A number of years ago, I took a rather casual poll of my lady friends about how they fantasize. I didn’t ask them what their particular fantasies were so much as how they went about it. I was probably in my late twenties, and it was way before I learned the term “kink” or how it applied to me at any rate. I had been with my hubby for probably ten years and had employed fantasy plenty of times particularly during masturbating. I asked my girlfriends if they fantasized and what they did with their husbands to get to the fantasy. In other words, in real life, we were all married, but in fantasy land we were all thinking about men or women who were not our husbands. Where were their men in the back of their minds? You see, I had always rationalized away my husband so that I could be “free” to have fantasies with other men. After all, being monogamous and married meant that having sex with other men would be sort of contrary to my vows. Those of us that I talked to who were under thirty had pretty much the same response. “I pretend that he died in a car accident and that it’s been a year or so, and I’m now free to start off something new.” or, “I pretend that he’s in a coma and I just can’t help myself. When I’m done, he wakes up from the coma and he’s totally understanding of the needs I had while he was asleep. We get back together at the end and all is well.” The need to rationalize the ability to ‘be with someone else’ seemed to play strongest amongst those who were younger. The older women, say over forty, were more likely to say, “What? When I fantasize, I’m not even me, so the hubby doesn’t even come into it.” The older they were, the more likely they were to just go all out into fantasy land and have no need to justify their wanton desires. As I aged, I became much more like my older friends myself. It could be that they influenced me into a more freer frame of mind, but it could be that the need to “be me” in my own fantasies also changed. My earliest fantasies involved my husband being gone for some reason (death, coma, prisoner of war or some-such that he couldn’t be with me), and me coming onto the UPS guy or finally dating someone from the gym.As I got older, I began to fantasize about being someone else entirely in a setting completely unlike my ‘real life.’ Maybe I’d be an elven princess in a fantastical world. Or, I’d pretend I was an astronaut in space experimenting with weightlessness in fun and interesting ways. Or, I’d be a queen in ancient polyandrous Britain with my male harem serving my needs. At any rate, I moved beyond the “me” in fantasy. That morphed later as I discovered electronic role-playing. As a writer, I love to put things down into words, and this form of fantasizing has become one that I really, really enjoy. I make up characters that are all very unique and different and write stories with other people who are doing the same thing. When I’m not actually writing scenes for role-play, I do think about them and let them feed my private fantasies.
After our first child was born, there wasn’t a huge shift in our sexual practice as a couple. We could feel pretty rest-assured that she would stay in her bedroom most of the night, and we could still fool around on the downstairs sofa or outside on the patio for example. It wasn’t until she hit her early teens that we realized the freedom we had was gone for a while. When she started staying up as late as we do, or even later than we do, it became clear that the only way we’d have sex on the dining room table again is to get the kids out of the house. It’s not that we have a particularly comfortable dining room table, but use it as a metaphor for freedom. The ability to take our clothes off where ever we were at the moment and get to business was reduced to nothing. And, as a consequence, a little bit of the excitement of just falling into a hot and heavy lovemaking session at random times and places died with it. We’re at the stage where we still kiss–and even in front of the kids–and maybe do a little touching through clothes if we don’t think anyone can see us, followed by a quick trip up the stairs and to the bedroom behind a closed and locked door. I’d normally be very excited by the idea of someone walking in on us in the middle of sex, but that doesn’t count when it comes to my kids. I know the oldest knows we have sex, but when she’s around I find myself being more quiet than I would like. My urge is to scream loudly during orgasm and let the whole world know I’m a very happy woman, but I’ve managed to curb that a lot. Sometimes, I feel like I need to bury my head in the pillow and scream to let something out. One night I let loose with a long and loud satisfied moan and realized my daughter was in the hallway close outside the door, hovering to knock to ask a question. I hope she realized I was having a good moment, but I haven’t actually brought it up with her. I imagine the conversation we might have. “Erm…did you hear anything, unusual last night,” I would ask. She’d look at me and roll her eyes, “You mean the loud noises you were making? Yuck.” “Oh…did it bother you?” “Mom…eeeuw. I know what you were doing in there. I don’t want to talk about it.” So, I figure it’s better to let her draw her own conclusions when she sees us kissing at the kitchen sink. She’s become way more adept at catching our meaningful glances and has gone so far as to remark on them with a casual, “oh…gross, you guys!” Being demonstrative and open about sex with my kids has always been something I’ve wanted, but there are limits. So when they are home, it’s a show that’s behind a locked door and the sound effects are turned way, way down low.
Whenever I pick up a book, I read it on a number of levels. I read for content, plot and general enjoyment of reading, but I always look at things from a writer’s perspective. I’ll be reading along and come to an abrupt halt. Why did I stop? I’ll pick apart a chapter or paragraph, sentence or word. Why did the writer choose to use that word?
How-to books for erotic writers are filled with admonitions about using sex to further a story and not just for the sake of having a sex scene without context. I’m always on the look-out to see how others accomplish the task of writing erotically within the frame of creating a complete and compelling story.
One of my recent reads was Michael Ondaatje’s In the Skin of a Lion. He is better known for his English Patient, but this work is equal to its sequel. However, I came to the following passage and had to stop and ponder it for a while.
They were sitting on the floor leaning into the corner of the room, her mouth on his nipple, her hand moving his cock slowly. An intricate science, his whole body imprisoned there, a ship in a bottle. I’m going to come. Come in my mouth. Moving forward, his fingers pulling back her hair like torn silk, he ejaculated, disappearing into her. She crooked her finger,motioning, and he bent down and put his mouth on hers. He took it, the white character, and they passed it back and forth between them till it no longer existed, till they didn’t know who had him like a lost planet somewhere in the body.
In context with the rest of the story this passage makes complete sense. The main character is completely passive in his life and is in love with a woman who can’t be his. He sits on the floor, in a corner…his cock is like a ship in a bottle…can there be any more direct way of saying he’s feeling trapped?
Not one of the women in my group reading this book thought this passage was sexually stimulating or particularly enticing. It is, however, one of those scenes that shows more about a relationship that is going nowhere and where someone is completely rudderless.
When they “pass it back and forth til it no longer existed” the man’s semen is a physical metaphor. The entire encounter can be used to set the general timbre of their relationship. They are together only tangentially yet they are one.
The other sex in the novel is alluded to in more general terms. They clearly are having more traditional intercourse, but the scene in the corner is the only one that gives the reader a full understanding to the depth and impossibility of their relationship.
I’m calling the site Writing Sex, but I won’t actually be putting much sexually explicit writing on here. I’m going to be blogging more about the process of writing sex for erotica and how sex influences my life. It’s everywhere and, like the proverbial pink elephant, it’s not talked about much even though it’s taking up a lot of head space. It’s one of those verboten subjects that create tension and uncomfortable feelings along with raised eyebrows. All the while, we are OBSESSED about sex. (At least I am.) I think about sex an awful lot, and it’s not because I’m not getting any.
I’m a happily married woman whose husband would blush with the glowing recommendation I’d give him and his performance between the sheets (even when no sheets are directly involved). But, I do have an imagination that takes me beyond the…erm…every day normal. And, I enjoy writing and thinking about things that I’d never physically be capable of or would really do in real life. Writing is an outlet for that creative and imaginative sexual life that is either unacceptable or not attainable in my real life. I delve into themes and activities in my writing that I don’t even find to be a personal “turn-on” as much as simple exploration. Sometimes it is merely a writing exercise, “Can I even write about this?”
I expect I’ll post about being a parent who (OMG!!!) has sex even though the children are already born. My daughter once looked at me and said, “So…Mom…You have me and Davy*, that means you and dad have had sex twice, right?” I burst out laughing, but in some ways I think that’s about all my daughter could safely imagine at the time. She’s old enough now to know better, but none of us really want to think about our parents having sex, do we? Now that I’m a parent, I don’t realllly want to think about my kids thinking about what my husband and I do behind closed doors. (More on that in another post.)
In short, I will be musing on being a woman, married with children, sex, writing erotic novels, writing in roleplays, and general topics about sex.
*Davy’s is not really my son’s name, duh.