Excitement

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 31 of 182 · 20 per page

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  DaisyI’ve been having sexy fantasies ever since I got married three years ago. I imagine that I am walking down the street when suddenly a fantastic car screeches up beside me and sitting at the wheel is Robert Redford. Beside him, of course, is Paul Newman. They take me to an elegant dress shop where mannequins model the most incredible clothes (just like in the old films from the forties on TV). They buy me the most elegant, sexy clothes imaginable. Then they take me to a ball. Everyone is there, film stars and the most divine-looking men any woman could want to meet. Naturally, everyone wants to dance with me: Tom Jones, for one, whom I refuse, just to see his face… Engelbert… Franco Nero is incredibly jealous… The one and only Elvis asks to take me home, but I refuse them all and end my fantastic night by going home and making passionate love to Marc Bolan of T. Rex. [Letter] KitI am a happily married woman of thirty-five, and often think about other men and imagine how they would make love to me. My most vivid imagery is of Tom Jones. Just the other day, as we were driving along, my mind drifted off. Suddenly my husband looked at me and said, “What are you smiling about?” I replied, “I was in bed with Tom Jones.” “What happened?” he asked. “Everything!” I said. “And it was smashing!” We both had a good laugh. [Letter] FlossieI’m a James Bond fan, and often imagine ordinary tradesmen have done fantastic things to me before sweeping me off to bed. I was picturing the milkman that way recently when he asked how many pints I wanted. “Oh, oh seven,” I whispered dreamily! [Letter] JosieI used to imagine in bed that my husband was Mick Jagger, until the night when at the height of our sexual crescendo I moaned, “Oh, Mick!” I still haven’t convinced him that Mick isn’t the mailman, or the man who reads the gas meter, or a brush salesman! [Letter] BrettI wonder what making love would be like with the couldn’t-care-less Tony Curtis, or the sexy Roger Moore. I’m a great-grandmother of sixty—36" 29" 38"—which I’m afraid is not terribly sexy. When I see my fantasy lovers, I’m practically in the TV scene with them; then the program is over and I have to go to bed with my husband. [Letter] SarahIt has always been my fantasy just to tell someone that I dream of very young men. My favorite of the moment is Richard Benjamin. I do feel so ashamed, as I am going to be fifty next May. I also admit to having sexual fantasies whenever I see well-dressed men with no tummies! I can’t tell you how exciting I find a flat stomach. [Letter] MaudThank goodness for your article. I was beginning to think I was the only one with certain fantasies when indulging in sex.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  HollyMy husband knows how much certain talk excites me, like his telling me how much he enjoys oral sex, how much he loves my big breasts; I like him to describe quite literally what we are doing when we are making love. Except then, I like him to call it “fucking.” [Letter] EvieEvie is in her late twenties, divorced, and now lives in Los Angeles with her two daughters. Her frank comments about talk during sex could be an inspiration to a lot of silent fuckers who want to be remembered. It’s difficult to remember movements, to reconstruct all by yourself what happened last night or last month in bed, but a few heated groin-words can have total, orgasmic recall. Remembering just those words, a woman can keep a man erect in her mind for life. Women are the great collectors… love letters, roses, souvenirs, words; in a sense, women hang on to everything, almost live in the past, because we’re never quite sure if “it” will ever happen again. » About talking… that’s another whole realm, and I don’t know if it interests you, but I think it might to know that men who talk to me can really make me cream in my jeans (just an expression) over them… things like “You can do it”; “You can make it”; “Come on”; etc. I won’t bore you, but they really seem to make a difference in my orgasm quotient. Sometimes when I am in bed with a man and he talks to me… even if he just asks me what time it is while he’s making love to me… I freak. And when I am alone with myself I often reiterate what certain men have said, or very often I allow myself the luxury of embroidering on it and inventing things that men might say to me. You wanted some of my girlfriends’ fantasies, and I asked a few of them but they don’t seem very imaginative. They apparently speak little in bed and they are not interested in imagining, or else they won’t come clean with me, which is probable. One girl did tell me that a fellow used to send her Polaroid pictures of his erected cock and she would masturbate to them while he was on business trips. [Letter] WOMEN DO LOOKBut it’s too easy to say that all sexual fantasy, like dreams, was born of some inchoate spark in childhood. Pop psychiatry, determined to reduce the most complete aspects of life to fast, fast, FAST understanding, begins and ends with that premise.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  » The scene is a one-room schoolhouse, somewhere out West. The teacher is about my age, thirty-five, or even older. But she is a virgin, a frustrated old maid. She has kept one of the pupils after school, a strong, six-foot-tall boy who isn’t too bright. She goes through a stern lecture with him about how he’s not been paying attention during class, etc. She asks him two or three tough questions, and when he can’t answer says she’s going to have to punish him. She tells him to take down his pants; he’s embarrassed but she insists. She sits down on a chair and makes him lie down over her lap, facedown, with his pants pulled down around his knees, and she starts spanking him. He gets an erection and she spanks harder, but at the same time more caressingly. Then she starts fingering his penis with her other hand and she keeps spanking. He gets a bigger and harder erection. She asks him if he’s ever fucked a girl and he says no and she moves around on the chair to get her skirt up; she has no pants on. She also moves him about until she can maneuver his penis into her cunt, and at this point she goes back to the lecturing tone she’d had earlier, and tells him all about how he’s going to have to improve his work, etc., while she’s still spanking him, but the spanking is more of a pushing him into her. She’s also moving her pelvis back and forth rhythmically, very actively, so she’s controlling the whole thing for her own mounting pleasure but also giving him a fantastic time. He starts shouting, “Oh, teacher!” over and over as his climax begins, and she keeps trying to lecture him but the words fuck and cunt keep popping up in the middle of her lecture. They both work up to a noisy climax, by which time they’ve slid off the chair onto the floor. Afterward, she primly buttons her clothes and very mock-disapproving tells him he’s going to have to stay after school again the next day unless he can bring his schoolwork up to scratch, and he agrees that he certainly has been lazy, etc., and he just doesn’t seem to be able to do the work. [Letter]

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  A couple of years ago, an older girl and I did mess around together some. Mostly we masturbated each other and I sucked on her nipples some. She was the one who first taught me about cunnilingus, too. When I masturbated myself then I would think about the things she and I did, and I still think about them once in a while now when I masturbate. Mostly I think about the way she used to get so turned on and come so much when I played around with her. Sometimes I like to imagine what it would be like if I did those same things with a younger girl. Also, I like to imagine what it would be like to have a penis like a guy and have sex with a girl. When I see a guy who turns me on I like to try to imagine in my mind what he would look like standing there naked with his penis erect. It is the thought of his erect penis that stands out in my mind. If a guy like that is looking at me, I imagine that he can see me naked, too. Once in a while, I have the same thoughts about a girl. Sometimes at school when I pass by the boys’ rest room I imagine the boys in there with their penises hanging out of their pants. That makes me laugh to myself instead of feeling sexy. The guys I have sex with don’t know my fantasies, but sometimes without them knowing about it I get them to do things that I have fantasized about before then. I enjoy making them kneel in front of me and do cunnilingus to me before I will do anything to them. I like to imagine myself going all the way with some guy who really turns me on with all my girlfriends watching us. I imagine that they get so turned on that they start masturbating themselves and plead for him to have sex with them, but he stays with me. I also like to masturbate while I am listening to rock music. I sometimes imagine that one of the singers is having sex with me in front of a big audience. I like horses and I sometimes imagine that I am naked and riding bareback on a beautiful thoroughbred horse. I feel bad about thinking such a thing, but I once tried to imagine what it would be like to try to get a horse’s big penis into me. That was more like devilish curiosity though. The only time that I’ve spoken any of my fantasies out loud was a few times with that older girl that I told you about. Then it got us more turned on. I am sure that there are other things that I could have told you about if I had remembered them, but I hope that this much will be some help to you. Peace. [Letter]

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  Then I begin taking my clothes off. I even talk back to the man in the other room. I put on a G-string, suspender belt, black stockings, fluffy garters (no bra), a frilly, or see-through, blouse or transparent negligee, no skirt, and a blond wig. First of all, I like to put a Tampax in. Putting in a Tampax is thrilling at any time, but I get an especial thrill when I don’t really need it. I like to walk around the bedroom while I’m getting dressed this way, and imagine the man in the other room. He sounds very cool, just putting these records on and chatting me up as he does through the half-open door, talking away as if he had nothing on his mind but the Beatles or Blood, Sweat and Tears, but all the time I know that he’s there, having a fantasy about me in here getting ready for him. I like the idea of his voice sounding so cool and friendly, so relaxed, while all the time I know he’s growing an erection like a battleship underneath his trousers, for me. I like to imagine his face—that’s when I like to look at the photo—as he walks about the other room, trying to control himself. I like to think that little beads of sweat are breaking out on his face and rolling down his cheeks—he’s so impatient, you see, but he knows that if he lets me know how hot he’s getting waiting for me, that I’ll enjoy it so much I’ll just let him wait even longer. I just reach down and give the Tampax a little shove further up when I think of his sweating face.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  » I have this fantasy usually in the bathtub, masturbating either under the faucet or using the hand shower. (I can’t help having the idea that all across suburbia, at about four P.M., all us ladies—the smart ones—are lying in our tubs or on our chaise longues, playing dreamily with ourselves as we anticipate the imminent arrival of our husbands, who will probably be too tired to lay us that night anyway.) I’ve never had a black man make love to me. In the days when I was single, black wasn’t as chic as it is now, our eye wasn’t attuned to it as a sexual turn-on yet. Now when I see an attractive black man, I look at him with as much interest as I would an attractive white man. More. But the idea that there is a black man in the fantasy probably comes more from the old myth about black men being bigger than from the current black-is-beautiful fad. Because you see, size is very important in this fantasy. The fantasy is really very simple: As I lie in my tub in the warm, Estée Lauder perfumed water, with the water from the faucet playing over my clitoris, I close my eyes and imagine that a black man, a very handsome Harry Belafonte type, is standing over me, peeing on me, directing it right on that little spot. His jet is as warm and powerful as the real jet of water, and he teases me with it, moving it around and around, up and down, just as I tease myself with the bathtub jet of water. I lie there, becoming more and more excited, and praying that he won’t stop, that he won’t run out of water, which I suppose is why I’ve made him black, because they’re so big, or supposed to be, and I need a kind of black Gulliver to quench my fires. Finally, I’m begging him not to stop, which he loves, and just as I climax, somehow his jet turns to warm semen as he comes too, right on me. Before I was married I went out with a real crazy guy, not black, but very far out. I remember once lying on the beach, there was no one else around, and I was lying on my stomach. He stood up, and the first thing I knew he was peeing on my bare back. I screamed and jumped up, but I was laughing—I was mad about him—and our tussle on the beach ended up with him inside me, needless to say. I have never wanted to be peed on in reality, before or since, but this idea of the very well-endowed black man peeing for ages onto my clitoris… wow, it’s a winner every time. [Conversation] RaquelI masturbate a great deal when my husband is at sea and this is the scene I think of most:

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  Stepmother then started to smack my sister’s bottom with the cane, and I don’t suppose it was a terrible thrashing. But it was stinging enough to make Jean yell out at every stroke of the cane. The second incident happened when I was fifteen, and getting to know a few things about sex. There was a boy next door aged about seventeen, and I used to get him to help me with my school homework. We used to cuddle and kiss. One night he said that I was so bad at math that what I needed was a good spanking, and then he pushed my face downward across his lap. After making a pretend resistance and wriggling, I had my gym frock well above my waist; I knew he could see my knickers from waist to leg. Moreover, I also knew that this had given him an erection, which I could feel. So he spanked me, good and hard, but I still enjoyed it. After that, almost each night I went to see him it ended up in me first getting spanked, and then he turned me round in the armchair and got on top of me, and we both masturbated. Later, I asked him what it was like at his school when naughty boys got the cane. It was a loaded question, and it brought the answer I wanted. He said he would give me a demonstration, and when he told me that “tonight was the night,” before going in to see him I put on some very thrilling white knickers, long in the leg, and with fancy pink lace at the leg ends. His parents were out, and having the place to ourselves we lost no time in the caning demonstration. He showed me how to bend over the end of the settee with my arms stretched forward, and in that position I felt my knickers tighten up round my legs and thighs. I’d slipped out of my short frock beforehand, and we’d kissed and hugged, so that already he had a big erection. Then for the first time I got the cane on my knickers. He gave me four terrific swipes, and they certainly made me wince and yell. When he’d finished, I took hold of the cane and told him that it was his turn for punishment. I found that I was terribly thrilled on seeing his trousers tight round his bottom as he bent over, and I gave him a severe caning, enjoying the feel of the cane in my hands.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  PaulaPaula is a lovely, black Haitian, whom I met in Rome. Her current lover, Tony, is a white Englishman. I would say she’s in her early twenties. I’ve left my dialogue with her unedited to illustrate how these interviews generally developed and took form. Paula, as you can see, is no sexual shrinking violet, but she originally refused to contribute to the book, saying she didn’t have any sexual fantasies. It was only when I gave her several to read that she exclaimed, “Oh, that’s a sexual fantasy! Something that makes you feel good.” It’s interesting, too, and typical of women when they begin to talk of their fantasies, that they find they have much more to say than they thought. As Paula warms to the subject, she begins to release information, new even to herself, as if she is verbally getting in touch for the first time with up-till-now untapped realms of her self. I don’t mean she deliberately withheld information at the start of the interview—having decided to talk, she was genuinely eager to tell all and, in fact, insisted that I use her real name—but I think the depth of her fantasies and their involvement with her real life only became more conscious as she discussed them. As for myself, it wasn’t until I was halfway through the interview and beginning to get confused as to what was fantasy and what was fact, that I realized how much Paula’s fantasy and real worlds overlapped; that she, in fact, totally and happily accepted and lived her fantasies. » Q: Have you thought some more about your fantasies since we last talked? A: Can I read some other people’s fantasies, just to see what they’re like? What I’m thinking of may not even be a fantasy. Q: Remember the one you read about the girl fantasizing that a guy is going down on her in a restaurant? A: When I’m making love I love to think that the guy is fucking another chick, not me. Q: Where are you, are you in the fantasy, too? A: I’m in my mind, I mean I know I’m being fucked but I like to think the guy is fucking somebody else. Q: Anyone in particular, a girlfriend…? A: No. Sometimes girls I used to go to school with, they’re the other girls, and I love it so much, what’s happening, I know they’d love it too. Q: They’re fucking the guy you’re really with? That excites you?

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  My fantasy, which often occupies me, is that we are a demonstration couple for a class of young couples being instructed in the art of intercourse. I can hear the instructor telling the class of our progress toward climax. Every so often the instructor wants us to change position so that his pupils can get a better view between my legs. At this point I usually climb on top of my husband, sometimes adopting a squatting attitude over him to enable our audience to see our connected organs together. Sometimes I hear the instructor tell me to take the active part, whereupon I actually tell my husband that I want our movements to come only from me until he ejaculates. He will usually cooperate, unless I have misjudged his progress and he is about to come off anyway, in which case I will mentally apologize to the instructor. But on most of the occasions when my mind runs this way, I can hear the instructor accurately telling the audience my feelings while we are having each other, and he keeps talking the whole time in a soft voice so as not to distract the pair of us. Every time he instructs his class to watch more closely I become even more excited, feeling their eyes on us. The instructor’s voice, as he calmly tells me to do all the things I want to do, is not like any voice I know, no particular friend or acquaintance. But he is a friend in that his role in my fantasy is that of benefactor, someone who is looking after me and knows my every desire. He and I have a wonderful rapport. [Letter] FayeI’m not sure what got me started on this fantasy. I really like Richard; in a way we’re more than just lovers, we’re great friends. Marriage will never be our scene; we could go ages without seeing one another, but whenever we are together it’s as lovers, and we can pick up wherever we left off. I do love him, but maybe it’s because I love him without the possessiveness that so often goes with love that I have this fantasy. I don’t think Richard’s ever had a conscious queer notion in his head, I mean I don’t think he’d ever acknowledge being attracted sexually to another guy. But I think there’s a bit of the bisexual in all of us, and in some way I think I bring it out in Richard. Maybe it’s because I want to. You see, I really get turned on by this idea of me and Richard making it with another guy. I’d just love to see him expressing some of that good solid love he has for sex, for women—sharing it with men too.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  Anyway, that first night, I don’t think we slept very much. We’d had some grass, and so I can’t remember just how many times. It didn’t hurt a bit and there was hardly any bleeding. Maybe the second or third time that night, he put me into this position; I think it’s the position that inspired this idea in the first place, the idea that I was being planted. I mean, you can’t have the feeling that you’re being planted unless your cunt is pointed straight up at the sky, can you? Because that’s what it was: I was lying on my back, all my weight on my shoulders, really, with my legs straight up and over his shoulders. He was high above me—I remember looking up and seeing him looming large over me and coming down into me, boring down on me. Straight down into me. Not a frightening picture—on the contrary, I felt very large and accommodating, very wide and open, waiting for him to fill me up with his thrust. Waiting for him to plant seed like I was a large, warm, fertile hole in the earth, there just for him, just for that purpose, to be planted. I was the earth and I was the hole in the earth. In fact, I was all hole, and he, he was like some great International Harvester Seed Planter moving down the field, me, moving from hole to hole with each thrust. And I was all the holes, I was the earth. I was planted again and again. It was so exciting… and so, well, so right, so natural. Lying there on my back with my legs up in the air, my feet facing the ceiling, it seemed, at last, the most natural position in the world. And to be fucked, to be planted by an earth planting machine, this enormous International Harvester that could plunge deeper into the earth than anything, could fill me up and leave me planted, ripe… that was it, I guess: not just the excitement of being planted, but of knowing that with each thrust I would be left whole, complete. Can you understand that? It wasn’t the machine that was exciting—though the inexorable size of it was. What was exciting was the seed part. Or me being the earth. God, I don’t know… but I love that feeling. [Taped interview] MarinaMarina belongs more to her nomadic social set than to any country. Now she lives in Boston. Last year it was Paris. Her current lover is an Italian banker: her former an English lord. The only thing they have in common is that each is almost three times her age. She is twenty. Her mother is French, her father Swiss, her bank balance high. For all the miles she’s packed into her life, she remains incredibly naive. She speaks half a dozen languages and works for an ad agency.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  Most often, during sex, my thoughts drift to other women. I either imagine myself being made love to by a woman, or watching my mate made love to by another woman, or a combination of the two. He and I have discussed this and he confesses that this is often the case with him too. He encourages my fantasies by acting out his own. He very often talks to me as though he were raping me, which encourages another type of fantasy within me. I begin to fantasize that I’m tied, helpless, and at the mercy of this very aggressive man. As a result of this I begin to imagine that a woman enters the scene, dismisses my mate, and begins to make love to me in an equally aggressive manner, but with a special gentleness. The first fantasy I can remember was about a group of people (four or six) in a large bed, all naked and caressing one another. I was never able to develop it much beyond this, but being quite young at the time it didn’t seem necessary. The mere idea was quite stimulating. [Letter] MichelleI have been married five years, and until now have never discussed my sexual fantasies with anyone. I don’t think of someone other than the man I am with during sex unless he is performing inadequately, at which times I think of someone who does perform adequately. This invariably gives me enough pleasure to achieve orgasm. I think fantasies are very useful for this specific reason. Every time we have sex, it can’t be perfect; the other person (and oneself) is not always in top form. The most frequent idea that pops up in my fantasies is “being on exhibition.” My fantasies vary a great deal, but this idea is usually present. People watching, not necessarily saying anything or doing anything, but just watching… that really turns me on. What is interesting is that although I’ve never had any desire for another woman, or even looked at another woman “that way” in reality, I do often have lesbian fantasies when with a man. I don’t know where this idea comes from. In my fantasies, these women and I never actually touch, no bodily contact, I simply think about them, other women, usually naked, usually large-breasted. What they seem to be doing is trying to seduce me by their erotic movements. I allow myself to get excited just watching them, but then when I have built to a pitch and have my real orgasm, the women simply smile, pleased for me, and disappear. Maybe some day I will join them in sex within my fantasy, but I don’t think that is what they are building toward. I would never tell a man about these lesbian fantasies because I don’t think a man would understand. [Letter]

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  These henchmen types would have me on a table and I never had the chance to do much talking. I was being masturbated in this artificial clitoral way to a peak of excitement which was designed to turn the gangster guy on when he actually poked his head through the door and suddenly got a whopping hard-on from seeing me ready to come. Needless to say, he always had a very big cock. He was dressed but would show me his hard-on because the boys told him I liked big cocks. He would then say that he wanted me to be brought off, because he didn’t want to enter an “uncome” cunt. That gave me an excuse for having my orgasm, and that was usually the end of my story and I went to sleep. Now… there are variations on this theme which have had to be dealt with throughout the years. This dangerous character of whom the whole world is obviously scared shitless sometimes comes through the door of the room where I am being masturbated to readiness by the “boys,” and when he sees me and talks to me he decides he really thinks I am just the grooviest chick he has ever seen or met, and that I have the most delicious-looking pussy around, so he tells the guys to lay off and he fucks me good and proper and likes it and tells me that I will be his permanent old lady and get to have him every Thursday, for which I shall be handsomely rewarded. The boys are very surprised by this because the big boss never turns on to chicks, and they even stop to remind me that I am just about the luckiest girl in the world. Aside from this variation, there are other things that occasionally swim into the scene. Sometimes he likes me enough to avoid entering me because his cock is so enormous as to have actually been rejected by many, many ladies, and he feels a little nervous about the possibility of hurting such a sweetie-pie as myself. I reassure him a lot and tell him it’s perfectly dandy if he wants to enter me before I come because I can handle it. (I-am-a-champ sort of thing.) He’s usually reluctant, but tells me that he will try it out first after I have come and am relaxed and wet enough to accommodate him, but that maybe next Thursday if we find it comfortable the first time… again this gives me the excuse I need to bring myself off with my hand and not introduce objects of unimportance into my vagina.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  When my husband talks to me during sex—now that he knows that I have other men, and with his consent—he asks me all sorts of questions about the other cocks I have, and this gets him into such a state because, although he knows very well that he cannot fuck me like they can, he gets pleasure from at least trying. He now even encourages my real exposures to other men; in fact, he loves to shave me. These exposures later add a great deal to our sex as we fantasize together, talking back and forth, what it would be like if I had indeed taken on the man to whom he watched me expose myself—which, of course, is done simply by parting your legs a bit if you’re sitting across the room from a man. Other times, of course, I do indeed take on the other men… and then tell my husband all about it. Now my husband even assures me that having other men regularly—and sharing the experience with him—makes me a better ride and far more relaxed and able to give of my best in bed. [Letter] Adele’s husbandI have read and reread your article, and having eventually decided your research work is a serious one, I have at last decided to write to you. I am a heterosexual male, a widower, in fact, but I think you may find it quite interesting to read of the sexual fantasies of my dear late wife, who sadly died five long years ago. We were married in the latter part of the last war, and when I was demobilized I was twenty-three years old and she was twenty-one. Right from the word go our married life was wonderful, both sexually and in every other way. To come to the matter you’re interested in. We had been to see a film with Alan Ladd in it at her instigation, because she always said how much she liked him. How much, I did not realize. The film had only been on ten minutes before she was kissing me very passionately and, of course, I slipped my hand in her blouse, undid her bra, and found her breasts hard and her nipples really erect. So naturally I went up her skirt with my other hand, having spread my raincoat over both our knees. She was wearing those silk panties without elastic—very handy—so I slipped my hand under and found her absolutely soaking wet. She had already come and as soon as I felt her clitoris, she came again. I finally had two fingers in her and she went wild. I hardly saw the film myself because she got my cock out and slowly tossed me off.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  Nancy FridayKey West, FloridaJanuary 19981.“TELL ME WHAT YOU ARE THINKING ABOUT,” HE SAID.In my mind, as in our fucking, I am at the crucial point: …We are at this Baltimore Colt-Minnesota Viking football game, and it is very cold. Four or five of us are huddled under a big glen plaid blanket. Suddenly we jump up to watch Johnny Unitas running toward the goal. As he races down the field, we all turn as a body, wrapped in our blanket, screaming with excitement. Somehow, one of the men—I don’t know who, and in my excitement I can’t look—has gotten himself more closely behind me. I keep cheering, my voice an echo of his, hot on my neck. I can feel his erection through his pants as he signals me with a touch to turn my hips more directly toward him. Unitas is blocked, but all the action, thank God, is still going toward that goal and all of us keep turned to watch. Everyone is going mad. He’s got his cock out now and somehow it’s between my legs; he’s torn a hole in my tights under my short skirt and I yell louder as the touchdown gets nearer now. We are all jumping up and down and I have to lift my leg higher, to the next step on the bleachers, to steady myself; now the man behind me can slip it in more easily. We are all leaping about, thumping one another on the back, and he puts his arm around my shoulders to keep us in rhythm. He’s inside me now, shot straight up through me like a ramrod; my God, it’s like he’s in my throat! “All the way, Johnny! Go, go, run, run!” we scream together, louder than anyone, making them all cheer louder, the two of us leading the excitement like cheerleaders, while inside me I can feel whoever he is growing harder and harder, pushing deeper and higher into me with each jump until the cheering for Unitas becomes the rhythm of our fucking and all around us everyone is on our side, cheering us and the touchdown… it’s hard to separate the two now. It’s Unitas’ last down, everything depends on him; we’re racing madly, almost at our own touchdown. My excitement gets wilder, almost out of control as I scream for Unitas to make it as we do, so that we all go over the line together. And as the man behind me roars, clutching me in a spasm of pleasure, Unitas goes over and I… *** “Tell me what you are thinking about,” the man I was actually fucking said, his words as charged as the action in my mind. As I’d never stopped to think before doing anything to him in bed (we were that sure of our spontaneity and response), I didn’t stop to edit my thoughts. I told him what I’d been thinking. He got out of bed, put on his pants and went home. ***

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I could hear her creaking about in her bed upstairs, and once she went out to the privy. I thought she might have paused on her way, outside my door, to listen for my snores. I didn’t call out to her. Next morning I was too tired to study her terribly hard; but as I set the pan of bacon on the stove, she came to me. She came very close, and then she said, quite low - perhaps so that her brother, who was in the room across the passageway, might not hear: ‘Nance, will you come out with me tonight?’ ‘Tonight?’ I said, yawning, and frowning at the bacon, which I had put too wet into a too-hot pan, so that it hissed and steamed. ‘Where to? Not collecting subscriptions again, surely?’ ‘Not subscriptions, no. Not work at all, in fact, but — pleasure.’ ‘Pleasure!’ I had never heard her say the word before, and it seemed, all of a sudden, a terribly lewd one. Perhaps she thought the same, for now she blushed a little, and took up a spoon and began to fiddle with it. ‘There’s a public-house near Cable Street,’ she went on, ‘with a ladies’ room in it. The girls call it “The Boy in the Boat ...”’ ‘Oh yes?’ She looked once at me, and then away again. ‘Yes. Annie will be there, she says, with a new friend of hers; and perhaps Ruth and Nora.’ ‘Ruth and Nora too!’ I said lightly: they were the two girl-friends who had turned out sweethearts. ‘Is it to be all toms, then?’ To my surprise she nodded, quite seriously: ‘Yes.’ All toms! The thought sent me into a fever. It was twelve months since I had last passed an evening in a room full of woman-lovers: I was not sure I still possessed the knack. What would I wear? What attitude would I strike? All toms! What would they make of me? And what would they make of Florence? ‘Will you still go,’ I asked, ‘if I don’t?’ ‘I rather thought I might...’ ‘Then I’ll certainly come,’ I said - and had to look quickly to the pan of smoking bacon, and so didn’t see whether she looked pleased, or satisfied, or indifferent. I passed a fretful day, picking through my few dull frocks and skirts in the hope of finding some forgotten tommish gem amongst them.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  SOUNDSThis is as good a place as any to make a parenthetic comment on noise during sex, on what it does for women. I’m not talking about Frank Sinatra in the background; I refer specifically to those words and noises and phrases that come straight from the groin and have to do with fucking. Words and noises that—if you are indeed fucking—are a more natural part of it than a gentlemanly “I love you, Helen,” or no noise at all. Being fucked in silence, with the lights out, inhibits an act that’s supposed to be the most liberating one in our lives. Some women, like June (below), can’t even make it in silence; Nina (also below) says what dozens of other contributors have mentioned in passing… and would have dwelled on longer, I’m sure now, if I’d asked them directly how they felt about it: “Our lovemaking is always heightened by the use of words like ‘fuck,’ ‘cunt,’ etc., which we normally don’t use… only in bed.” Both these women trace the source of their fantasies back to their childhood, which is where most adults think these “dirty,” “low,” “vulgar” noises should be relegated, instead of including them naturally in the most adult act of all. Who said “ladies” don’t use words like “fuck” and “cunt,” or that one doesn’t use them around “ladies”? Maybe not when you’re having lunch with a lady, but when a lady’s fucking, she’s not having lunch. JuneWhat I can’t stand is quiet sex. It seems unnatural to me for two people to be fucking away and all you can hear, if you’re lucky, is some heavy breathing. Give me a good moaner, a groaner, a real yeller any time. If I’m with a guy and he won’t say anything, just breathes, and I’m too timid to start up all the heavy moaning that really turns me on, I fantasize. I remember the first time I ever heard people fucking, and remembering it, well, it releases me. I was only about eleven when this happened. We were living in San Francisco, in a big apartment house with a center courtyard. All the bedroom windows in the building opened onto this court, and sometimes in the middle of the night in that building it sounded like a mass orgy. I may have been only eleven, but no one had to tell me what all that moaning and yelling was about. I’d lie there mesmerized—that’s when I began masturbating, I think—listening to the first couple. Invariably, they’d wake up other couples, and like some kind of chain reaction within minutes the whole building was fucking. I mean, have you ever heard other people fucking, really enjoying it? It’s a marvelous sound… not like in the movies… but when it’s real. It’s such a happy, exciting sound.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  » We still enjoy making love at unusual times, like when we’re already late for a party, or an impromptu session on the living room rug, the kitchen table, etc.… time we can steal while the kids are away at a Boy Scout meeting or football game. I’d say we have sex most nights of the week, even when Charlie’s so tired he just comes and falls asleep while he’s still on top and inside me. But something different happened the other evening when Charlie got home early and we thought we could steal some time before the kids got back. Suddenly we were interrupted—we were in the living room—by the unexpected arrival of our next-door neighbor. I just had time to pull my skirt down before Charlie let him in. He only stayed five or ten minutes, but all the time he was here, I knew something was up. I couldn’t help noticing the way this guy kept fidgeting… and then I noticed this big bulge in the front of his trousers while he was talking to me. It was only after he’d left that I realized that in my haste I’d forgot to put my tights back on; all during our talk, my short skirt had ridden up, leaving me totally exposed to the man. For a few minutes I was mortified, absolutely embarrassed. Then the shock wore off and I was left with this odd feeling of excitement, which is still with me when I think about it, although I consider our neighbor about as exciting as a graham cracker. I could hardly wait for us to get to bed that night. It was one of the most exciting sessions that I’d ever had. But I couldn’t sleep, I really couldn’t, until I’d told Charlie what had got me so aroused. I expected it would make him angry, just as I thought it would make me angry, too. But the idea that another man had been staring at the quim he had just enjoyed excited Charlie so much, he put out his cigarette and got on top of me again. He didn’t wait the usual time it takes him on those nights we do it more than once. He wasn’t in me more than a few seconds before he came again, almost like an explosion. It’s as though this idea has given our sex lives a whole new dimension. Now when we’re in bed together it’s almost become a necessity for us.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  I have seen cows being served by a bull on a farm that belongs to some friends. One particular bull is very broad across the back, like the flat top of a table. My husband and I frequently have sex in the lounge or the kitchen after the children are in bed or away for the weekend. Then I imagine that I am lying on the back of the bull, while the bull is mounting a cow. I experience a distinct feeling of the kitchen table or the lounge settee on which I lie heaving up and down. My hands automatically go down on either side of the table to grasp the legs, to prevent myself from falling off the back of the frantic bull as he works away at the cow. I can feel my body thrusting up and down in time with the thrusts of the bull into the cow. Sometimes my husband has extreme difficulty staying inside me. Invariably I experience a climax before my husband in these situations, and his continuing action to bring off his own climax results in me having a second orgasm, which I imagine in my mind to be the bull flooding the cow with his sperm. On these occasions I imagine my husband’s penis to be even greater in girth than it really is. In fact, I imagine it as thick as the bull. To make this even more realistic, I sometimes insert a finger into my vagina at the moment of his climax to swell his real dimension to what I imagine would represent the bull’s erection. My husband enjoys this routine, feeling that my finger’s there to help stimulate him. However, it is my desire to feel filled by an enormous penis that is really the key to the whole situation. [Letter] HeatherI’m twenty-two and very shy, and group gropes aren’t my scene at all. But my imagination isn’t the least bit shy. When my husband and I are making love, or when I masturbate, I visualize my husband screwing another woman while I am screwing another man. We’re all in the same room, or in two double beds, and I can see what they’re doing in a big mirror. It excites me very much. I can’t remember when this started or what started it, but I very rarely reach orgasm without thinking about it. [Letter] KittySometimes during sex, or just during the day, I think of what it would be like to trade husbands, that is, for me and my husband to have sex with a couple with whom we are good friends… me with the guy and my husband with the other wife. This can be one of several couples that we know, or any new couple we meet and hit it off with.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  I’d separate my fantasies into those I had before I had LSD and those after. Before, they included fucking everything from guys I knew (kind of tender scenes) to very repulsive or “lewd” dirty old men. Or a fantasy where I would make it with a girl, including kissing, rubbing tits, lying on top of one another. Or dreams of making it with a three-year-old girl, a priest, even an erotic kind of image of walking upstairs inside of an elephant (very erotic). One fantasy included my being raped by twelve black men (though I haven’t any conscious prejudice against blacks when awake). And, of course, there were the general lewd fantasies of making it with my father, an uncle, or a cousin. Other rather general fantasies I’ve had involve seeing myself as a kind of pin-up in a porn magazine… sticking out my tits, playing with my nipples, making little catlike expressions, moving my pelvis in slow circular motions while keeping my eyes just slightly open. I’ve thought of myself this way when I’m with guys I like, as well as guys I find distasteful. Actually, sometimes if I’m fucking a guy who fills me with disgust or anger or resentment, I think to myself, “Okay, you want to fuck, you creepy, slimy bastard, I’ll fuck you all right. I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll die from it.” Other times, I fantasize about the guy I’m with being with another guy, or a lot of other people watching us, or the guy I’m with watching me make it with another girl. Once I fantasized about lying back on the floor and having ten different people (men and women) fondling different parts of my body. Sometimes, if I love a guy, think his body is beautiful, but hate his technique, I have a kind of “mystical” fantasy: visions of stained glass, the suffering Christ, Virgin Mary, the organ playing… but I haven’t had this for about four years. It’s important to me how the guy talks about what we’re doing: I like to hear the word “fucking,” and even more, “balling” (calling it “cunting” would be absurd, wouldn’t it? Whereas “intercourse” is too scientific and detached, and “making love” is too liberal and has become an offensive cliché, though if I really love somebody, “making love” is not offensive as long as both people understand that it’s also fucking… then it really feels like making love). But I love to get myself worked up thinking or saying things like fuck, cunt, cock, dick, tits, sucking, cocking… it really makes me feel good and lewd, just so long as it’s natural and doesn’t sound like we’re trying too hard, using these words.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  Instead of Charlie whispering things into my ear (that really didn’t excite him, they were more or less routine words to him, but he knew they excited me), I tell him of imaginary experiences. For instance, that I’m on one of those stirrup tables that gynecologists have, where they spread your legs and look deep into you. But the table is in the middle of the ring, in Madison Square Garden, and it’s mounted on a revolving platform. Thousands of men have paid fifty or a hundred dollars each for tickets, and the ushers are selling binoculars so they can get a better view. I tell Charlie that the table is slowly turning around and around, with the bright lights illuminating me, and the men in the seats all around begin pushing forward, jumping out of their seats, the whole giant mob wild with excitement to see, thousands and thousands of men in a circle all around me, all wild with excitement to see me better, to fuck me, to get deep inside those wet, red lips they can see so plainly. And all the time I’m lying on the table, I never move, except once in a while I put my two hands down, and with my fingertips just delicately open the lips so they can see the juices inside, glistening inside me, and then all the men begin to cream and some of them have unzipped themselves, and from under my closed eyelids I can see hundreds, thousands of erections just screaming to get inside me.