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Sex Blogging, Gratuitous Nudity, Kinky Sex, Sundry Sensuality
ErosBlog posts containing "Nancy Friday"
November 6th, 2017 -- by Bacchus
I am not a regular reader of the semi-paywalled New York Times, where I seem to have perpetually exhausted my ten “free” articles with blind links from Twitter that I never knew were going to land there; so it took a nudge from my friend Dr. Faustus to clue me in to the news (which no one else seems to have reported in any detail) that Nancy Friday passed away yesterday.
Nancy Friday, the author whose books about gender politics helped redefine American women’s sexuality and social identity in the late 20th century, died on Sunday at her home in Manhattan. She was 84.
The cause was complications of Alzheimer’s disease, her friend Eric Krebs said.
In 1973, when the author Caroline Seebohm reviewed Ms. Friday’s first book, “My Secret Garden: Women’s Sexual Fantasies,” for The New York Times, she joked about just what kind of “dirty book” it was and playfully reassured readers that despite the author’s findings, “men are still indispensable.”
The book’s shocking premise was that women had erotic thoughts. Ms. Friday, however, who based the book on hundreds of interviews, said those thoughts were accompanied by considerable guilt and secrecy.
The book was an immediate best seller.
By the time I reached adolescence, Nancy Friday had published a whole string of pop-sexuality best-sellers to the same formula as My Secret Garden; they each consisted of some high-minded essaying, the premise of which would be supported in detail by a lengthy compendium of what purported to be sexual fantasies collected by interviews or letters. These readily could, and did, serve as masturbatory literature in much the same way as the Penthouse Forum and many similar “letters” magazines of the time, but were written or edited to a much higher standard and unique in their focus (except in one of Friday’s later books that shifted to men) on the fantasies of women. I wondered (then and now) about the extent to which the fantasies were “collected” as Friday claimed, given the clear analogies to the parallel and purely fictional porn genre that then existed. But whether she was committing acts of sociology or literature, they were revolutionary either way; there weren’t any other voices focusing so directly on the pleasure of women at that time. Not, at least, that you could find on the paperback book rack in front of the B. Dalton’s at any mall in America!
All this, of course, is but a narrow slice of an interesting literary life; the tiny piece that impinged on a callow young man (not her target audience!) in a small town a very long time ago. The New York Times obituary does a much better job of capturing the whole, or at least that polite snapshot that we accept (in lieu of impossibility) whenever a person dies and a good writer is asked to sum up a life in a few thousand words.
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July 14th, 2022 -- by Bacchus
I am not well-qualified to opine on what women want, especially when it comes to sensitive subjects like direct and powerful clit stimulation. No man could ever be so qualified, for who among us ever becomes so intimate with more than a few women, or perhaps at most a few dozen? The most infamous Lothario, the most notorious Don Juan, might manage, perhaps, some hundreds of trysts in a lifetime. Yet the world has billions of women in it! Do not speak to me of representative sampling; there’s no reasonable way to normalize that kind of data in any scientifically-credible way.
No, my friends, when it comes to questions of how much direct clitoral stimulation your new flame may prefer, how powerful, how long, how closely-pressed, when to start and when to stop, you will be on an exciting voyage of discovery every time. You may ask, certainly, and a self-assured woman may even give you useful answers; but even so, there will be nuance and detail that is only learned in the doing.
That said, there are a few nuances that a man of the world may fairly rely upon. The first is that, generally speaking, clit stimulation is popular. Lots of women like it. You just have to figure out the specifics.
Second, women themselves often vibrate their clits directly during self-pleasure. I don’t have good data on preferred female masturbation techniques — indeed, I’m not sure anybody has meaningful data on that — but surveys and anecdotes collected at least since the days of Nancy Friday’s interview compilations reveal that vibrating sex toys have been a popular choice since the first electric “massagers” hit the market in the early 20th century.
Even more compelling is the evidence of the market. The brisk sales of modern toys like the Pomi Wand from Honey Play Box offer all the proof we need that steady, precise, and reliable vibration is solidly on the 21st-century list of “what women want”. The dark time when vibrating sex toys were almost universally phallic — I speak here of the cheap plastic dick-shaped battery-operated vibrators of the 1970s, marketed to men and sensitive to their insecurities — is behind us. Today, women are in command of their own pleasure, and indeed their own toyboxes, at least if they choose to be. Do they buy buzzing plastic cocks? Why, sure, sometimes they do! But very often the vibrators they buy are more modern designs with tactile materials and shapes designed to make it easy to place just the right amount of buzzy pressure in just the right place at just the right time.
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September 1st, 2021 -- by Bacchus
A very very long time ago, some quasi-educational sex book I was reading (perhaps a Nancy Friday title) informed me that a common masturbation method for women was to fold up a pillow underneath themselves on a bed and ride it with some vigor. From time to time, during that vanished decade of popularity that sex blogs enjoyed, I would see some woman mention having done this, especially during that time of youth when their libido greatly exceeded their access to either sex toys or unsupervised young men. But it’s quite rare, I think, to see the practice actually captured in visual media:
This grainy .gif is from some long-lost Tumblr.
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May 11th, 2014 -- by Bacchus
In Nancy Friday’s multiple compendia of female sexual fantasies, she had a lot of fun finding (or saying she had found) women with controversial fantasies. In her 1991 book Women On Top, these tended to include expressions of female power. Here’s Mandy, talking about what she enjoys imagining doing to her favorite singer and songwriter:
My favorite fantasy is about a singer-songwriter named Peter. I have been a fan of Peter’s for
about eight years, and I’ve been jerking off to fantasies of him for that long.
Anyway, here’s my fantasy: Peter and I are friends, and when in town, he drops by for dinner and small talk. Peter does not write about typical things like love ballads, but rather things he feels strongly about. Talk turns to an article in the paper about rape. He tells me that it disturbs him greatly, but he couldn’t write about it because he has never been, and being a man could never be, raped. Conversation moves on, and when it gets late he bids me goodnight and leaves. All this time I have been forming a plan.
The next night when I’m sure he’s not home, I slip into his hotel room and hide in the closet. When he arrives, I wait until he is in the bathroom and then I creep out of the closet and wait for him to come out of the can. I sneak up behind him and hold a knife to his throat telling him if he does what I say, no one will get hurt. I have him lie down on the bed and I tie his arms and legs to the bedposts. Because I am dressed in black, and have on a ski mask, he doesn’t know who I am. At first he thinks I am joking, but he soon realizes my intentions are not at all honorable. He starts squirming and yelling, telling me that I won’t be able to do anything because he won’t get hard. I slowly undress him, nibbling at each new exposure of flesh. I lick him from head to toe, pausing once in a while at something delicious, carefully avoiding his prick. I get a towel from the can and blindfold him with it so I can remove my mask, the better to eat him.
Then I get a pillow and place it lovingly under his buns. I reverse my course, licking him from toe to head and I nibble at his nipples, neck, earlobes and lips. I begin to whisper obscenities in his ear, telling him what I am going to do to him. I climb up and sit astride his face, and I tell him to eat me. He sticks his warm tongue deep inside my cunt and twirls it round and round. He’s a great eater! After I’ve come a few times, I get off and I start kissing him and licking my juices off his face, something that amazes him. I lick my way downward again and I begin to nibble on his buns. I love his buns! I take one ball into my mouth and twirl my tongue all around it before gently releasing it and moving on to the other one. Then I start sucking up the side of his half-hard shaft, all the while playing with my dripping cunt. He is still trying not to get hard, but I will take care of that. I tell him to suck on my finger, telling him the wetter the better, as I am going to stick it up his ass. He gets it very wet.
I gently insert it up his asshole and when I touch his gland he becomes instantly rock-hard. I have never seen such a magnificent column of flesh! I quickly tie a thin strip of leather around the base of his prick so I can keep him hard for as long as I want. I suck his balls and buns some more, and out of the corner of my eye I can see a drop of his nectar at the tip of his penis. I lick it off, and keep on licking. When I can’t stand it anymore, I climb on top of him and slowly impale myself on his glistening rod. I begin to rock slowly back and forth pulling him deeper and deeper inside me. I suddenly realize that he is helping me a bit and softly moaning. The moaning gives me a rush, as I love his throaty voice. I have, and who doesn’t in their fantasies, an earth shattering climax. After a few minutes I climb down and stand on the floor beside him, looking at his beautiful, sweaty body. He tells me how cruel I am because I won’t let him come too, and that his balls are beginning to hurt. I untie his prick and give him a deep blow job, drinking in all his juice as we come together. I’ve wondered for so long what he tastes like, and believe me, it was worth the wait! Then when I’m sure he’s asleep, I carefully release him, and leave.
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February 27th, 2013 -- by Bacchus
I’m thumbing through Nancy Friday’s My Secret Garden for the first time in about thirty years. It’s striking in a number of ways, but the most striking for me is how it’s become a period piece while I wasn’t looking at it. Here’s Marion, talking (sometime in 1973 or earlier) about how she uses her modified Ronson electric toothbrush with a harness she got a sandal-maker to make for her:
Lilly and I, we like to use an electric toothbrush. The battery-operated kind, so you don’t have to worry about the electric wires, or plugging it in. Except that’s just what you do — plug it in.
You ever go to a doctor or a dentist, and he’s cut his finger, and he wears a little rubber cap on his finger? Like a little condom? Anyway, we use that — we use epoxy glue to glue the toothbrush itself onto the little metal head otherwise the vibration’ll shake the brush off. Then I use the same glue to put the rubber cap on the brush, so that it covers the bristles. Some of our friends do this, too. It’s like our own “in” joke. “What are you using tonight, Jack?” we say to each other, when somebody’s picked up a new girl. “A Schick?” We trade brand names. I like a Ronson. It’s got four, or maybe six batteries, I forget, but it really goes.
I have a kind of strap. It goes around my waist and up over my shoulders, crossing in the back and then down under my ass and coming back up to the belt again. I had a sandal-maker make it for me. So the Ronson is really anchored right down low and in place. I mean, it’s rigid.
Look, you talk to any guy, and the first thing he wants to know, Has he made the girl come? That’s their mark of virility. That’s what they’re anxious about. But me and my Ronson, I can make any girl come, every time. It’s simple biology. Men have this business, they don’t even understand. To get deep inside. To plant the seed. That’s biology. Okay, I’m butch, I’m also a woman. I understand the clit. I don’t have that urge to go deep into a woman. Maybe I’m competitive with men. Or maybe I don’t want to just give in to biology. But I don’t care about going in deep. I know about myself and I never forget that the clit is where it’s at.
So I know what Lilly’s getting out of it. But there I am all alone in my head, very excited, but still somehow all alone. I know Lilly is going to be okay, but I have to make up these images in my mind so that I can get excited, too. What turns me on is that I’m raping a motorcycle rider. One of these butch studs in the polished black leather, and the big machine. I’m moving in and out of Lilly, giving her a little bit of clit, a little bit of cunt, and then a lot more of clit. But meanwhile, I can see myself in my mind, I’m still wearing that Ronson, but it isn’t Lilly anymore.
It’s this stud, and I’ve got him over his bike. He’s got his ass to me. He’s that big, butch faggot, get it? And I’m giving him the Ronson up the ass. And he loves it. He’s shoving that ass up at me. He can’t get enough.
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November 9th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
College newspaper sex columns have long provided rich fodder for sex blogging, but too often (especially in the early days when campus sex columnists tended to spray burbling prose in a “Squeee! I’m writing about sex like a grownup!” sort of tone) they’ve tended to instigate mockery rather than respect. However, when “Dr. Strokes” addresses the extremely tricky subject of the rape fantasies so many women enjoy, the result is just about the calmest and sanest such discussion I’ve ever seen. Here’s an excerpt from Anatomy of A Rape Fantasy:
What are some of the reasons that people want to pretend rape?
1. Guilt avoidance. It sucks, but we still live in a society where people, especially women, are made to feel guilty about wanting sex. Let me quote Nancy Friday, from her classic 1973 book of women’s fantasies:
“The most popular guilt-avoiding device was the so-called rape fantasy… it simply had to be understood that what went on was against the woman’s will. Saying she was ‘raped’ was the most expedient way of getting past the big No to sex that had been imprinted on her mind since early childhood.”
2. Being irresistible. It can be fun to imagine that you’re so attractive that nobody can resist the urge to touch you, and that they need to have sex with you so much that they’re just going to take it. Let me repeat: it can be fun to imagine when you are in a highly sexually aroused state and completely in control of who is touching you and how. Not so much otherwise.
3. Fear can heighten excitement. This is a known fact–fear gets our adrenaline up, our heart pumping, our pupils dilate, even our genitals aroused. Think of a rape fantasy as like a roller coaster–a controlled fear experience which you can get off of, and not you being thrown around out of control at 150 mph.
4. The more positive side of guilt avoidance is “pressure to perform” avoidance. In my violent rape fantasy, nobody really expects me to “perform” or to be “good” or to really do anything but what my instincts tell me to do. And it’s fun to imagine a situation where we’re expected to just run on instincts. (This is another gradation for me between “BDSM” and “rape” fantasies–in my BDSM fantasy, I have less pressure to perform because I have less ability to perform, but in my rape fantasy, I become a purely instinctual creature.)
September 9th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
I know I’ve been quoting Susie Bright a lot recently, but then, Susie always has been a woman with a lot to say. Her latest big essay grabs firmly ahold of the seeming paradox of women and their rape fantasies:
I didn’t acknowledge having perilous fantasies until I was in my twenties. In a women’s studies college course, our teacher asked us if we had experienced arousing “rape fantasies”?
One girl tearfully raised her hand and said this was true for her. My heart beat so fast it was all I could do to stay put. I was just as ashamed as she of these fantasies, but I would never have admitted them. Our professor was quite kind to her, if misinformed.
Our professor comforted the girl by saying that, as women, we had been brainwashed by the patriarchy to eroticize our subordination to men. She said these fantasies were very common, which is true, and that we could “overcome” them by exposing our fantasies to feminist analysis and by our increasing self-esteem.
She was wrong on that count. In fact, I knew she was wrong later that same night. Despite my assertive self-confidence, rock-hard feminist analysis, and weekly shift at the rape crisis hotline, I could still crawl into bed and successfully masturbate to the same disturbing fantasies that had aroused me since I was a child.
Feminism and self-esteem had no more effect on my erotic hot spots than the communion wafers I used to take every Sunday, hoping they would wash away the devil’s seed inside of me. Clearly, religion and linear politics were useless in explaining the unconscious and subversive quality of eroticism.
…
It’s normal, it’s common, to fantasize about the bizarre– the things that in real-life circumstances would trouble us, frighten us, or maybe just make us laugh. Erotic fantasies take the unbearable issues in life and turn them into orgasmic gunpowder.
…
In our fantasies, no matter how much we struggle to deny it, we control every frame. Whether we stand tall in thigh-high boots or kneel breathless on the ground, it’s a matter of our well-lubricated chosen position. We run the fuck in our minds, the exact amount of ambivalence, the perfect timing of climax. When did that ever happen in a real sexual assault?
These are just the tiniest of highlights; there’s much much more. Complete with bonus analysis of Nancy Friday’s “My Secret Garden”!
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