Yet Again: Constructing the Perfect Fantasy

Your brain feels like a heavily ransacked encyclopedia of kinks and fetishes.

You’ve discovered the likeness of a woman or man who seems the ideal owner: from a photo, drawing or someone walking down the street.

How do you fit it all together? (Not that this is an instruction manual.)

Fantasies can be hot, sweaty work in more than once sense.

What has struck me in my own case is the nagging need for various sorts of plausibility.

My earliest masochistic inklings surfaced when I was very young. It was so simple then. Someone would tie me to a tree or fence and whip me. I was too young to understand much less care about injury or engineering. It was like a comic book where - the laws of physics forgotten - superheroes survive the most unlikely damage.

But by my teens there were struggles with the special effects department. Just how am I going to be rendered bound and helpless: my body exposed in just the right position for torment?

There’s nothing tougher on a young masochist’s fantasies than an elementary appreciation of biomechanics. Thankfully I knew about pulleys so the ideal adjustable device for positioning my body eventually came to mind. As I said earlier what amazes me is that I focused all this effort on plausibility.

That would grow tougher as I grew older. So I tried to picture myself living in a universe where my body would regenerate come the dawn. But life isn’t a fantasy novel so the need for believability would stay at continual war with the wish for pain and suffering. (This also stopped attempts to put demons and robots into scenarios.)

Admittedly some things would take more work than others. In real life the struggle would be to find someone willing to try it.

Some acts would eventually die as I learned more: being suspended by my wrists. Ignorance of erotic pain still let me luxuriate in - say - several simultaneous forms of CBT. And in that case the surety that I’d never meet someone willing to put clamps on my genitals, connect them to an electro-sex device, smear them with capsaicin and then slap them around didn’t stop me from wallowing in my imagined suffering.

Thankfully my core corporal punishment fantasies remained half-way realistic. Though experienced for minutes only I saw them as lasting a long time: being whipped on and off for hours. Sensory deprivation and tight bondage.

Complicated bondage came to grip me. Even when mobile I pictured myself rendered clumsy by spreader bars or chains. Left alone for most of a day locked in a humbler.

Sensory deprivation - beginning merely with discovering hoods - led to thoughts of psychological edge play. Being locked in a closet with flashing lights and/or a repeating recording I alluded to earlier. Inevitably I branched out into lack of sleep, hunger, challenges to physical endurance wearing down my will.

Imaginary humiliations - at least mine - don’t challenge probability. Nastiness and objectification became ways to up the wattage without fretting about consequences.

But given 57 varieties of masochistic cravings how in the dark privacy of masturbation was I to sequence them. Which came first, which last and which in-between?

Every time I discovered some new kink in a story, a hitherto unknown BDSM toy including them encumbered my dirty dreams even more.

And having a large cast of women and men whose faces matched what I wanted in a sadist made it difficult to focus on just one for even a few minutes.

The fragmentation left fantasizing more frustrating than fulfilling. I even lectured myself on needing to select some persons and sequence and stick to it for ten minutes. Ha!

There was never a satisfactory solution. It wasn’t as if lying there wanking I was apt to discipline my imagination.

Another example of how I could spend hours working out a fantasy that might last fifteen minutes. Of course, heavy rotation was guaranteed. Some of my fantasies are probably older than you.

Imaginary masochism is very labor intensive. Were we to be as solicitous of our real life we’d probably be wealthy and famous.

Sexual compulsions are funny and sad, very dear to our hearts. Luckily some of us find someone to give us a place in reality in which we can live some of them. That place where we actually do live and offers more satisfaction than our private cinema.

This note did not flow as well as I wanted. But fiddling with it seems to leave it only more disjointed. Nor have I presented this the way I wished: in retrospect it all seems funny. I have such a knack for complicating things. Still a couple of more entries to go before I’m done with this theme.