Pleasures of the Damned

April 24, 2020

I am your worst nightmare, and your greatest fantasy.

Between the ages of 12 and 15, I spent at least four hours a day reading stories about sex between women. My time was divided between my father’s Letters to Penthouse collection, and Xena: Warrior Princess and Star Trek: Voyager fan fiction websites. It wasn’t just that these stories turned me on. It was that, whether they were about Ancient Greek warriors or varsity cheerleaders, these stories transported me from a small town where I was a scared, isolated lesbian to a fantasy world where women acted on their desires and were rewarded for it with love, community, and orgasms.

Once I got a girlfriend and started having sex of my very own, I found that I was no longer interested in those stories. I was not a skinny, perky-breasted woman who perpetually smelled like roses. The sex I had didn’t involve fireplaces, or perfectly timed, simultaneous climaxes. Sometimes it wasn’t even good. I no longer needed fantasy. What I needed was reality.

Thankfully, I found lesbian literature. Authors like Dorothy Allison, Jeanette Winterson, and Rebecca Brown wrote about women who had jobs and families and lives that resembled something I could aspire and relate to. That these women had sex with each other was just part of the picture, but it was an important part. One that shocked, excited and ultimately expanded my understanding of what was possible between human beings as well as the possibilities of my own desires.

Amy Gall
Let’s Talk About Sex: Allison, Myles, and Woolf

Best fed by reality

February 1, 2020

I write fantasy because it’s there. I have no other excuse for sitting down for several hours a day indulging my imagination. Daydreaming. Thinking up imaginary people, impossible places. Imagination is the golden-eyed monster that never sleeps.  It must be fed; it cannot be ignored. Making it tell the same tale over and over again makes it thin and whining; its scales begin to fall off; its fiery breath becomes a trickle of smoke. It is best fed by reality, an odd diet for something non-existent; there are few details of daily life and its broad range of emotional context that can’t be transformed into food for the imagination. It must be visited constantly, or else it begins to become restless and emit strange bellows at embarrassing moments; ignoring it only makes it grow larger and noisier. Content, it dreams awake, and spins the fabric of tales. There is really nothing to be done with such imagery except to use it: in writing, in art. Those who fear the imagination condemn it: something childish, they say, something monsterish, misbegotten. Not all of us dream awake. But those of us who do have no choice.

Terri Windling
Patti Perret
Faces of Fantasy

Love Talk

January 21, 2020

Whatever is said,
in or on the bed,
(like ‘Were you
telling me a fairy story?’
or ‘I want to
feel you inside me!’)
is insubstantial air
circling the pubic hair…
From top to toe,
all the love will go
(‘I want to
lick you!’ or ‘Open
your legs a bit wider!’
or even ‘I love you!’),
it will vanish away
like childhood play…
It stops and starts,
performing arts
(like theatre,
cinema, ballet,
there for a moment,
then slowly forgotten)
are most like this –
the insubstantial kiss…

Fantasy is nearer to insanity

November 26, 2019

[Fantasy] is not anti-rational, but para-rational; not realistic but surrealistic, superrealistic, a heightening of reality. In Freud’s terminology, it employs primary not secondary process thinking. It employs archetypes which, as Jung warned us, are dangerous things. Dragons are more dangerous, and a good deal commoner, than bears. Fantasy is nearer to poetry, to mysticism, and to insanity that naturalistic fiction is. And it is a real wilderness, and those who go there should not feel too safe. And their guides, the writers of fantasy, should take their responsibilities seriously.

Ursula K. Le Guin
From Elfland to Poughkeepsie

My fantasy, wish, dream, whatever you want to call it, is of two leather-clad bitch-women force feminizing me one rainy afternoon. After they finish, they invite in half-a-dozen randy studs and tell them to have me as often as they want. ‘Use and abuse,’ they say, ‘to your heart’s content.’

I’m restrained, handcuffed, and these dudes start stripping off my panties. One of them grabs my head, forces my face to his lap. ‘Suck on that,’ he says.

Another behind me thrusts into me roughly. There are cheers and laughter. I’m like a helpless ragdoll as they have me over and over again. They cum inside me, no condoms, cum on my face and in my lipstick smeared mouth. My ordeal lasts most of the afternoon, and when they’re finally finished with me, I’m left as a cum-covered ruin, rolled in a ball on the floor.

SOURCE

Escape was quite impossible.

September 29, 2019

There was a platform in the centre of the square of each village, and when the Queen went inside the house of the Lord of the village to drink a cup of wine with him, I was left on display.

But I was not to stand gracefully as I might have hoped. And the villagers knew this, though I didn’t. When we reached the first village, the Queen went away, and as soon as my feet hit the platform, a great roar went up from the crowd who knew they were to see something amusing.

I had my head down when Princess Lynette removed the phallus from my anus. Of course the crowd cheered at this. I was then made to kneel up, hands behind my neck on a turntable.

Princess Lynette operated it with her foot. And telling me to spread my legs wide, she turned the turntable. I was perhaps more afraid in these first few moments than ever before, but never once did the fear of rising and trying to escape come to me. I was helpless. Naked, a slave of the Queen, I was in the midst of hundreds of common people who would have overpowered me at once, and cheerfully for all the sport it would have given them. It was then that I realized escape was quite impossible. Any naked Prince or Princess fleeing the castle would have been apprehended by these villagers. They would have given no shelter.

Now Princess Lynette commanded me to show to the crowd all my private parts that were in the service of the Queen, and that I was her slave, and her animal. I did not understand these words, which were spoken ceremoniously. So she told me politely enough that I must part the cheeks of my buttocks as I bent over and display for them my open anus. Of course this was a symbolic gesture. It meant I was ever to be violated. And nothing more than that which could be violated.

But my face aflame, my hands trembling, I obeyed. A great cheer went up from the crowd. Tears slipped down my face. With a long cane, Princess Lynette lifted my balls for them to see, and pushed my penis this way and that to display its defenselessness, and all the while I had to hold my buttocks apart and display my anus. Whenever I relaxed my hand she commanded me sharply to pull the flesh wider apart and threatened me with chastisement. “That will infuriate her Highness,” she said, “and amuse the crowd immensely.” Then to a loud approving cry, the phallus was shoved securely back into my anus. I was made to press my lips to the wood of the turntable. And I was led back to my position beside the Queen’s coach, Princess Lynette pulling my bridle over her shoulder as I trotted with my head lifted behind her.

A. N. Roquelaure [Anne Rice]
The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty

women in porn

September 14, 2019

In film theory everything has meaning. Everything is symbolic. Similarly, in pornography, as Dworkin points out “everything means something.” Gender means something, bodies mean something, body parts mean something, the acts done to women mean something. Getting a facial in your bedroom doesn’t necessarily have the same meaning as a woman getting a facial in a porn movie does and, in fact, the relevance of whether or not the individual actress in the porn appears to be ‘enjoying’ the cum shot to her face is less important than the larger meaning of the image on screen. I am not at all surprised that “the majority of porn shows women basking in and positively loving receiving a facial” or that “a lot more straight porn features women happily accepting facials than reacting with disgust and evident humiliation” because women in porn are presenting a fantasy and that fantasy is that women enjoy being objectified, cum on, gang-raped, called whores and bitches, whatever. Porn is about male fantasy. The fantasy is that women like everything you do to them, as man.

Megan Murphy
Facials, feminism, and performance: On f**king men in a patriarchy

half-erased dream

September 6, 2019

Especially at twilight one lives in the fullest fantasy, a half-erased dream.

Federico García Lorca
August 1921 letter to Adolfo Salazar
Trans. P

inspired me to write

May 30, 2019

When the American fantasy writer Tad Williams first met Game of Thrones author George RR Martin, Martin growled at him: “Get the hell out of here.”

This was not yet another egoistic literary beef; Martin merely wanted his fellow author to get home and finish the next instalment of his Memory, Sorrow and Thorn series, which Martin had been patiently waiting to read. Perhaps this was a bit hypocritical coming from the famously slow-writing author of the series A Song of Ice and Fire, who is loved and moaned at by fans furiously awaiting his next book. But while Williams, who turns 60 in March, might not be quite the household name Martin is, he deserves wider cultural recognition: without Tad Williams, there would be no Game of Thrones.

“The Dragonbone Chair and the rest of his famous ‘four-book trilogy [were some] of the things that inspired me to write my own seven-book trilogy,” said Martin in 2011. “Fantasy got a bad rep for being formulaic and ritual. And I read The Dragonbone Chair and said, ‘My God, they can do something with this form, and it’s Tad doing it.’ It’s one of my favourite fantasy series.”

David Barnett
Tropes, trolls and Trump: the fantasy writer who inspired George RR Martin
The Guardian 17th January 2017