I was sending flirty texts to a potential lover when he asked me:
<So what’s yr fantasy?>
(If you’re not the type of person who texts in proper English, never shall our genitalia meet. Just saying)
Fantasies, eh? A dangerous topic even for couples who recognise the smell of each other’s gas, let alone those who are still squinting through tight trouser seams to hopefully get a glimpse of a package. Is he a grower or a shower? Are those all her, or is she just wearing an efficient push-up bra?
What’s my fantasy? I begin to type:
<well, I do have this revenge fantasy…
…where I seduce Cabbage Craig, tie him up, blindfold him, cane him within an inch of his life, pour a bucket of ice water over him and cane him again. Then stick a spiked butt-plug up his unlubricated rectum and leave him there for his housemates to find….
Even though just thinking about it had made my nipples hard, I needed a fantasy that was not the equivalent of bringing a crossbow to a first date. I tried again:
<I do have this fantasy where…
I am being endlessly orally serviced by a man with an untiring tongue, and I don’t have to worry whether his neck is cramping, or whether he gets that the morse code of my moans means “yes”, “don’t stop”, “less teeth” and “do that again but faster and with more swirling action, you know, like an ice-cream”. This fantasy often involves Idris Elba, those Sounds of the Sea CDs they give insomniacs, and, for some unfathomable reason, bubbles.
I decided to keep that one to myself.
<I fantasise about being spanked…
I like the idea of wearing a short skirt and being bent over someone’s lap and being spanked with an open hand. Yes, the idea of confessing that I have “been a bad girl” and asking to be punished seems like too much of a cliché; it belongs in porn movies with long French-manicured false nails and breasts that look like balloons milliseconds from popping from too much pumping. It also screams of daddy-issues.
< I fantasise about…..
<I have this fantasy where….
<I fantasise about having sex… in the rain…?