The Problem with Fantasies

The problem with fantasies is that I have so many. Some of the are distinct, sharp and cutting into my thoughts every so often. Some are fuzzy, with the watercolor scenes bleeding out into nebulous space. And to make matters even worse, fantasies are safe; they are constructs we can twist and mold in our brains. Reality, on the other hand, is a block of unfinished marble you only get to chisel once. If you mess up, you better make something else out of it. (That something else is not necessary worse, but it would definitely be different.)

For example, in a fantasy world of mine, I am forever young and rich. I fly my private jet when I want to ski, or scuba dive, or go shopping. I am the owner of a hundred leather bags, and a hundred pairs of shoes. I am also famous, having left my mark in the world with a great, wonderful invention I've come up with. I may even have won the Turing award. Or have turned down offers to be the Dean at first tier universities. In this fantasy world, I have beauty, brains, riches, and fame. I live in extravagant comfort by myself, so that I can be free to travel wherever I want. Though, of course, I have my coterie of handsome young men who are more than willing to scramble to do my will.

A more realistic fantasy world would be an ideal future. In this version, I would have a comfortable job near my mother and my sister. I'd be married, and perhaps having my first child at the age of 30. I still hate gardening, but I've learned how to cook. I might only have 3 weeks of vacation days a year, but I take the time to travel when I can, with the husband who shares my interests (at least in traveling). My home is comfortable, probably a 3 or 4 bedroom, with an open kitchen always smelling of freshly roasted coffee, and a comfortable den with a large aquarium of fish. In this fantasy, I might not be the top of the world, but I am happy and content and satisfied with life.

Another fantasy of my mind is that classic Thomas Crown Affair / espionage one. In this one, I am smart, wily, and always carrying out secret missions. I am so constantly high on the adrenaline rush that I am reckless and have a much higher pain tolerance than normal. Of course, one day, I meet my match. We fight, we tie, and something happens to bring us together. Maybe one of us changes sides. And from then on, we work together, until we die young, but gloriously, having left our subtle mark on history and humanity.

Then there is the romantic fantasy. I am by myself and lonely, just an average girl next door, who has slowly watched her friends get paired up over the years. But secretly, that one guy I never considered because he seemed so unattainable has always wanted me. I protest, of course, mistrustful of his intentions. But instead of being put off by my coldness, he becomes determined to do whatever it takes to win me. Here, the fantasy takes a split. In the first version, he romances me until I give in. In the second one, he becomes a stalker and kidnapper, until--basically--I have Stockholm Syndrome. (If you think that's weird, please remember how popular Twilight was.) Either way, in the end, I come to love and trust him, and we live happily ever after (probably without kids, if it's the second scenario).

Then of course there are the sex fantasies. That somehow I am hyped up on arousal, and that nothing can completely take the edge off. Perhaps I've been brainwashed, or injected with a pheromone, or was born with a genetic defect, or simply trained to be this way. I have no more worries in this scenario, except the constant need to cum. (Or I might have periods of lucidity followed by mindless need.) I'd beg, I'd sob, I'd plead... I'd do anything so that I can cum (maybe I need permission, or cock, or a drug). In the nice version of this fantasy, there is a man who is my master, and he is mostly benevolent, though he does play with me sometimes. He might lock me up in a cage for my own good during the day when he's away. He might make me sleep on the floor. But I love him in my own distracted way, because he has never truly been cruel to me even though he's been given many chances. And though it's extra responsibility for him, he's still willing to indulge me most days. And because he considers me his, he's willing to go to lengths to protect me, from others and from myself.

At the other end of the spectrum for that fantasy, there is the I lose my job, house, and all prospects of employment. I end up on the street... and you know where that goes...

And I have many, many other fantasies that interest me in one way or another. Does this mean I actually want all my fantasies to become reality? No. Does that mean I would even want to play them out? Not really. For me, it's interesting to think about the possibilities, and sympathetically arousing when I cast myself into another self in another world.

But just because I find a story arousing or I have a certain fantasy, that doesn't mean that I want it to become real life. (I don't want outhouses and dragons in real life either, but they're in many novels I enjoy reading.) So what you should really be asking me instead is, "Where do you want to go?" And I would tell you as honestly as I can where I imagine going next with my life, on a need to know basis, that is. But otherwise, I am open to possibilities.

So please... Just because I find being poured into a cement block (yes, I read an erotica like that once) hot doesn't mean I want it done to me. Or that I even have that kink. Part of the appeal of an erotica is that I am always safe as the reader (unless there's stealth hypnosis implanted in there, of course). ;)