What Happens When A Sexual Fantasy Goes Unmet?
I had this whole elaborate three paragraphs written about sexual expectations and how they ultimately spoil the fun of relationships, but it all started to sound a bit too text book so I’m going back to square-one. I have one personal rule about writing—if the words don’t practically type themselves, it’s time to reel it in and regroup. So here we are. Now I keep getting brought back to thoughts of fantasies—those I’m actively seeking and those from my past that went unmet or stir up nostalgia. What happens when a fantasy goes unmet? When it builds and builds in the seedy alleyways of your mind, like teething gums throbbing to bust open? When it trickles into your dreams and tickles you awake from inside, and you try to plunge back asleep to keep following it, only to find it’s already dissolved into cerebral simple syrup? That feeling creeps up on you ever so slowly, but once it’s there, it coats you like molasses. Sometimes I think of things and then I wonder when or how or why I ever got to thinking thoughts like that. I find myself repeating patterns I never knew existed, but that now seem so subconsciously calculated. There’s an imbalance here occasionally, a strong juxtaposition of innocent and perverse, perched on my shoulders like contesting angels and demons.
There’s nothing sexier than that agonizing ecstasy of giving into what’s wrong when you really, really want it. But I mostly only know from dreams. Succumbing to an unknown desire—the heat that ricochets across you in a wave of electric goose bumps. It’s that first-time feeling I’m craving so intensely. I constantly find myself thinking about the first night my (now) boyfriend came over—in retrospect it’s amazing how well I remember considering how much I drank to conceal my nerves. We got a ride home from a friend, and it was one of those classic New York nights laden with Taxi Driver aura, where the streets are wet and the only lights illuminating the car are yellow-red blurs of traffic stops. We sat side by side in the back seat, knees pressed together with enough sexual anticipation burning between them to cause an electrical fire. His pale neck especially stood out for some reason—like a crisp white sheet stretched out on a clothesline, fluttering before me in a teasing dance. Quietly, I planted soft, slow kisses all up and down it, causing a chain reaction of shivers to ripple across his skin. He’d squeeze my thighs in little intervals, pulses of sexual Morse code sending signals straight to my panties. It was complete sensory overload, knowing that at any moment we’d be alone at my apartment, a gigantic, horny elephant in the room. God, I’d do anything to go back and feel it all over again. Not to say that what we have now isn’t just as titillating, but nothing compares to first-time newness. Like the first time you feel a foreign tongue in your mouth, lubricated like an exotic sea creature. Or the first time you run palms across the surface of his boxers, a hard lump hiding beneath them like a pulsing present. Or that first time you undress together, awkward limbs outstretched to grip protruding parts—grasping for nipples hard as peach marble.
The fucking itself, I remember with less precise detail. Maybe it was all just too much to process—like when physical and emotional cross each other so hard you just black out. I’d been carried off by the feeling, flying through a pink-clouded sky at dusk, purple haze infusing the sunset. When he left the next morning, I might have laid awake in the same right groove of the bed for at least 3 hours, staring into the overcast hue of my ceiling. Every few minutes or so I’d stretch over to the side he’d been sleeping on, then bury my entire face into the pillow, breathing in his scent as if it were the last remnant of him on earth. A masculine smell of clean nape, Old Spice, and the natural oils that had been trapped in his long black locks. I’ve touched myself to that familiar smell so many times; every time he’d leave, I’d lie there and relive the entire night in my mind, hot memories both sensual and embarrassing playing on a mental loop like a GIF. That was almost four years ago, yet mentally revisiting it still takes me to a gushy place, igniting the little flame that lives in what Tom Robbins would refer to as the ‘peach fish.’ In fact, I just realized I’ve been biting my lip this whole 781 words deep—chasing that high of the first-time fantasy.