I just read my first book of yours, Men in Love. What sweet, sensual beings the men appear through their fantasies, when they seem worse prudes than women in reality.
I’m 32, white, middle class, and live in my hometown, a city in the Southwest. I have a master’s degree, a dull, secure professional job. I live with my mother, also a career woman, and am single. I enjoy my situation, but am kind of ashamed of it, too. I have traveled widely in the U.S. and Europe, love reading and films, and hate sports and most group activities. Sexually, I’m a typical Southern woman, very sensual, but outwardly a nun. I’m a demi-vierge, loving fellatio, ready for anal sex, and anything in between, but have not dated for ten years. I can’t understand this last, because I’m cute, really, well-built, and friendly.
As you can imagine, fantasy and masturbation are big items in my life, for all yearnings toward anything else seem fraught with dangers: singles bars (Mr. Goodbar, herpes, AIDS) or marriage (debt, alcoholism, wife beating). I love sex, and the look and feel of the male body if in reasonably good shape, though the look of over-muscled men terrifies me.
The most vivid and complete fantasy is one I began this year. I have worked it all out happily to the last detail, but it consists mainly of one situation. It is 1942, and I am 16 (my favorite year and age). I am a maid and waitress for the summer in a hotel in a small town where a movie is being made. Starring in this picture is my absolutely favorite actor, a great male star of the forties, gorgeous, masculine, gentlemanly and talented. He is also polite, tall, very well endowed and adored by women, and even straight men, for his perfection. Rooms are very short at the hotel, and the female lead (a young all-American type starlet so popular in the forties) suggests that I camp in her room so that she can study my type for the part she’ll play.
One noon, I rush up to change uniforms in the bathroom and walk right in on him, nude, and I nearly faint from embarrassment, but it is also love at first sight for me. He is amused, really, but I am fascinated by his lovely build and even more by his gorgeous cock. The lovely accident of his being in the bathroom, he tells me, consists of his sharing a suite with the female
lead because of the shortage of rooms. He is very sweet as I apologize for my mistake. I walk around in a daze the rest of the day, and luckily, the gutsy and experienced female lead takes pity on me and suggests me to him as an interesting pastime. She is actually eager to go to bed with him herself, but cannot do this and concentrate on her film role.
When our lovemaking begins, and as it continues over that month, I go from terror of rejection to confident love, to loving but complete power over him. The first time he enters me goes like this: We are both naked. The blood is pounding in my temples. I lie back on the bed, closing my eyes. He puts his hand, large and warm like his penis, between my legs, touching me gently at first, and then more roughly, until I groan. He talks to relax me, and, feeling the wetness between my legs, climbs onto me. Then I can feel it naked between my thighs, tickling them, and it feels wonderful. Instinctively I move my legs as far apart as I can, tilt my pelvis up, arching my back. He shifts, whispering now, and slides his hands under my back. “I’ve got you – I’ve got you now,” he says. His cock moves ever so slightly, the head, the knob, finding my slit, and I slide my arms around his back, smelling his scent. He comes inside me then, huge, but I welcome him. The pain becomes pleasure immediately. He whispers to me: “You’re so small, you’re perfect.” He is not all the way in yet, and kisses and strokes me until I totally relax. He then slides all the way in, and I gasp, almost fainting, for his lovely cock is twelve inches long. Now I sigh, holding him to me, triumphant that he is in me. He means to be gentle, but gets carried away because of my size, and comes again and again, collapsing from exhaustion, and I cradle him on my breasts.
The next day he feels very guilty because he is married, and because of the differences in our ages (I wasn’t a virgin). The female lead has given me some advice on technique, however, and I get him into bed, and go down on him all night. After this, we lapse into weeks of sex of all kinds, the most exciting for me when he bottom-fucks me, and I wish, somehow, that I could give him the same feeling, of totally helpless surrender.
The impetus arrives when his lover, a producer, arrives on the set for the last day of shooting, and a cast party.
This producer is famous, bisexual, influential, and the major force in the star’s career, and also excitingly handsome in his own right, but very cruel. He truly, jealously loves the star, however, who really prefers women, and after this month, prefers me sexually to anyone. He has sex with the star at the cast party, which the star admits guiltily to me later, he intensely enjoys. The star leaves the party, angrily bursting in on me, hits me, and collapses into sobs, admitting he is still under the producer’s spell. I comfort him, and, luckily, having caught the exciting word “Fistfucking” in someone’s conversation that day, deduce the meaning, and proceed with the help of Vaseline, to fuck him with my arm, not really painful to him because I am very petite, my hands as well. He loves this, and I go on and on, as he comes again and again, and, finally, after some washing up, we collapse into each other’s arms, me holding him very tenderly, and we sleep.