Fantasies Revisited

I had to add some more to the other night’s entry. I know that some people could not possibly identify with what I was talking about, but there is a certain eroticism to giving up yourself to another person and being at their mercy… as long as you trust their judgement. Most of what I wrote in my books was about men dominating women. I just let my imagination run wild and I still get royalties now. My publisher once said that, “We write with our hands between our thighs.” She didn’t mean that literally.. tough to type that way, but that we write what turns us on.

There was tons of stuff I would NEVER want done to me that the poor women in my stories were subject to, but it was all wonderful fantasy. For me, it’s a real turn on to fantasize about stuff I wouldn’t or can’t do. And I found it terrific to have cybersex and do those things virtually. But I really have a clear cut line between reality and imagination.

One night I watched this Real Sex show… it was a long time ago… and there were some couples there who were in to BDSM. They were regular people, ordinary off the street couples.. business or professionals… and they were all dressed up in this goofy leather stuff and looked so undignified, all the sexiness drained out of it for me. I don’t want to look like that. I’d look like Rosie O’Donnell in that movie where she was a cop pretending to be a dominatrix. I just don’t find that sexy. I’d much rather fantasize about stuff and share that with my husband or (in the past) readers.

But there are so many facets to relationships that I had made up characters to match my various “voices.” There was Felecia, who was sort of a s-l-u-t, and Jeanna who made love with love, Eryssa who was very very dark, and dannielle who was the bdsm person (and, ultimately, my pen personality). Visitors to my website used to write to them and I’d respond in their voices.

Now it seems sort of strange, but when I think about it, I’ve always had a problem reconciling the different parts of myself. How can that good mother to my son be the same woman who wrote the erotica? How can the woman who raises her hands to God on Sunday, be the woman who writes in this diary and complains about her husband. How can that together-seeming person who strolls into therapy, be the same person here crying as if the world is closing in, but not even know why.

I guess it’s the old question of, “Who am I?” Even in this diary I flip from mother to wife to lover to aging woman and I don’t know which one I really am. And if I’m all of them, it’s so confusing and complex.

To top it off, I find myself reading other people’s diaries and going, “I really understand that!” or “Gee, they’re just like me.” or “I’m like that.” or “I’ve thought the exact same thing.” or “been there, done that.” Then I wonder how I can be like everybody else… there must be SOME people I can’t identify with out there, but in just about every case, I can understand or identify with something the person is experiencing. It helps me feel much less alone, but it also makes me wonder if we really aren’t a lot more alike than I ever realized.

These concepts are too much to ponder on a night when I feel so rotten.

I meant to write about fantasies here anyway, I just need to be careful because I don’t want to get deleted… geez, I feel like I’m in the Matrix or something all of the sudden. Like if I get deleted I would cease to exist. And, in a way, I would. I would cease to exist for those of you who reach out and leave me comments. I really love those comments.