He’s standing at the window, watching me play field hockey in the crisp autumn air. As the movements of my little skirt reveal the panties that are meant to be seen, he touches his stiffening cock through his pants, not daring to take it out for fear of getting caught by a fellow teacher. I look up and see him watching me. Our eyes lock, but I’m overcome with shyness; I turn away then look back again. I can’t help it. He does something to me. The next thing I know, he’s on the sideline, staring at me. The game is over. I’m drawn to him. He says he needs to speak to me about class. So I follow him into school. He closes the door to his classroom and makes me stand with my hands against the wall, with my back to him. Is this detention? Did I do something wrong? Before I have the chance to ask, his hands are on my ass, pulling down my panties. Then there is something wet between my cheeks. I crane my neck to look behind me and I see that his head has disappeared underneath my skirt. What is happening? I don’t dare ask. I must’ve done something wrong. And yet I can’t help touching myself. I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I look down and see my hand there. Since when did punishment feel so good?

Punishment always feels good in a fantasy. Fantasies have a way of turning the most disturbing desire into pleasure, which is probably why many people keep their fantasies to themselves. Naturally, we fear judgment at the prospect of revealing our fantasies, whether they are divulged during intimacy with a partner or confessed in a public forum. A sexual fantasy is laden with psychological implications, especially if it involves taboo. Just because a heterosexual guy fantasizes about being fucked by a cross-dressing woman with a strap-on doesn’t mean he’s gay; but if he tells his entire social network about this fantasy, his conservative cronies are bound to make assumptions. 

Likewise, a woman who fantasizes about being raped may be compensating for her position in life as an empowered, career-driven feminist. The idea of being the victim of a dominating man is so beyond her realm of identification that it becomes as erotic as forbidden fruit. In her fantasy she can release all her power and relax in passive innocence without the negative consequences. Hmm. Maybe my psychological interpretation is off the radar, but is it coincidence that rape fantasy is so common in our girl-power culture? Incidentally, this fantasy ranks as number one for women in an article outlining the top-10 female fantasies. “Although saying ‘rape fantasy’ sounds somewhat unthinkable, that’s exactly what most women call it. They want to play the innocent, naive, unknowing little girl who gets taken advantage of by the devious, predator-like man.” (What Women Want: The Sex Fantasy by Vanessa Burton)

I suppose my virginal schoolgirl fantasy falls into that category—although the dominating man of my sexy scenario is not so much a predator as he is a seductive mentor. When I express this fantasy to a lover, I give him the power to play that role.  Sharing fantasies not only enhances intimacy, it opens the door to another dimension. The fusion of arousal and imagery produces a hypnotic effect, opening your senses to smells, sounds and tastes of another world. It’s like watching a movie in your mind. You’re the director of your inner porn, but the story flows as if there’s no script because once you’re in the moment, you don’t really know what’s going to happen next …

My lover’s narration started in the classroom, where “my teacher” seduced and deflowered me on his desk. Then the story morphed into his memory of watching me play field hockey while fantasizing about doing things to my ass. Past and present blurred as the fantasy became as detailed and complex as reality, launching us into a metaphysical memory-fantasy within a fantasy of Shakespearean proportions. And then, after what seemed like hours, something shifted. The sex was still there, but the tone had changed: I’m holding you, holding you in my arms, nurturing you, teaching you how to fuck … our flesh is one, we are one, united, blended, rising and falling like my cock going in and out, rising and falling like a fountain, fountains of colors, there are so many colors and nobody can see us because we’re in another place, a place where there is no time …

I had become the schoolgirl, and he was my teacher. We had transcended the fantasy and fallen into a timeless space where we relived an event that never happened. “How did you know I played field hockey in high school?” I asked, once we were back in my living room. He smiled and shook his head in amazement. A fantasy doesn’t have to be realized to feel real. If you close your eyes and let yourself go, it can be as palpable as a skirt lifting in a gust of crisp autumn air.