my fantasies have essentially taken the same tack for years and years, in fact more or less as far back as I can remember. Despite identifying as submissive, in my head I torture women. Always women. And I guess the reason I do this is because I am a woman, and because I guess maybe on some level I want to be on the receiving end of that. But my imagination is invariably firmly focused on pain and terror and rape and screams and blood and these contorted expressions of pain on the faces of countless imaginary pretty women. Women used as furniture. Women’s bodies sold by the hundreds. Breasts and buttocks of perfect roundness, being objectified and then abused. How can I think this? I would never want this to happen to me, really, and nor would I want to do it to anyone else. It is too evil for my conscious mind, it seems, and my real-life sense of masochist giggliness, if that made any sense, is rarely if ever so dark. But maybe that’s just because I think I shouldn’t succumb to my unconscious thoughts. Maybe if I did I would be that much edgier.

I think the key reason I can’t get over this being wrong—and that I’m not sure if it’s my own hangup, or if it really is terrible—is that it’s all about women. I don’t like to imagine naked men, and somehow I can picture penetration without a cock, because I don’t want it there. I just want to hear violated women screaming, and to picture their naked bodies. And my god, when I say that I sound like a murderous psychopath. The fact that I cannot confine this to my own desire to be dominated or that I cannot frame it in gender-neutral terms leads me to think of those terrible, scary news stories about abusive men, or all the radfem notions about patriarchy, and how BDSM exploits and encourages it. It makes me think that by contextualizing my subconscious in terms of BDSM, I am telling the anti-BDSM folks what they want to hear, and I am betraying in some way the values of the scene with which I have chosen to align myself, a scene which welcomes safe, sane, and consensual play. And that only. I know that my fantasies are fantasy—but there is no safeword in my dark and terrible universe, and that concerns me still.

Very often, however, I feel that these dark places are the only headspaces (not sure if I used that term right) where I can go that will lead to sexual satisfaction. I don’t know how that happened, since I have had a perfectly normal upbringing empty of psychological trauma, but there it is, and I never have been aroused so much, been so much on fire, by anything vanilla, or just more “normal” in my BDSM-framed sense of “normal”. To let this free is to wreak damage on the world—but to do so is also to achieve self-knowledge and content, and maybe come further to terms with the facets of my sexuality.

It is cathartic to write this post—but I’m still keeping those desires closed in my head. It feels as if they are too powerfully destructive to be let go.

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2 Responses to “Stuff about fantasy”

  1. If you’re still having trouble masturbating, and you think you could orgasm to this, wouldn’t it be useful to try it, just so you know what it would take to get you there?
    It might give you a starting point from which you could work down (or up) to more “benign” fantasies, which, if you’re so bothered by these, might eventually supplant them.

    That seems like it might work for me, at least, but having a penis my situation is different.

  2. […] here’s the problem: the most potent of my fantasies, as I’ve discussed, exist in an explicitly gendered context. I don’t know what you’d call it—a […]

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