Beyond My Control: Forbidden Fantasies in an Uncensored Age by Nancy Friday Page B

alternates fingers with his tongue till I have orgasms a number of times. Then, when I can’t take any more, I make him enter me with my legs over his shoulders. While he is pumping in and out, he sucks on my breasts (which still have breast milk). We finally cum together, and, boy, are there fireworks! Afterward, we bathe each other and just lay together wrapped in a huge towel.

    T h a N k s F o r T h e m e m o r i e s
    In spite of our total dependence on our caretakers, we defy them to follow eros, the good feeling. And we keep defying them. But here’s the real glory. We don’t just pursue eros; we take the anti- sex warnings from the nursery and turn them around, spin them into gold—as in a fairy tale.
    arthur
    arthur is a thirty-nine-year-old man, raised in England, First Class Honors degree and law degree, now living in america.

    At sixteen, my mother examined my underpants one fine summer’s day for the presence of semen. She suspects I’ve been masturbating. (I have, for years. But this time, I fool her—no semen on the pants. She draws a blank.) Some months later, though, she barges into my bedroom and catches me at it. Big Scene. Fireworks. Me reduced to a quivering puddle of guilt. She tells me I’m a “filthy little bastard” and threatens to kick me out of the house.
    Ever since I’ve started masturbating, around age ten or eleven, I’ve done so lying on my stomach. (Look, ma, no hands.) Now that I’m single again, I do so at least once a day, sometimes twice. Occasionally, I get off online—especially with an imaginative, sensitive, intelligent woman on the other end—in which case, I take off everything . Like some women, who even take off their earrings and wristwatches before masturbating or making love, there’s a delicious feeling of total abandon , which comes from being absolutely naked. Sometimes, at work, I jerk off—discreetly— face down on the couch, hiding my naked buns under a blanket in case of any unexpected interruptions.
    In one of my fantasies, I imagine myself as a biology teacher in an all- girls boarding school in France. Sitting in the front row is a beautiful dark-eyed girl. She’s Lolita—the classic Nabokovian “nymphet”—an arresting combination of guile and innocence. Suddenly, she gets up and leaves the classroom without a word. I wait. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes elapse, but she doesn’t come back. Concerned, I decide to investigate. The door is ajar. I peer round, and—sure enough—there she is, lying flat on her back, her head propped up by a pillow.
    Somehow she’s gotten hold of a stethoscope. It’s the old-fashioned kind, the kind that makes you shiver, with the metal bulb, which feels cold on your skin. Very slowly she unbuttons her top, button by button, and draws the material aside. Her tummy is as smooth and brown as her arms, her navel flawless, concave, and—somehow— endearingly innocent.
    At this point, she realizes that someone’s watching. Instead of trying to cover up, she puts down the stethoscope, reaches over to the drawer of her night stand, and takes out a bottle of baby oil. One drop at a time, she fills her navel until it overflows and trickles down her sides and onto the sheets. Then, she starts to rub the oil in. One hand moves to her swollen nipples, while the other starts to work furiously at her tight little clit. “Close the door, monsieur,” she whimpers. “I want you to make me cum.”
    I undress and tell her to put her hands behind her head. I start to lick her nipples and nibble them gently between my teeth. Then, I work my way down her stomach, toward her navel, which she thrusts up to meet the tip of my tongue. At last, I start on her clit.
    By this time, she’s writhing and groaning, begging me to fuck her. I stop and tell her to lie completely still. She whimpers, a combination of defiance and frustration. I fetch a lamp and shine it directly onto her tummy so that I can see the web of silvery hairs and the