The Last Fantasy

Guys ask me about my fantasies a lot. I’m not quite sure what to tell them.

I tend not to fantasize about stuff I’ve done, or especially those things I’ve tried several times and know I’d probably do again given the opportunity. So while many men might reply, I want to get gang-banged! when they’re asked about a favorite fantasy, I’ve done that. Ditto sex while driving, or three-ways, or four-ways, or gyrating masses in a hotel room. I’ve had a lifelong tendency to act upon my sexual whims, instead of think about them and diddle myself. Even that cliched old straight-guy trope of watching two women get it on with each other and then with me? Been there, done that, in my past.

I say these things not as braggadocio (though I fear it sounds that way) but as encouragement to anyone reading. Fantasies are supposed to be calls to action. They're your libido, springing to life. If the desires aren't hurting anyone, why shouldn’t you test the waters and indulge in those you’ve found intriguing? Fantasies are the call of the sexual muse, the spirit of sexual adventure stirring our souls. They should be honored.

Anyway. When men ask about my fantasies, I am sad to say that the things about which I daydream, because I’m unlikely ever to do them, lie outside the sexual realm. Like, sitting down with a bucket of chorizo mixed with melted queso blanco and eating it with a giant wooden spoon. Or finding a sugar daddy who’ll let me run free with his credit card in the Banana Republic. Sigh.

I do have one sexual fantasy, however, to which I admitted on formspring.me a couple of weeks back. It’s something I’ve never attempted. It’s something I probably wouldn’t attempt without the presence of someone familiar. Simply put, I’ve been restrained and used as a bottom, in my distant teen years. However, I’ve never been restrained and used as a top.

I think I’d like to try it.

I’d like to have my wrists and ankles bound and immobile, and my eyes blindfolded, and to find myself totally at the mercy of a hungry bottom. Or bottoms, plural. That issue I have with feeling guilty about receiving a really good rim job? I wouldn’t have much of a choice if I were restrained and being forced to accept it. I wouldn’t be able to control when and for how long he sits on my face and makes me eat his hole, or suck his dick.

I certainly wouldn’t have a say or be able to resist when the bottom uses all his abilities to get me hard, and sucks me for as long as he wants, or gets rough with my nipples and nuts. I couldn’t protest when he sat down on my dick and rode it relentlessly, milking the loads from me.

And quite honestly, I wouldn’t want to protest any of it.

Once I had a fuckbuddy who swore up and down that he was going to make the scenario happen for me—he planned to rent a cheap hotel room, round up a few bottoms, and let them all have a go at me anonymously. For some reason it never happened. Probably too much planning—and I can understand that. I admire those men with the patience to plan hotel gang-bangs, because I’ve given up on organizing them. Guys are way too flaky about it.

So my sole remaining fantasy, sadly, remains just that.

I think the attraction of the scenario lies in a desire to take a short vacation from setting the pace, from taking the lead. It’s a fantasy in which I experience stimulation without responsibility. Not that I mind taking charge of an encounter, mind you. It’s part of my nature to do so. Being prevented from following my natural impulses is what would push me off-center enough that I’d find every sensation arousing and strange, and would leave me both dreading and anticipating more.

Then again, I might find it easier to get lucky with the sugar daddy with the Banana Republic card.