Two Deviant Fantasies of a Woman in Her Forties & What She Learned From Them

Our fantasies often tell us exactly what we want — and what we need

What is a forty-something woman’s greatest sexual fantasy? What does she dream about? What is the most delicious vision in her imagination? What pushes against all her boundaries? What does she dare not say, dare not do, dare not ask for?

I recently had two forbidden fantasies. Two imaginings that felt as if they pushed against every one of my boundaries. Two desires that seemed so daring, it made me uncomfortable to even think of them, let alone write about them, or god forbid, experience them.

To this day, I’m embarrassed to share them. I feel ashamed to admit to having these feelings and desires. Is a forty-something woman supposed to feel this way? Allowed to want these things?

Sex in a hotel room with a stranger. I dreamed of it. I thought about it endlessly. I imagined every detail.

It would be my room on my credit card. I was entirely in control. My space. My money. My decision.

I’d bring him into the room and we’d kiss for a long time. Perhaps this wasn’t the typical “strangers in a hotel room” fantasy. We hadn’t met in the hotel bar — or any bar, for that matter. I don’t drink, so that didn’t seem plausible. We ran into each other in the lobby. Or the elevator.

We weren’t coming back from a party or a fancy night out. He’s not wearing a suit. I’m not wearing a dress and heels. (I don’t wear heels. Not even in my fantasies.)

No, we’re just two ordinary middle-aged people in ordinary clothes like jeans and sweaters.

The only thing that’s out of the ordinary in this fantasy is that I just brought a stranger into my hotel room and I have every intention of fucking him so hard into the memory foam bed that his body will leave an indentation.

And then, perhaps the best part of the fantasy: I thank him, ask him to leave, and sprawl out on the bed all by my satisfied self.

I realize that this isn’t a particularly unusual or even edgy fantasy. From what I can tell, it’s actually quite common. The only thing edgy about it is that a woman is dreaming of it.

Where should I start on that one? The part where our culture shames women for having casual sex? (Just wait until I tell my doctor that I, a 46-year-old woman, had two partners in the past year.)

Or how about the fact that it’s downright dangerous for a woman to engage sexually with a man she’s never met? Trust me when I say that our brains have to run through mental flow charts and risk assessment analyses before we go anywhere with a stranger. It’s 2022, but we still have to ask ourselves the big questions: Is he going to rape me at some point in the evening? Will my body end up in a ditch somewhere?

So I guess it is an edgy fantasy…just in all the wrong ways.

Nevertheless, it consumed my mind for a time. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Wouldn’t it be amazing to just let loose? I can’t even imagine what that would be like. To do whatever felt good and not worry about how others will judge me later, or not have to worry about the safety of my body.

You know…to be able to have the sexual privilege that men have.

Wouldn’t that be amazing?

In early 2021, I found myself in a hotel room with a man I had picked up from the airport just twenty minutes earlier.

It wasn’t exactly the fantasy I had imagined. It was his room on his credit card. Further, he wasn’t a stranger. We’d emailed and talked on the phone for a year, already. And because of the way we had talked about what kind of connection we wanted, it was my understanding the moment I felt his lips on mine that he had just opted into couplehood.

So I suppose it doesn’t exactly count as living out that fantasy.

Nevertheless, I threw all caution to the wind along with my inelegant jeans, not-so-sexy hot pink ruffled shirt, and very ordinary ankle boots.

What was it like, you ask? Bright. I remember the big window and the white sheets and the white ceiling. Quiet. I could hear people occasionally walking down the hall outside the door, which made me nervous about being too loud. Fun. He was good at what he was doing. Tense. I just could not relax.

Did reality measure up to the fantasy? Well, it didn’t have to. I wouldn’t have expected that.

But was it worth it? I wouldn’t have known how to answer that question immediately after. But a few days later and even more than a year down the road, I know exactly how I’d answer that question.

Why did I want to have casual sex with a stranger in a hotel room and then kick him out? What was the draw? I asked myself that over and over after I lived out a variation on the theme.

I can tell you one thing for certain: I wanted sexual and emotional authority over myself and this seemed like a great way to get it.

I’m tired of being criticized for wanting an emotional connection with a lover. I’m tired of being treated like a seductress whose aim is to trick a man into marriage. I’m tired of being yelled at for asking for a cuddle.

I’m tired of being moved around in bed like a sex doll. I’m tired of never being asked what I want or what feels good to me. I’m tired of watching men disappear into the sunset right after they ejaculate.

In my hotel room that I’m paying for, I make the rules. I choose who comes inside. I choose what we do. I get my needs met. I decide when it’s over.

No more emotions. No more connection. No more opportunity for sexual partners to berate or use me.

Get in, get out.

That fantasy taught me a lot about what it must feel like to be a man. How lucky it must be to have that kind of power. And yes…I want it, too.

But as much as I’d like to claim it’s all about sexual sovereignty, I think it goes deeper. I suspect this fantasy is likely a defense mechanism playing out in my brain. A shield.

And underneath that, of course, is always pain.

If you tried to place my hotel room fantasy on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, it might have skipped right to the top, entirely bypassing Level 2 (safety), Level 3 (love and belonging), and maybe even Level 4 (respect and self-esteem).

Is it just me, or does that seem a little unhealthy?

So let’s get to the heart of the matter: Am I actually interested in casual sex at this point in my life? Didn’t I already try that twenty years ago? Didn’t I hate it?

No, I do not want to pursue casual sex anymore. I passionately do not. There’s a reason that when I ended up in that hotel room, it was with someone I was in love with.

The truth is, I gave up. Most men I have dated — and I’m talking 98% — did not want anything but casual sex. I got tired of fighting it. Of feeling like I have to justify myself for wanting an emotional connection.

I thought I would try playing by the boys’ rules. And I thought that somewhere in there, I would find my sexual sovereignty, which might fill the empty space where I wanted love to be. It would be just as good, right? Just as satisfying?

Except I forgot one thing: I’m allowed to want sexual sovereignty and love. No, I’m allowed to have sexual sovereignty and love.

Were you wondering what my second fantasy was? The second indulgent imagining that feels so daring, so self-indulgent, and so wrong that I’m embarrassed to admit it?

This forty-something woman dreams of having sex until dawn, falling asleep as the sun rises in her lover’s arms — yes, in his arms! — and then waking to the sounds of pans clanking in the kitchen, where said lover is making a batch of buttermilk pancakes.

Oh, that’s not all, folks. Then he covers them in butter and maple syrup, just the way I like, brings them to me in bed and then…feeds them to me, bite after bite, kissing away whatever syrup falls on my chin or chest.

Yes, that’s right. I wake up from a night full of orgasms to a morning full of pancakes, naked all the way through, and tended to like a queen.

In all my life, I’ve only had a partner cook for me once. Once. And he grumbled the entire time. The thought of a man happily cooking for me turns me on more than imagining him playing out one of my favorite kinks.

Of course, this feels as shameful as the hotel room fantasy, but for entirely different reasons. This one actually hits every single level of that hierarchy of needs. Sustenance, safety, emotional connection, respect, and self-actualization. There’s no bypassing on this one. Which means I get it all.

How selfish, right? To want to experience sex as an expression of a loving, respectful relationship?

I know. I’m a monster.

I haven’t had the hotel room fantasy since I had sex in a hotel room with a man I’d just picked up from the airport. I don’t need it anymore.

I do not want to have casual sex. There is nothing wrong with casual sex — it’s just not something that interests me.

And I’m particularly disinterested in a relationship culture that has worked so hard to remove love from sexual exchanges. No, love doesn’t have to be there for everyone, but we’ve swung so far in the other direction that a woman desiring sex as an expression of a loving relationship is simply asking for too much.

Regardless, I do still dream of my Prince of Pancakes. I understand now that I will never find him. That some fantasies are just fantasies. But it is a comfort to me, to imagine someone loving me so much that he is still there in the morning, toiling away in the kitchen, because sex just isn’t a big enough container for his feelings. No, he needs to express himself with pancakes, too.

It might make me a true deviant to say this, understanding the consequences as I do, but I will never say yes to sex again until I know a morning of maple syrup awaits me on the other side.

© Yael Wolfe 2022

Yael Wolfe is a writer, photographer, and creator of Howl. You can find more of her work at yaelwolfe.com.

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