Based on the fantasies shared by women on this site, you men on the make would do well to hang out in bars. Also, you’d do well to forget your name and operate anonymously. There was Sloane’s Fantasy Experiment, then my wife had a quick, anonymous tryst in the bathroom (and then there was that time the fantasy got real – and planted the seed for this dare?). The approving comments from female readers have confirmed that bar fucks are having their moment. This longing for anonymity fascinates me, and not only because it is shared by my wife. This desire for pure sex without the chance of consequences fascinates me, maybe because although I love pure sex as much as the next person, I love the chance of consequences, the human touch, at least as much. I wonder if there are two genres of fantasy, the “romantic” and the “sexual”, and although they often overlap, I wonder if women (in general) more clearly separate the two than men. Is that counterintuitive? Men are often said to compartmentalize their emotions, but I wonder if when it comes to quickies, women are wiser about keeping sex in its place, because they know all too well how quickly a wider mix of emotions can become chaotic. Or maybe these are called “fantasies” for a reason. Further research is required, people. Hot glances need to be exchanged across crowded bars, and the bathrooms must be populated. Continue reading Sexy Secretary: the result of The Walking Experiment
The sexual instinct is a social instinct. We partner, we become “a couple”, and often it’s wonderful, but we guard ourselves, and even casual conversation becomes more limited. Coupled, talk gets smaller. We no longer seduce.
Seduction at bottom is a drive to strip away our public personas and get closer to the heart of others and ourselves. Naked in bed we are more true to our natures. Abandoning seduction we draw the map of our interior geographies too small. Continue reading Midnight Kisses: the result of The New Year Experiment
Is the pussy, the cock, the closest organ to the brain? That’s not an anatomical question. It’s more like a philosophical one.
My wife was in the airplane bathroom. She was likely masturbating, I knew, and I looked around the cabin wondering who might be inspiring her. I had no idea. The guy in the tweed jacket? Also, I was keeping one eye on the aisles, in case I found myself required to rescue her from an unwanted intruder. Unwanted? Well, wanted, maybe, and that possibility excited me in its own way, but I also knew that wanted could become unwanted in an instant. I’d set this thing up, and the day had already been a disaster, and I was realizing that it’s not so easy to strip and fondle yourself in an unlocked bathroom on a crowded plane. I was, yes I’ll admit it, a concerned husband. Partially because I know just how far she’s capable of going when she steps across the line. The mind creates a barrier, and then blood moves around, and then the mind’s not there anymore. The dirty secrets take over. Continue reading Dirty Secrets: the result of The Airplane Experiment
We’re in bed, we’re naked. My cock is hard and slipping up through her slick, split lips. I’m teasing her, refusing to enter, like a boat shallowly parting waters. I want her to beg. I want to hear her talking dirty in the way I know she’s been preparing to talk dirty.
“Christ please just fuck me please!”
My tongue is at her nipples, teasing, and then it’s at her ear, flicking, whispering. “I’m not giving you enough? Huh? Maybe you should find a lover to give you all you need.”
The rhythm is broken almost imperceptibly: “You’d like that?”
“I’d love that. That would turn me on.”
“And you’d watch, wouldn’t you?” Her crotch arches up hard into mine.
“If there was something to see,” I say coolly. Continue reading Talking Dirty: the result of The Phone Sex Experiment
Within hours, Mona had responded to my erotic dare to strip in front of a window. Even though it was Mona, I was still surprised to see her name in my inbox (as ‘Simone”, which she’s calling herself, although I’ll call her by the pseudonym my wife originally gave her). My e-mail had been calculated to scare her off. Or to reap particularly spectacular rewards. Here’s what she wrote: Continue reading Friends with benefits: the result of The Mona Experiment
I caught my wife looking at porn. I knew I would catch her looking at porn because I have an alter-ego named Mr. X who had told me so. He’s like Superman to my everyday Clark Kent, but despite all the nifty tricks a superhero has at his disposal, Clark Kent has at least one advantage over his super version: he’s still awed by a naked woman, and if he’s lucky he can take her to bed. So let me readjust my spectacles and tweak my f-stops and apertures. A naked woman is laid out in front of me posing for my camera. She happens to be my wife, and she happens to be as horny as hell. Continue reading Click Click Sex: the result of The Pornography Experiment
Being Mr. X has its advantages, but then so does being my wife’s husband. As Mr. X I knew all about my wife’s (near) flashing in our local café, and I knew she was out confessing some of this to a friend (likely Mona, I knew). But when she returned home and told me herself, in person, that she had once gone without panties or bra in her café, I was unexpectedly overcome with excitement. This was my wife, standing right there in front of me, revealing a sexy secret, without the distance of an e-mail. I was instantly hard at the thought of her tempting fate without underwear, even though I had thought of that exact scene many times before. Hearing the flasher story straight from her, and having her reveal the “secret”, was a powerful aphrodisiac. Continue reading I married a flasher: the result of The Sex Confessional Experiment
Sex is like any art in that when it’s really great it breaks routine, reveals hidden beauty, and extends our sense of ourselves. Great art succeeds in creating something new, in a new way, from a new perspective. Great sex is the same. It needs variety, innovation, audacity, but it is sometimes difficult to find the will to inject those qualities into our daily lives. We need change, we need change in sex, we need other bodies with other predilections, but sometimes just changing the atmosphere will bring about some of that change we seek.
Long story short: my wife and I have been fucking our way across Europe. We’ve been keeping fellow hotel guests up late. We’ve been having fantasies in languages we hardly speak. We’ve been rutting around in strange neighborhoods. Continue reading Mirror Sex Mirror: the result of The Public Experiment
My wife and I both have a taxi sex fantasy. We’ve never talked about it, but she’s dared my friend Mr. X to lure his wife or girlfriend into the back seat of one, and Mr. X has written to her with a four-wheeled fantasy of his own. Tragically for us both, my wife has a car (although she’ll occasionally take the bus) and I have a bike. Are you caught up now? Cursing countless missed opportunities like me? Well that’s why you go on vacation – for the taxis.
Madrid would have hundreds of them, I suspected, white SEATs, Audis and Peugeots zipping through crowds of drunk Spaniards at all hours of the night (also we have friends there and had decided to stop off for a couple of days – insignificant facts compared to those zipping taxis). Plus, with the sexual revolution still swinging in Spain 35 years after Franco, surely taxi drivers got an eyeful all the time. Hell, I’d been getting an eyeful all afternoon as we’d strolled through the Parque del Buen Retiro after some Velezquez in the Prado. It was sunny and hot and more than a few bikini tops had taken wing to land off in the grass next to the beach towels of bathing lovelies. As for the flocks of miniskirts twitching past, I figured Madrid must have ateliers every block or so, like hair salons, where they painted them straight onto pert Spanish asses so that foreign observers could study the Iberian anatomy without the obstruction of actual clothing. Ah, Spain. I was horny. Continue reading Getting Close to Santa Ana: the delayed result for The Taxi Experiment
Dinner with the neighbors. Dinner with a man who has made my wife “puddle” as she thought of him while sunbathing naked on our balcony, which I know from reading an excerpt of a diary on her computer. I believe myself when I say that this moment of weakness was uncharacteristic, and I do still regret it, even if that moment of weakness has been compensated by the great moments we’ve had since. I think of her face thrown back in an orgasmic scream (lucky neighbors). I think of her laughter once we’re back on earth and sharing in the story of the planets we’ve just visited. We’re having fun. Continue reading His wife, my wife: the result of The Dinner Experiment