Howl
How I’m Using My “Kinkiest” Fantasy as a Vehicle for Sexual Healing
Sometimes, we just need to indulge…
I have a new sexual fantasy. And it’s pretty outrageous. So much so that I’m afraid sharing it will cause people to judge me. And it’s something that I tuck into my “kink closet” because I would never expect to live out this fantasy in real life.
This new kink of mine, this new fantasy, in a nutshell, is (don’t judge) all about me being entirely and overwhelmingly indulged in the bedroom.
Yes, I’m being cheeky to call it kink, of course. But I really do mean it that I would never share this with a potential male lover. I can already imagine his response. Oh, she’s one of those women. It’s all about her.
I’m not, though. I consider myself an exceedingly generous partner, both in and out of the bedroom. I’ve always tried to treat my partners like royalty — to shower them with pleasure and love and attention. And mostly, I fear I have asked for too little in return.
That’s where this fantasy comes from, I suspect. To dare to wonder what it would be like to ask for more. Or better yet…to not have to ask. To just be given it freely.
I started thinking about this a couple months ago when I was having a little fun with myself. It seemed like a silly, superficial fantasy, so it surprised me how much I started getting into it. So much so that it inspired an article, in fact, about “breaking my sexual glass ceiling.” I mentioned the fantasy in the article, and almost included it there, but I was still having too much fun working out the details.
There are very specific circumstances in this fantasy, which is funny, because that is not usually the case. Usually, my fantasies evolve to become more generalized over time, to explore more of the unexplored.
This one, however, is getting more focused, more detailed. It’s all about the details.
It has to be with a man. That’s a non-negotiable. I have no doubt that this speaks to my deep hunger to have a man give me a totally selfless sexual experience, to have a man pamper me, to have a man genuinely and truly take care of me. I have never experienced this, and believe it or not, now that I’ve entered middle age, the thought of a man who would give everything to me in the bedroom literally does sound kinky.
Like, my god, how overwhelmingly sexy and perverted, right? You wanna do nice, gentle, pleasurable things to my body? You deviant! You wanna give to me until there’s nothing left to give? That is just sick. You wanna make me come again and again and never ask me to suck your dick or yelp louder or try something upside-down? God, that’s so depraved, it overwhelms me with desire.
Please, yes. Show me your dirty, filthy generosity all goddamn night long…
I think sometimes sexual fantasies can become vehicles for healing. I love all my standard fantasy fare, stuff that I’ve explored in my imagination for years or even decades, stuff that reliably entertains and satisfies me.
But the new stuff sometimes feels like…medicine.
Sometimes it makes me feel almost weepy to think of this new fantasy. To imagine someone who would literally touch me in ways that made me happy all night long.
Rubbing my shoulders, my neck, tugging gently at my ears, pressing his thumbs into the space between my eyebrows, giving my ass a good kneading, and my feet, dear god, my feet… I can’t imagine getting this treatment without first having to massage my partner and then having him put on a timer to make sure he didn’t have to rub me down for more than 7 minutes.
Again, it seems downright deviant to have someone who would enjoy indulging me in that way. And even more deviant to accept it without guilt.
I imagine in the next round, he uses his lips, just because he has to taste everything, kiss everything, nibble everything. I imagine feeling like choux pastry fresh from the oven, and he’s dying to see how soft and warm I am on the inside, but doesn’t want to rush into that delectable first bite too soon.
Maybe he’ll mistake my nipples for maraschino cherries and roll them around on his tongue for hours, trying to savor the overwhelming sweetness of their flesh. Maybe he’ll find himself quite happy and comfortable with my thighs against his cheeks, his tongue lapping up the honey between my legs.
He will never, ever say, “Are you getting close?” And he definitely would not scowl or suggest I wax those perfect, tender folds of skin that he loves to nudge with the tip of his nose.
And though I don’t just lie there and take whatever he has to give, the truly, wonderfully perverse part of this fantasy is that I don’t have to do anything. He doesn’t ask me for anything. He lets me do whatever I want, whatever I like, whatever I’m inspired to do.
I never feel rushed. I never feel like he’s going to get annoyed with me because my orgasm didn’t come fast enough and I’m taking up too much time for my needs. In fact, none of that even matters, because in my fantasy, my perverted man is super turned on to just give me pleasure. That pleasure ebbs and flows, builds and explodes, dissipates and revives itself again and again. And it just goes on, all night long.
And you want to know the part of the fantasy that I’d be most scared to tell a potential lover? The part that is the most twisted and kinky?
When we’re done, and I’m lying on the damp sheets, my body sticky and literally melting into the mattress from being fucked so lusciously for so long, he gets up and…goes into the kitchen and bakes. No, I’m not kidding. I don’t know what goes on in there, and I don’t care — that’s not part of the fantasy.
All I know is that the fantasy goes from waking out of a haze of drunken afterglow to the smell of sweet things in the oven, and then he comes in with a giant tray of baked goods: pain au chocolate, a slice of yellow cake, marzipan apple pie, and a huge stack of butter-soaked pancakes, maple syrup oozing over the edges.
And he feeds me. That’s right, folks. I still don’t have to do a damn thing. I lean against the pillows and let him feed me bites of each and every treat. But I think my favorite will be the pancakes, and I’ll let him place a forkful of those into my mouth and the maple syrup will drip all over my breasts and we’ll laugh and leave it there because he’ll lick it off later, and…
The end of this fantasy is the same as the beginning: me, sighing in rapture against a pile of fluffy pillows, feeling those warm hands on my skin.
As I said, I don’t expect this fantasy to ever play out in real life. I would never ask for it — I always strive to be a generous lover and this doesn’t feel like it would fit very well into that goal.
But I’d like to open myself to the possibility of accepting it should it happen to present itself to me.
A few years ago, I wouldn’t have even fantasized about this. I know this sounds silly, but it honestly would’ve scandalized me. To imagine sex without me having to do anything, to give anything? That seemed blatantly wrong, some indication of a moral failure on my part.
But to be honest, I’m proud that I’ve recently let myself indulge in this totally selfish fantasy. I think it’s entirely fair to say that I need to ask for more when it comes to relationships and sex and this fantasy, I suspect, helps me build my endurance for asking and accepting, and the fortitude I’ll need to insist on more.
I suspect a lot of us have trouble asking for what we really want. I think there are a lot of taboos around declaring our very specific desires and (especially for women) accepting even little moments of complete and total pleasure without making sure we reciprocate.
I keep asking myself these days what I want. Of course that list is insanely long and wouldn’t apply to every single lover I might have in the future. Nor would I expect every item on that list to be ticked off — or even half the items.
It’s the discipline of naming my desires that matters. It’s the understanding that those desires often represent healing for me. That I want to teach myself that I deserve a male partner who will treat my body like a succulent baked good and then feed me actual baked goods after a six-hour lovefest. That it’s not too much to ask for someone to give me more pleasure than I can handle. That it’s okay for me to let someone else take care of me every now and then.
Right now, that’s my idea of kinky. And I’m cheering myself on, without hesitation.
This article was written for Howl by Yael Wolfe, a weekly column. © Yael Wolfe 2020
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