I remember one of the most erotic sexual fantasies I had before I became sexually active (much less experienced). The fantasy, miraculously, has retained its appeal and excites me to this day.
I was approaching seventeen and envisioned myself lying in a bathtub full of soapy water. A man, fully dressed , sat on the edge of the tub, looking down at me. In this fantasy, the man was always much older than me—old enough to be my father.
Sometimes he resembled actors or musicians or teachers I had some attraction to. More often, he was a composite of my unrealized fantasy life—what I knew that I wanted, even though I didn’t yet completely understand what I was craving. Acht, so difficult to explain…
In my fantasy, the man would reach into the opaque soapy water and grasp my small ankle and raise my leg above the water up to my thigh. In his other hand, he held a straight razor with an elegant pearl handle. He used this razor to slowly, carefully shave my legs. Once—early on—he deliberately cut me with it, though he did not admit that it was deliberate. The point was to make me see my own blood, and to remind me of the cuts and pain and damage the razor could inflict.
I was frightened the entire time. Worried that there would be another cut, a deeper cut, at any moment. My muscles were tense and the tendons on the insides of my thighs were taut as piano wire. His hand went all the way around my ankle, holding me steady. Keep still, he said. Rinsing the razor in the bathwater. The feel of the metal under the back of my knee. Vulnerable.
I had almost no sexual experience at the time. But I fantasized about this, yearning—that I would do anything to experience this, anything, anything at all.