compiled by William Dean
The solo act of masturbation -- even if a crowd is watching the physical action -- is still one of our most private behaviors. The images, concrete or abstract, and the sensory input we create in our minds and in our hearts can be a replay or a constructed fantasy or even something so amorphous as to defy description.
Erotica writers, however, have trained themselves to be articulate, to observe -- even in the deepest throes of ecstasy -- and to record. For this very special Clean Sheets article, we called upon our friends to share with us an intimate secret: their masturbation fantasies.
"The moon is knife-blade silver, the night raven-black, your wound red as new blood. In a moment, head bowed, shoulders quivering as you kneel before me, transformation occurs. You lift your eyes to meet mine. Humility does not enlighten your features. No plea softens your eyes. Only insolence fills the air between us. Strong. Calculating. Demanding. Provocative in the extreme. I smile, pleased. You bring out the beast in me."
Author of The Darker Passions series
The Darker Passions: Dracula, rereleased by Circlet Press, April 2002
"I'm on our sumptuous queen size bed, lying atop plush comforters and pillows with the most adorable bisexual boy (let's call him Howard), and my husband. I am a retro-goddess, dressed like Marilyn doing a Bettie Page. The boys are dressed in short skirts and are both wearing jewel-tone silk panties; their delicious hard cocks are outlined in lush detail, highlighted by the erotic sheen of the thin fabric. Their legs are both covered in stockings -- Hub in silky, nylon stay-ups, and Howard in fishnets adorned with black satin bows that encircle his upper thighs. They are kissing, and I'm exploring some sensual caressing; legs and limbs are entangled, rubbing and softly entwined. As I join in on the scene, cocks, fingers, lips, tongues, are eventually put into every one of my wet orifices. My mind is sailing above our trio as my body shivers through both near and full orgasm. I revel in sensory delights of taste, touch, visual beauty, and sex -- experiencing sensations that come at me from surprising angles. I gasp, shudder, and cry out in pale, little coos."
Jamie Joy Gatto
Editor, Mind Caviar
"What is it about being a smut writer? Do horror writers get asked what person they'd like to dismember and eat? No -- but write sexy stuff and folks come out of the woodwork: 'Come on,' they say, 'tell us what (or who) you like to do.' Occupational hazard, I guess -- comes with the job. So, in answer to your question about my fantasies, here's a nice little favorite of mine:
"Compared to what I write, my fantasies are pretty damned mundane -- if not slightly embarrassing. You know, the usual 'straight' guy stuff: two women at once, orgies, and so forth -- but what makes mine a bit more interesting is that I've always found women who look 'real' to be much more erotic than anyone glossy or staged. My fantasies have tan lines, cellulite, wavy bikini lines, bellies, and are, most of all, Rubenesque. I like chubby girls. Not 'bigger is better' but rather a woman with form, shape -- in short, voluptuous.
"I also like big black girls. Not exclusively, but I do have a certain weakness for glowing dark skin, nice cheekbones, dancing amber eyes. Sigh. One of my most enduring fantasies features a luscious black beauty and a tab of acid. I haven't done any chemicals in quite a number of years, but there's something about the freedom of thought and action that accompanies a good chemical vacation that adds to the fantasy -- it also ties into a little spiritual journey I've often thought about taking: drop a little blotter early in the morning and walk across San Francisco: bay to sea, dawn to dusk, a voyage across the city and through myself.
"Somewhere along the way, the fantasy goes, I come across her: plump coal, sexy black, big and outrageously sexy. A good laugh, that's important. I wouldn't be screaming ripped, just inhibition-challenged enough not to be shy and maybe to be a bit more aggressively flirty. I also like the idea that sex isn't immediately in the air: maybe I just ask if she lived nearby and if I could use the bathroom, or the phone, or have a glass of water. Behind closed doors, I'd surprise her and myself by being warm and playful. Not overly aggressive, just silly and teasing, telling her how beautiful and sexy she is -- and she is, and knows it, but is still a bit shy and hesitant from the surrealism of me just showing up and being so mischievously sexy.
"In many ways, the sex isn't that important, but I always get a little erotic thrill at the thought of when that line is crossed: maybe I kiss her, more than just a playful kiss on the cheek; maybe I grab her and while she playfully shrieks she doesn't pull away; maybe I slide a hand across the front of blouse, tracing the curve of a breast, the hard knot of a nipple -- and then, well, it changes depending on what I'm in the mood for. The important thing is the reality of it. I try to add as many little details as I can: a gritty kitchen floor, a twisted tangle of bedclothes, pictures of relatives on the TV, cold cup of coffee on the nightstand, and so forth. That and the mutual attraction, the freedom the drug gives me to just walk off with someone, to be the playful seducer of a luscious dark beauty. That's the turn-on -- and that's what keeps me coming back to this one particular erotic dream.
"Sure, we smut writers get the weird questions, but that's where we have something over a lot of other genres. A SF writer will never meet an alien, a mystery writer will never solve a real crime, a horror writer will never get to taste someone else's blood, but us smut writers -- well, we can get up to all kinds of mischief in the name of researching accuracy. But until then we have our fantasies."
Erotica Editor and Writer
"They want to know how I masturbate. Let me, instead, answer, 'How will I masturbate tonight?'
"All I've done is touch your hand with mine. And yet, tonight, my lips tingle, the tip of my tongue is alive in my mouth, stroking my hard palate as if stroking a cock. I tilt my head back and stroke my palms down over my skin...over my nipples, a slight tug on the one ring before traveling lightly over my flesh, my fingers finding my clit as my tongue finds my lips, flickering out to nothing.
"Nothing but my dream of you, of the cock I felt through denim, of the thickness that would fill my mouth and the length that would test my throat. My fingers press and stroke, finding wetness already as my tongue finds air, finds dryness, finds a phantom of solidity to stroke over and find the dew that demonstrates your desire. My moan echoes over you, over nothing, into the air that receives the thrusting of my hips, and suddenly with a rush of tingling over my skin I'm lost in the dream: your hands over my face, your breath catching in my hearing as I take you as deep as I can, flickering my tonguetip along your length, finding the piercing I've only heard about and quivering with the sudden metallic taste. My hips are quivering, my insides hot and pulsing, and as I hear your moan I start to shake, my cunt exploding in a burst of heat that throws my body into an arch, expels my breath out in loud cries that take all of each breath, forced by the rhythmic clench of muscles answering the wash of sensation from you.
"From my dream of you.
Editor, Clean Sheets Newsletter
"When reprimanded for masturbating over a Catholic priest, Sex and the City's Samantha protests, 'It's fantasy! I can masturbate to whomever I like!' Her friends giggle and confess that they masturbate to Russell Crowe.
"In theory, I agree. Why waste a fantasy on the mundane? So I sometimes try to think about, not Russell Crowe -- definitely not -- but Martina Navratilova, say, or Johnny Depp. Only, in practice, it works better with people I know. Don't worry; if you're just one of my co-workers or neighbors, I'm probably not masturbating about you -- unless you also happen to be one of my former lovers. Or current ones, for that matter. But, yes, it's mostly my actual sex partners I fantasize over. There's something about knowing exactly how a person looks and feels and smells that gives a fantasy that dimension of realness I seem to need.
"My favorite fantasy ex at the moment is 'Matthew.' I remember how extraordinarily massive he felt lying on top of me. He did it deliberately. Sometimes he didn't wait until we got to the bedroom: he pushed me down onto the living-room floor and then settled his whole weight on me, covering everything, sort of like wet sand when someone buries you at the beach. There was a wonderful feeling of being muffled. After a while I'd be incredibly excited but unable to move. Maddening!
"Sometimes I actually dream that Matthew is lying on top of me. I wake up to realize 1) that he's not there and I'm still turned on, and 2) unlike in the real scenario, my hands are free and my legs aren't pinned together. I remember something Matthew used to say at times like this: 'Off you go, Naomi.' And, well, off I go."
Clean Sheets Articles Editor
"I've never been a normal girl. I discovered masturbation by accident, when my folks bought me a piano in an attempt to channel my nervous energy somewhere. Wouldn't you know it, instead of becoming a musical prodigy, I learned that getting off felt great, due to a piano bench with a rickety leg that made things feel just right. I took D. home with me last year to meet the folks and when we walked into the living room, I nudged him in the direction of the piano bench.
"'That's where I learned to masturbate,' I whispered.
"His eyes widened. That's one of the things I love most about this man, he shocks well.
"'What do you mean?'
"'The bench has a bad leg. I'd practice at night, and the bench would rock back and forth. I'd move on it, very slowly, biting my lip, and try to keep playing scales until I came. It was amazing, this intense, shattering pleasure, coupled with the incredible effort to stay silent. It's still the easiest way for me to come. The whole fingering the clit thing, I didn't figure that out until a few years ago. I explained this to him, in so many words.
"He mulled this over for a moment, and said, 'We're getting you a piano.'"
Erotica Writer, Clean Sheets Fiction Editor
"I see you in my favorite coffee shop. Your stare claims me, puts a tag on me like a wildlife specimen whose migration you wish to study. I meet your gaze, staring you down, but instead I feel myself becoming lost in it. I look away from your eyes, and instead my eyes rest on your shiny belt buckle. It catches the light and glitters. I follow the light patterns with my eyes.
"I end up sitting at the table opposite you. You talk to me in a soft voice: relaxing words, soothing instructions. I lose track of time. At some point I feel air between my legs and realize I'm no longer wearing panties. The belt buckle catches the setting sun's rays in red-tinted rainbows. Every time you say the word 'latte,' I feel a strong urge to kneel and bring my eyes right up against that belt buckle. Some time later, I end up at your apartment, dancing for your amusement."
Author, The Lazy Crossdresser
"I am a print whore. Not a media whore. Not yet. And there is a distinction.
"A print whore is one who wets their fingers, their lips, themselves at the turning of a page, not in order to turn it. They draw delight from its word-ravaged state. The raised black welts from the strike of the press against the dried wood pulp. The tight binding weave of the linen itself. The orgy of dominant uppercase letters herding submissive lowercases across a snow-white field with a dungeon of cruel-looking implements: ','; ';';':'; '/'; '?'; '!'.
"And it is with this in mind that I share with you my masturbation fantasy.
"At first glance, it's neither about masturbation nor fantasy. It all began with an e-letter I received from my lover at the beginning of our long-distance epistolary affair. I have a hard time reading anything above a few sentences online. So I printed it out. And read it hungrily.
"I had asked him to describe himself as he stripped before me. He did. He told me in long sentences of his body, a body I had yet to see or touch. He spent a paragraph on his nipples and their many magical powers alone. And in time, yes, dear reader, you knew he would, he came to detail his dick. He mapped its length and girth and told me of how it jutted upwards out of the chair in his office cubicle, anchored only by the weight of his cum-heavy balls. He was naked and hard and jerking it for the benefit of all his co-workers, those voyeurs outside his window, and, most of all, me. He ended the all-too-brief letter, not with an orgasm, but with a request for what his wordmaster would like his boy to do next.
"Not the stuff of Penthouse Forum perhaps. But I shook as I read it. My fingers, my toes, my dick. Whatever digit that could quiver or clutch or bob did. And of course, I re-read it and re-read it until I was so hard I had to get myself off with a few fevered strokes to my cock.
"But what was the telltale mark that I was a print whore (and a masturbation mad one at that) was that I got to the point where I passed my bed and saw the white piece of paper lying there and grew hard. In time, I could just lie on the bed beside it and close my eyes and touch myself. The very sight of the letter was my masturbation fantasy. The word-kissed page was the body of my lover. Lying beside me. Enticing me. Awaiting me.
"The Word indeed had been made flesh."
Author, See Dick Deconstruct: Literotica for the Satirically Bent
"I'm not really clear on why we've set aside a month to celebrate masturbation; whether it's to encourage people who have never masturbated to hurry up and start; or to give those who already do masturbate, a reason to celebrate the fact -- or maybe even be smug about it. Or is it something that's more along the lines of the Hallmark Card Syndrome -- create a holiday of some kind in hopes that people will find newer, fuller, more complete ways to spend, spend, spend?
"Perhaps I'm a cynic, but I'm most inclined to believe it all has something to do with cash. But that aside, I've been asked to say a few kind words about masturbation -- presumably, my own penchant for it. And here they are:
"Even though I have wonderful memories of masturbating that go back to being about two or three years old, I didn't begin actively masturbating, as well as having orgasms, until I was seven. Masturbating rapidly became my reason for living, mostly because I was so compellingly engaged by the thoughts that sprung up in my head while doing it. It's not an exaggeration to say that those compelling thoughts are what led me to my illustrious career as an erotic fiction writer. From the beginning, I have felt that masturbation has brought me closer to knowing God. Because I couldn't believe God could give us such an incredible gift -- something that felt so good. I felt that it must say something very important about what God thought of us, to give us the gift of sexuality and sexual expression. One of the drawbacks, though, is that sex with myself has often been way more rewarding and fulfilling than the sex I've had with other people. And my compulsion for masturbation, at various stages of my life, has made me more than a little neurotic. There were plenty of people who complained about it, my never-ending neurosis, but nobody ever kicked me out of bed over it."
Marilyn Jaye Lewis
Author, Neptune & Surf
"I don't fantasize as vividly or for as long as I used to when I was young and idle. Nowadays, when I masturbate, I am usually using a vibrator and it happens very quickly, so there isn't a lot of time to linger over details and plot like I did when I was a teenager and used my hands. The one common thing that does come up again and again, surprisingly, is Chuck Knoblauch. If you don't know him, he's a professional baseball player now with the Kansas City Royals. This is a shock to a lot of people who assume I have a lot of fantasies about Derek Jeter (another baseball player, one who is definitely fantasized about by women the world over...). I actually have exactly two fantasies about Jeter which have worn thin over the past few years, but for some reason Chuck keeps coming around again and again. That's why I laughed so hard when, during a recent Saturday Night Live sketch of the 'Yankee wives,' one of the wives remarks 'Nobody wants to have sex with Chuck Knoblauch.' Because I do! What is it about Chuck? Well, first off, I have a weakness for those real soft-spoken Texas men -- it's definitely a Texas thing, these guys with a kind of high, soft drawl. Lean and muscular. Intense eyes. I've met a lot of major league ballplayers now (Jeter included), but not Chuck, which is probably just as well. If I did, he might not make such good jerkoff material."
"My number-one fantasy: underpants. Cotton. Not silk, or frilly little lacy bits, or boxers, briefs, or slinky sporty butt-floss. Just plain ol' cotton, maybe white, maybe blue or black, not tattered but not exactly brand-new either.
"Why? Because it's about an evening just like any other, a spark of the extraordinary on a regular night. No premeditations, no plans or pretenses, no strategic alignment of planets or stars out of whack, just two bodies seized by id and tangled unexpectedly on a couch, forgetting about whatever it was they'd planned to do. The shirts may or may not be off; there may be (probably is) a bra left on; the jeans are long gone, tossed aside or dangling from ankles. But no hands have strayed south, mind you, not even one tentative caress, just an unsnap and a shove downward to dispense with the denim.
"It's about dry-humping, heat and heartbeat through familiar, worn-thin, everyday underwear, getting damper by the second. It's about feeling clear outlines of frenulum and labia minora through wet fabric; it's the feverish rubbing, the little circles, the sliding of flesh over each other's bellies, grinding clitoris and testes gently (or not) against pubic bones, blades of hips.
"And it's the moment when the cock springs free, through the open front of the boxers or an errant leg-hole of the briefs, and the head of him thumps against the opening of her and presses, just a little, until the scrap of drenched cotton either forbids him or begins to slip aside. It's the madness of it, the will-they-or-won't-they, the feeling of being so ravenously, moaningly alive that they swear they can feel themselves dying a little inside, and they don't really even care whether they actually go all the way this time. Because this, believe it or not, is almost enough."
Sometimes my pleasure,
is only the moment, the river.
Dreams ebb and flood,
the flick of fire over them,
nothing. The water rushes,
Sometimes I go adrift.
Did we do that once
or do I only hunger?
Is that remembered musk
and wet, or the slippery salt
of you, hoped for?
Did you churn me
-- or will you?
When I dream,
I swim as three.
urgent and muscled,
driving into you.
Or she's willow,
head back and singing
as you tongue her.
Maybe it's me,
rushing into you every way
at once. Maybe it's you,
and you, pooling
around me, slick and steep.
my once and soon to be.
Clean Sheets Fiction Editor