Hi, dear reader. Today, I’d like to report a change in my typical male fantasy. You know, the one I have when I’m sitting in McDonald’s or the supermarket or the subway and think about sex. I have no idea what this change of fantasy means or why it has occurred in such a juncture of my life. I seriously doubt that you will understand it, so don’t bother to analyze it unless you have an advanced degree in Neilology.
Let’s begin. For many year, my male fantasy involved me being on the bottom, and the woman on top. Why am I on the bottom? Perhaps it insecurity? Who knows? My personal theory is that I am voyeuristic. When I’m on the bottom during lovemaking, it is like a two-for-one-deal. Not only do you get to fuck a woman, you get a free Las Vegas show. The woman is like an exotic dancer. You can check out her body as she moves. You can watch her face, her breasts, her stomach. I like this a lot, even though it means I usually have to wear my glasses during sex.
You also have your hands free. Woo-hoo! I like to change things up with my hands. Sometimes I like to grab her ass. Sometimes, especially if a classical music station is on the radio, I imagine I am conducting the New York Philharmonic in Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3 (The Eroica – get it?) while she rides me.
This male fantasy served me well for many a year. Being on the bottom gave me the ultimate control, and the fantasy woman on top, who could be anyone from my wife, a blogger, a waitress at Denny’s, or Meryl Streep, was always satisfied with the way I took my time, extending the session like a Lakers game in overtime, until she was screaming out my name, along with assorted obscenities and pleas to do it again.
Yeah, those were the days. Nice fantasies.
But something has changed in my fantasy life since the start of the summer. Is it the economy? The Obama administration? I have become more aggressive. I am no longer conducting music with an imaginary baton in my hands. I am ripping the clothes off her body, like some vicious gangster with no respect for woman. Ripping off clothes? This would make make wife laugh. After schlepping to Macy’s with her, standing around for hours while she buys a t-shirt, and then paying for it with my Mastercard, the last thing I would ever do is go home and SHRED the t-shirt into tiny bits, reducing it into a designer rag to wipe the dust off of the television. For me to rip off a woman’s t-shirt would mean a desire, a yearning, to expose her breasts and hungrily bite her nipples in the same way that a vampire needs to suck his victim’s blood. That is not me. Or is it? How did this happen? Am I angry? How did I become so selfish in my fantasy life. Why does she like it? Why does she raise her knees so I can enter her wetness fully, teasing my cock while we kiss.
What makes this fantasy so odd is that it doesn’t seem violent at all. We levitate into the air as we fuck, as if we were in outer space, with zero gravity, so the intensity is counter-balanced by the floating, and the anger fades, and we both feel as light as feathers, objects without weight, carefree and beautiful as a warm summer breeze.