I drafted this blog post on the bus home after work, while eating cookies that may have been post-work cookies, and may have been post-wank cookies – the jury is still out. Thus, I’m prepared to be told that this entire post is utter nonsense, but who wouldn’t want to hear about an embarrassing fantasy of mine, right?
A few weeks ago, I was thinking about my most embarrassing fantasies.
Regular readers of my blog will know that I share some pretty damn personal fantasies here. I’ve posted stories featuring piss, humiliation, being beaten, and even consensual non-consent. They make me wet and get me off. These fantasies are too explicit, too embarrassing, for me to share under my ‘civilian’ name and non-sex-blogger identity – save with a few very close friends. However, I began to wonder if, as Quinn Rhodes, I have any fantasies that she wouldn’t share. Another time I will write a blog post about daydreams I’m ashamed of because they involve me being cared for and protected: a damsel in distress that my independent, feminist-self hates admitting to wanting. Today, though, I’m going to talk about a fantasy I don’t think I will ever share on my blog.
It’s different from the fantasies that are blurs of wonderfully filthy thoughts, all mixing together as one hot idea overtakes the next. Usually the fantasies that I’m embarrassed of make me squirm with shame in a good way; this one is powerful and captivating in an entirely different way. While I often prefer not to focus on little details like setting – the words I imagine someone saying to me being much more important – the location of this particular fantasy is crucial. It’s not a public place, exactly, but nor is it hidden. For those who are there, they can see exactly what happens – and there are a couple there who know exactly how significant this action is.
And it is almost just the one action: the entire fantasy, hot words and all, plays out in my head in about thirty seconds. It’s a good thirty seconds though, with some filthy phrases well-tailored to my kinks; a rough, dominant move that pulls me close to them; and then something utterly unexpected. At least, I was surprised when the fantasy played out in my head for the first time. I was expecting something hot, not something almost gentle. It was very hot, of course, but it’s more a daydream than a cunt-clenchingly-hot thought that I wank myself raw* over. That’s why I’m so embarrassed.
There is another element that makes this fantasy unusual: it is almost unique in that it features just one person. If I was to be honest, it’s the person that makes it so appealing. The action is innocent enough of itself, except in that location, with them. It’s not uncommon for the characters in my fantasies to be indistinct, with who they are falling second to how they’re treating me. The same person appears in half a dozen over filthy bed-time stories that I tell myself as my hand sneaks underneath my pyjama bottoms… but this is the only one where they are not interchangeable. As many filthy ideas as they inspire in me, this is one that only they could make happen.
That’s why it is a little bit different: because it can never be fulfilled. Those other fantasies make me feel dirty and used and wonderfully sexy, and I turn the ache between my legs into erotic stories or keep them in mind when negotiating kink and sex with other partners. The particular action, the location, the more-attractive-than-they-should-be person… it won’t happen. As embarrassed as I am that I have this fantasy, part of me is proud that I realise that it won’t happen. Not hoping for it – though, let’s face it, I do a tiny bit – but just accepting that it’s something I would like. A lot.
I’ve told just one person about this shameful fantasy – though another two can now probably guess after reading this post, if they didn’t before. However, if you were expecting a twist where I reveal the fantasy to all of you at the end of this post, I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you: I’m keeping this one to myself.
Unless it comes true one day…
*While wanking oneself raw may indeed be a kink for some, I use it here as a figure of speech; I’m a huge fan of lots of lube.
Image sourced through Pixabay.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.