Every blue moon or so, when I'm feeling especially bold, I poll my various male friends in an attempt to find out if one or another of my pet sexual fantasies is "normal." By normal, I mean common or communal, or at least shared by one of the reprobates I drink forties with. I realize there isn't (or shouldn't be) any real standard of normalcy with regard to sexual fantasies, but I still think this is a legitimate practice, if only because my suspicion is, if none of those caitiffs have considered something, it must be pretty original or pretty fucked up.
Now the last time I tried this, it didn't go particularly well. The fantasy under discussion was one of my all-time favorites: the one-hundred-foot woman. Now my friends already knew about my rather over-pronounced appreciation for six-footer women (I scale a booby-prize 5' 11"), but it seems they were rather taken aback by my wanting to be with a woman sixteen times my size. As is often the case, they looked at me as if I had a horn coming out of my forehead as I tried to explain the dynamics of such a love (the harness and rope, the swimming strokes, the oxygen tank, the clitoris the size of a beanbag) and, I tell you, not one endorsed this as an appealing fantasy. What simpletons! What lack of imagination! Hundred-foot women, wherever you are, whatever rainforest bush, undiscovered isle or aboriginal backwater you are thundering in, fear not! Mankind will find you, and you will be loved! Loved head to toe, in all your prodigy. Loved for the manhole covers of your nipples, the man-high rushes of your pubis. Loved with vigor, loved with zest (if you are able to detect it). You will be loved, yes, loved to the best of human ability, by me, your spelunker-headlamped devotee.
NB: If, reader, on the off chance you find the above a wee absurd, consider that this week's excerpt is from this generation's comedic goofball genius, Mark Leyner, and concerns not the allure of big, big girls, but teensy-weensy ones. It is taken from a mock Presidential news conference (a hysterical scene from his 1992 novel Et Tu, Babe), where the Commander in Chief is being asked about the size of the First Lady (she is reputed to be "the size of a letter 'o' in a magazine or newspaper"). As to the amorous implications of such a coupling, I'll let Leyner's president speak for himself, though I will say that, clever as they were, I would have thought to take a page out of Richard Gere's reputed playbook.
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From Et Tu, Babe by Mark Leyner
Now here's where some of the controversy's been generated and I appreciate the opportunity to clear some of this up. Sex presented some very real difficulties. I had to use a jeweler's loupe in order to find her vagina and her clitoris. Utilizing a bristle from the tiny applicator used to apply solution to micro-format audio cleaning cassettes, I jury-rigged an erotic toy which I could manipulate to give her an orgasm. She then insisted that I come, too. I told her that it didn't really matter, that just experiencing her pleasure and passion was satisfying to me, but she insisted. And she insisted that she bring about my orgasm. She tried running up and down my penis in an effort to somehow generate enough friction to cause an orgasm but it didn't work and she was soon exhausted. After a rest, Barb came up with an ingenious suggestion. We cut a shoeshine cloth into a thin strip, glued the ends together to form a continuous loop, and rigged up an oblong treadmill. Barb ran in the center of the strip causing it to turn and I put my penis inside the end of the loop and the friction of the cloth buffing my erection soon did the trick.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Jack Murnighan's stories appeared in the Best American Erotica editions of 1999, 2000 and 2001. His weekly column for Hooksexup, Jack's Naughty Bits, was collected and released as two books. He was the editor-in-chief of Hooksexup from 1999 to 2001, before retiring to write full time and take seriously the quest for love.
very blue moon or so, when I'm feeling especially bold, I poll my various male friends in an attempt to find out if one or another of my pet sexual fantasies is "normal." By normal, I mean common or communal, or at least shared by one of the reprobates I drink forties with. I realize there isn't (or shouldn't be) any real standard of normalcy with regard to sexual fantasies, but I still think this is a legitimate practice, if only because my suspicion is, if none of those caitiffs have considered something, it must be pretty original or pretty fucked up.
