Hot, kinky, nasty, sexy, taboo, wild, forbidden fantasies?
Do you want to read about my deepest, darkest, dirtiest desires in unrelenting black type?
Do you want me to make you blush, catch your breath, squirm in your chair (or on your couch or in your bed), get you hard, get you wet, get you off?
As I write this, I am one week postpartum. My days are a bit of a blur right now, my nights are a little lonely between feedings, my emotions are an unpredictable rollercoaster, my body is a stranger to me with a road map of stretch marks across my stomach, perpetually swollen feet and ankles, puffy eyes, skin discolorations and an ugly red incision that looks like someone stapled me together. Oh wait, someone did.
Do you still want to know my fantasies?
I write fiction. Sexy, sensual, romantic fiction. I write stories about people in love, people in lust, people in need of a quick fix, people scratching an itch, people who don't know what the hell they want until they find it. My fiction currently collides with my reality. Or does it? Can a woman who just had a baby think about sex, much less write about it, fantasize about it or want it?
There is a novelty book called Porn for New Moms. It has pictures of generic looking hunks doing baby-related tasks while holding cherubic babies and quotes like, "Damn! You look hot in those sweatpants!" and "Who knew I'd like changing diapers so much?" On the back cover Redbook magazine gushes, "Finally, there's erotica guaranteed to fulfill every woman's fantasy. With hot talk like this, who needs foreplay?"
Let me assure you of two things: 1) I do have sexual fantasies even now, one week after having a baby and 2) this book is not representative of my fantasies.
The surgeon's scalpel removed a 10 pound 15 ounce baby from my body-- he did not remove my sexual self. I realize I am at my least desirable right now. While pregnant women glow with fertile beauty and their rounded, feminine bodies may be the object of taboo fantasies, no one is lusting after the postpartum woman. But one does not need to be lusted after in order to feel lust. My body may be an unfamiliar and frightening wreck, but my mind is still very much my own. And while it is now preoccupied with things like scheduling pediatric appointments and remembering to buy diapers and plotting how to steal an afternoon nap, the secret heart of me still longs for sexual release.
I am straying wildly off topic this week, but I hope you will forgive me. I laughed when I read the description while I was still pregnant. Never mind that I generally keep my private life separate from my writing life-- how in the world was I going to write about any sexual fantasy one week after having a baby?
I had intended to take at least a couple of weeks off from this column and had already made my apologies to the others, but I find myself unable to completely bag an assignment, even for as good a cause as giving birth. And the topic... it is intriguing. I am supposed to write about a fantasy I would jump at the chance to fulfill, or one that I would only fulfill under certain circumstances, or one that fuels my imagination but I would never fulfill in real life. Ah... where to start? Do I even dare?
The fantasies that flit through my overtired brain when I re-read this week's topic: I would jump at the chance to sleep with my girl crush, I would fulfill a particular threesome fantasy if I could be guaranteed there would be no jealousy or fallout afterwards, I fantasize about anonymous sex with two or three very hot, insatiable men but I would never pursue it in real life not only because it's potentially dangerous, but also because it goes against my nature where my heart and my libido are inextricably linked. Three fantasies in a nutshell. Anticlimactic, isn't it?
The thing is, I have written fictional stories about all of my fantasies-- stories that explore the accessible and the unattainable, the acceptable and the forbidden. I write my fantasies because they're what I know, because they get me hot, because I know others fantasize about the same things I do, because I cannot/will not/should not fulfill certain fantasies in real life and writing fiction gives me a (usually) satisfying outlet for those desires.
Being one week postpartum, nothing is accessible-- everything is forbidden. Six weeks is a long time to wait for anything. The mind rebels, drifting to fantasies that cannot be fulfilled. Suddenly, even the most vanilla of sexual experiences are off limits. The missionary position with the lights off is now as hot as the videotaped gangbang with strangers. It is frustrating and it is exciting. Being told I can't do something makes me want it all the more.
The body heals slowly from a repeat Cesarean at the age of 44, but the libido is young, healthy and cannot be contained. My current fantasies trend toward the voyeuristic-- those who can, do; those who can't, watch. My body is off limits, but my imagination is running wild. The later the hour, the more heated the fantasies. Middle of the night desires-- when the rest of the world is asleep or having the sex I can't have-- are the wildest of all. There is nothing to do at 3 AM but fantasize about what I'm not allowed to do.
My fantasies will go unfulfilled for the time being, but there are stories to be written during this period of dormancy. I can't be certain, but I think I'm going to write the hottest stories of my life over the next couple of months. Maybe someday I will even live out some of them.
This column brought to you by Starbucks coffee and Percocet