A week or so ago I wrote about perspective in sex fantasies, and asked people how they tend to fantasise when they’re masturbating. Do they make themselves the star of their fantasy, or do they tend to ‘watch’ the action as if they’re an outside observer? The answers were fascinating, and one of the ones that particularly struck me was Mrs Fever’s: although some of her fantasies are visual like the ones I was describing, many are based on other senses: scents, as well as tactile and auditory sensations. I asked her to do something that seemed to me impossible – could she describe these fantasies for a guest blog? Turns out that yes, she can, and the post she sent me was so evocative I could almost feel/smell/hear everything she describes. Check out her post below as well as her fabulous sex blog!
The quarter-moon light spills through the window, highlighting stripes along my sensitized skin and magnifying the stillness of the surrounding gray-dark. My fingers trace the luminescent patterns that spill across my body, each finger-etched pearl stripe setting off a snowfall of alabaster electricity under the surface. Padded tips wander – to lips, neck, nipples, navel – lower, ever downward, re-exploring the oft-traveled familiar route to sensual pleasure, charting new maps of future memory with each movement along the way.
I am alive in my being, relaxed but focused, fully aware of my surroundings but attuned only to sensation.
I see nothing in my mind’s eye; my fantasies are not visual. Instead, as I begin the dance of fingertips over clit, I indulge in an afferent fantasia of kinesthesia: I feel.
My clit is slick with the pent-up drip of of too-long-delayed satisfaction and my cunt walls clench, pushing against each other, gripping for purchase under the pressure of my circular press. A shiver, a spasm, each muscle movement felt in its minutiae — zinging electricity and caterpiller crawls and soft advance-recede wave shushes move up and down my being, peaking and tightening in a burning knot behind my navel.
The fire there heats and thins, and under the acetylene-torch torridity I latch on to a single sensation: constriction.
The concept emerges in taut-tight compression of belly to back, in tense-tuck restriction of abs and obliques, in shallow-breath narrow confinement of waist.
For a visual-fantasy person, the feeling of confinement may be conceptualized any number of ways. Perhaps it is a lover’s arm pinning your waist from behind, or a corseted waist-training exercise gone to erotic extremes; maybe it is a belt-held reining-in during a furious back-to-front fuck, or the can’t-get-away grasp of a single unbreakable tentacle holding you in place while additional grappling unguis have their way with your holes.
These visuals – and any number of others – are seemingly more common as fantasies go, for the simple fact that they are visual.
But I am not a visual person as a general rule – at least not in terms of what I find erotically attractive – and so for me, this feeling of constriction tensing itself hot and tight inside my core is exactly that: a feeling.
I focus on the feeling, and the feeling alone, until the impossible press of flexing abdomen meets held-breath exhilarant apogee and the binding flame inside my belly erupts into flash-fare sparks that starburst outward, zinging across my nerve endings, leaving a flushed-shake tremble in their wake.
Perhaps it is because I spend so much of my working life straining my focus to create concrete visual representations from abstract ideas, or because I spend so much time filtering through visual noise during my waking (read: required-to-engage-with-people) hours; maybe it is related to how I dream, or to how I conceptualize pleasure; perhaps it is just innate to who I am and to how I function in the world. Whatever the reason, the simple fact of the matter is that I fantasize in all five senses (six, actually – if you believe in that), and “sight” is the sense I rely on the least.
Instead, I fantasize in sensory perception. And more than anything, I feel.
When it comes to “feelings,” I’ve run the gamut in pursuit of masturbatory pleasure. Tactile sensations? Check. (As above, for example.) Sound? Oh yes. Certain vocal tones can make me drip, and there are songs that can take me from Not Remotely Interested In Sex to OhmyGOD I’m gonna CUM! in less time than it takes the opening note to reach its finale. Taste? As pleasure triggers go, it’s rarer, but it’s there.
Scent? Definitely. No candles or perfumes required. I can conjure scent from memory. Cloves are a nerve-tingling slow-stroke massage over my arousal receptors, cinnamon is an areola-tightening pinpricking tease-growl of hunger. Lavender and lemon simultaneously soothe and energize.
Each fragrance creates a sensual effect (and for the record, not all scents are sexy; I am prone to migraines and there are a few guaranteed pain triggers mixed in among the pleasure-positive perfumes), and learning to control my scent-sitivities is something I started figuring out before I was even old enough to consciously understand what I was doing.
Am I capable of visual fantasy? Yes, though I suspect my go-to visualizations are a bit outside the norm. Mostly I “fantasize” – if you can call it that; I’m particularly bad at fantasy, I think – from memory, or by focusing on a “mutual curiosity” activity within the context of an existing relationship. Sometimes I will stumble across something at random that, in and of itself, is not particularly sexy but that could be under the right circumstances. My imagination is a sexy beast (and sometimes my imagination surprises me with sexy beasts for me to fuck), and occasionally I use it to conjure orgasmic visuals.
But more often than not, my fantasies are less pictoral than palpative. If pleasure is on order, I’ll take mine as sensation, synthesized.