Fantasies

My hunch is the number of people who look at this site and have an interest in my fantasies approaches zero. The number of those who can even conceive of me as a sexual being equals zero. Nonetheless, I get a kick out of seeing how twisted I am when it comes to thinking about sex. And, with the robots grabbing all my blogs, maybe someone will stumble on this and let me know I'm not alone.

No, the sad thing is, my fantasies aren't very kinky. As time's gone on, they've become downright pedestrian. I'm not going to divulge graphic details, but I realized how different I was from most guys about fifteen years ago. There was a group of us sitting around, watching a football game and shooting the shit, when some commercial came on. There was some super model or other walking down the beach, probably in high heels, and a couple of the guys started making the typical lewd comments.

She was pretty hot, I'll give you that, but before I could picture myself rolling around the sand with her my intellect kicked in. Or, my mental illness, depending on your point of view. There was no way on God's Green Earth that this girl would ever have anyting to do with me. I couldn't buy her jewels, which I figured she would demand, I couldn't imagine any situation in which I'd even be in the same room with her, I couldn't see us getting together at all. And, if by some chance I *did* meet her, I knew without thinking that I'd be unable to talk to her. There was no way I could impress her, no way that we would ever be rolling around on that beach.

So, I couldn't fantasize about her. It was too unrealistic. I couldn't get past my doubting mind long enough to picture her naked, imagine what it would be like to have her in my arms, any of that.

After noticing this, several times in fact, I had to give up fantasizing about actresses, super-models, and all the fodder that typical American males obsess over. The problem was, there wasn't much to replace it . If I began thinking about women I'd see on the street or at a club, I knew I couldn't bring them home. Once they saw how I lived, I'd get nowhere with them, and without getting them in the door the rest of the fantasy just couldn't happen.

I had to solve that problem, and did so by ammending my fantasies to consist of me being some sort of super hypnotist. I could implant ideas and suggestions in her mind, keep her from seeing the real me, and then I could proceed. This lasted a little while, but I soon grew bored with it. Also, I was becoming even more fussy, now inclined to doubt what I would picture.

I had no idea, of course, what these women looked like under their clothes, and I began to worry if I had the correct mental picture. I felt I was doing a disservice if I pictured her wrong, that it wasn't her, and I pretty much gave up altogether. My thinking mind was ruining my flights of fancy, talking me out of everything I could invent, and I still find it damned hard to dream about people the way I did when I was younger.