I am not hoping for the apocalypse. Let that sink in, fully and completely, because although this includes a dirty story about gang-bangs and sexual servicing, it is not an ‘ apocalypse fantasy’ in the purposeful sense: I do not ever want it to come true. I don’t want the world to end, and I don’t want anyone to die. But sometimes, when I am calm and happy, I entertain myself by daydreaming about the end of the world. In my fantasy, all the people on the planet have disappeared except for a select few. And those select few: they fuck me.
The apocalypse fantasy
My apocalypse fantasy is broad and deep. It is a river running through – and touching on – all of my fantasies and dreams in some way. The mundane ones as well as the sexual. There’s the bit where I get to pick which house to live in, because no one’s here any more and I could live in Buckingham Palace if I wanted. There’s the bit where I get to eat whatever the hell I like, because the supermarkets shelves are stocked with everything and for some reason the power to the freezers hasn’t gone out yet. Although I didn’t like Phil Miller as the ‘Last Man On Earth’, I have to admit to a grudging respect for the shenanigans he had, and I’d definitely steal some of his ideas for fun that can be had throwing bowling balls at glass ornaments in abandoned shopping malls – I’d definitely do that too.
But mostly it starts with me waking up, entirely alone one morning, and setting out to find survivors of whatever-the-hell-this-is. Swiftly followed by the montage in which I zip through deserted streets in a bright purple Mustang singing ‘Don’t Rain On My Parade’ while I hunt for men amid the ruins of what used to be London.
This fantasy changes all the time, depending on my mood and my inspiration. If I’m sitting on a train, watching the English countryside roll by, I might imagine how my gang of survivors and I would start a farm: growing crops and ploughing fields and rolling sweatily together by a campfire at the end of the day. I might imagine us commandeering a bus, driving it up and down the country, and leaving signs in all the towns that say ‘alive in London. Join us at the palace.’ Or maybe I’ll see my current partner sitting moodily on a picnic blanket, asking me why it is that he doesn’t get a turn to fuck me that evening, because I’m promised to someone else.
OK. I know. It’s weird and almost certainly creepy. Sometimes the element I’ll play up in the fantasy is the competition: the few surviving men that I have rescued all want to take their turn to fuck me. So I need to share the love. Spread my cunt and my legs equally for all of them. Not just a free-for-all gang bang, but a measured service: each comes to my room at the appointed time, tells me where he wants to come and what he likes, and I do it. To keep them happy. To keep them mine.
At other times, I have less control. Frustrated by the fact that each has to compete with the other, they choose instead to band together: to visit me all at once. Swamping me. Overwhelming me with their sweaty, almost aggressive desperation. And I lap it up with the same drooling eagerness with which I’ll drink their spunk.
Other times I’m the dominant one. In charge, and giving orders. I’ll tell each guy exactly what I want, and only when he’s provided it will I milk him to completion.
You – the one with soft hands and long fingers. Your job is to make me come with your hands. Keep your mouth shut. Make no noise whatsoever. No begging or pleading, except with your eyes, as your dick swells and hurts with need. It’s been seven days since you last came, but I’m the only one here who can make you come with my cunt, so you’ll do whatever I ask if it means you get that sweet, soft wetness to chuck your load in at the end.
The ‘who’ changes almost as frequently as the ‘what’. Sometimes there will be a very specific group of men: people I know personally. Ex-boyfriends, or current friends who I have painfully embarrassing crushes on. Other times it might be a larger group, including celebrity crushes or people I’ve met only fleetingly. And sometimes, when the fantasy is less about sex and more about survival, I’ll include others to help us rebuild the world: this friend who is a doctor, that one who knows how to cook. My plumber, naturally – who knows what the climate will be like but I’m sure we’ll need decent central heating in the fuck-palace of our brave new world. Maybe family members I wouldn’t want to live without. Friends who I know would be happy to have babies, and do the icky ‘repopulation’ that I wouldn’t want to have to bother with.
Most often it comes back to sex, though. Because this fantasy is inherently self-centered, and detailed in exactly the way that comforts my specific brain. If you’re an extrovert who likes meeting new people, any fantasy story like this might include new towns and villages for you to stumble across. If you prefer architecture to ass-fucking your apocalypse fantasy might include the great walls you’d build, or the cities you’d help mastermind. Our fantasies always come back to what we dream of, and explore.
Mine comes back to sex.
It comes back to me, at the centre of an almost-empty world, getting fucked in the aisles of abandoned supermarkets. Being passed around groups of thirsty men who close their eyes when their swollen cocks slide in, because they’re ashamed to betray the ones they loved who died. It settles on me, travelling from coast to coast with this group of ex-boyfriends and partners and tremblingly sexy friends, and being asked to service each of them in turn with my mouth. Greedily hoovering up all the sex that’s left on the planet, as the sun sets blood red over the horizon.
Apocalypse fantasy versus reality
I know how gross this is. I know how self-centred and strange. But I also know that it does no harm. I know that letting my mind play with this is a long way from actually wanting it to happen. I explore the scenario, as I used to explore other scenarios when I was young: being a princess captured by pirates, or a servant-girl sent on a dangerous quest. It sits squarely in the same category as the fantasies I have when I’m waiting for a train, imagining a small-scale disaster at the station and how I’d be heroic and instrumental in saving everyone else’s life.
Most of us have fantasies like this, and we know the shape of them. We can feel in our head the difference between these epic journeys and the mundane slivers of actual desire that represent the dreams we’d like to fulfil. There’s a world of difference between ‘I fantasise about being gang-banged in a palace after the end of the world’ and ‘I want to invite a stranger to join us for a threesome.’ It’s not just that the latter is practical – it’s that it’s desirable in a way the former is not.
When people ask me why I like masochism, or non-consent play, problematic fantasies or sex games that plough through long-held taboos and discomfort, this is the fantasy I think about. It reminds me that ‘fantasy’ doesn’t always mean ‘aspiration’ – it’s not always something we’d actively make come true, or even something we’d welcome if it happened to come to pass.What gives us sexy shivers in the dream-world could give us shudders of horror in the real one.
In fact, if I were to write down every sexual fantasy I have ever had and cross out those that I wouldn’t want to fulfil… a book-length list could easily be trimmed to less than two sides of notepaper.
It helps to remember this. Because when I tell myself stories that turn me on, there’s a temptation to kick myself afterwards. To turn them over and over until my brain bleeds looking for evidence of evil or wickedness. Burying those thoughts beneath a layer of something more pleasant, in the hope that they’ll never resurface. In fact, most of them are no more real than the plans I have for playing sex games in Buckingham Palace or eating Vienetta for breakfast in the shadow of a ruined Tower Bridge.
The weirdest fantasies are helpful because they remind us that most of our fantasies would be terrible if they were ever realised. Whether we’re fantasising to explore taboos, or conquer fears, or just because we’re bored on a train journey home, the power of our fantasies lies as much in their ability to show us what we don’t want as what we do.
I am not hoping for the apocalypse. I don’t want the world to end, and I do not want anyone to die. But sometimes, when I am calm and happy, I daydream about the end of the world.