The weekender #3: Your questions answered

This week, I will attempt to answer deb's question:

I would be curious to know what the darkest fantasy is that both of you have?

From the moment I read this question, some three weeks ago, I knew I'd be the one answering it; for the simple reason that Sean insists he "doesn't really have many fantasies, let alone dark ones". I've been musing it over since the question came up and I've come to some conclusions. First, we must be rather boring people as we actually had to think about this one. Really hard. Second, the fantasy that I finally realised is the answer is rather dark, is likely to offend someone but is also the fantasy of many women (who never admit it to themselves, let alone to the large numbers of countless, faceless people who browse Sex Blogs).

My dark fantasy can be summed up in one word. Rape.

I've known about rape for as long as I've known about sex. When I first realised it for what it was - that is, the act of one person having un-consentual sex with another person - rape was nothing more than a threat. It went along with all of the other sayings my mother threw at me - "Eat your crusts, your hair will go curly" [I've never figured that one out, I have always eaten the crusts on my sandwiches and my hair is as straight as a ruler], "Don't go out in the rain without a coat, you'll get a cold" and "Don't come home alone in the dark, you'll get raped". For a very long time - pretty much all through my teens - I became paranoid when walking in the dark, whether on my own or not. The rape threat is perhaps the only threat my parents threw at me that I took to heart.

There is one specific night that I clearly remember when the word rape took on a whole new meaning. Being an insomniac, I used to read each night until I felt sleepy. This meant that I got through books rather fast; usually reading from 10pm through to 3 or 4am. Eventually I began running out of books that I hadn't read to death, and I began on the books that my mother had handed down to me, books that sat in their dust jackets and looked rather boring. I figured that their being boring would be an advantage and I would fall asleep sooner. In a way, I was eventually right.

On this specific night, I had started a book called "Yesterday in the Back Lane", about a woman living in Second World War Britain. It started off rather dismally, and I began to wonder why I hadn't thought of reading the boring books earlier. The particular paragraphs I remember reading occurred on Christmas Eve. The heroine was walking down the back alley when all of a sudden she was shoved to the ground by a man. The details weren't fully described, but she ends up escaping him by stabbing him with the knife she was taking home to cut the turkey. She keeps "pure" by committing murder. I read the pages with wide eyes, and once the fun was over and she was at home feeling guilty, I went back and read it again. I pored over the words, taking in every detail I could and making up the things the author didn't describe. While the words said that the heroine lay under the man, and all she could think about was how strange it was that she was being "interfered with" while listening to the news from somebody's house; I imagined how he had thrown her to the ground, fumbled under her skirt and roughly pulled down her panties, all the while holding both her wrists in her other hand and forcing his groin into her.

An odd, unknown, tingling sensation rose in my tummy. While reading the same chapter for the third time, I unconsciously ground my groin into the mattress. A surge of heat rose from between my legs. Without my knowing, a powerful feeling of lust rose inside me, the unfamiliar sensation begging me to put my hands there.

That night was the first night I had ever masturbated. It was wonderful, though come the morning I felt extremely guilty. I didn't mention it to anyone through out the whole day and when, that evening, my father used the rape threat on me before I went out, my heart fluttered and for the second time ever I felt that tingle between my thighs.

I didn't mention my fantasy to anyone for quite a few years. Despite my attempts at hinting to my first serious boyfriend, he wouldn't even hold my wrists the way I imagined I'd like. When I started getting serious with Sean - my one and only shag - I found that, in just the same way, he wouldn't be rough with me. That changed when it became apparent to me that he was definitely the person I wanted to be with for the rest of my life. Suddenly, I found I wanted to tell him about everything - my one attempt at suicide with my best mate, my alternative beliefs, my perceived sexuality... and my rape fantasy. The rape fantasy was the last thing I told him, and I chickened out and told him by text message. His reply was something I wasn't expecting. It was along the lines of "Lots of women have that fantasy, maybe we'll try it out one day" and was the start of our exploration into rough play. Perhaps by my telling him that fantasy, he knew it was okay to be a little rough with me. And here we are some two years later, maintaining a S&M Blog.


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