My Fantasies I’ve Never Told Anyone

I’ve been wanting to write this for a long time. Not as a diary, but as a real confession, one of those things that’s embarrassing to say out loud but that you carry around in your head all the time.

I’m twenty-eight years old. I know what that number means in the collective imagination: a woman who should already have everything figured out, who should know herself by heart, who shouldn’t be surprised by her own desires. But the truth is that at twenty-eight I’m still discovering things about myself that I didn’t know were there. I’m still finding myself with my panties soaked at the least expected moment, still amazed at how many times I can come in a single night when I’m alone and no one is rushing me.

I’m not going to talk too much about my personal life. Just enough for the context to make sense. I’ve had rough periods in recent years, the kind where you get up with no desire to do anything and go to bed with the feeling that the day was useless. Periods when the only constant was the drawer on the left side of my bed, with its three or four silicone companions that never let me down.

That’s a confession too. That there were weeks when I came more often with my toys than I said words out loud. That there were nights when I shoved two fingers into my cunt and the vibrator against my clit at the same time, alone in the silence of the apartment, and bit the pillow so I wouldn’t wake the neighbors.

But lately I’ve been more active, more present in my own body, more eager to explore. And that led me to do something I had never done before: sit down and write out, in order, everything I want to experience. All the fantasies I keep tucked away and rarely share with anyone.

This is that list.

***

The first fantasy is the one I find hardest to admit out loud, even though in my head it’s completely clear: public transportation.

I don’t know exactly when it started. Maybe one afternoon years ago, crammed into the subway at rush hour, when I felt the heat of someone’s body behind me and my mind went straight to a place that had nothing innocent about it. He was a stranger. He smelled clean and fresh. I never got to see his face. But I felt his cock pressed clearly against my ass, separated only by the fabric of my pants and his jeans, and instead of moving I stayed still with my heart pounding between my legs.

Since then I’ve had that recurring image: standing in a packed train, surrounded by people looking at their phones or pretending to look out the window, and having someone — no one in particular, a character who changes every time — come close enough that the situation is completely possible and completely forbidden at the same time.

I imagine the cold texture of the handrail under my palm. The noise of the carriage. The constant vibration of the floor. And that hand that shouldn’t be where it is, slowly sliding up under my skirt, finding the elastic of my thong, pulling it aside with a soft tug. One finger parting my cunt lips and discovering that I’m dripping before he even started touching me. Two fingers sinking all the way in while I clench my teeth and breathe through my nose so the woman sitting opposite won’t notice anything. The thumb rubbing my clit with the precision of a stranger who knows exactly what he’s doing, and me coming tight against the handrail, biting the inside of my cheek so I won’t moan, feeling a gush of wetness run down my thighs while the carriage brakes at the next station and he pulls his hand away and gets off like nothing happened.

What turns me on about that fantasy isn’t the loss of control. It’s the exact opposite: the choice. The conscious decision to let it happen. To spread my legs a little wider instead of closing them.

***

Another fantasy has to do with size. I’m going to say it bluntly because there’s no point beating around the bush.

I’ve had relationships with several men. None were exactly disappointing, but I was always left with the question. With that curiosity about whether physical difference produces a real difference in experience or whether it’s just a myth that porn planted in the heads of an entire generation.

I want to know. I want to feel it once and have the question go quiet. I want a cock that forces me to open my mouth all the way just to take it in, that makes me gag when I try to suck it to the base, that makes me spit saliva out the corners of my mouth while I lick it to the back of my throat. And then I want him to take me slowly, centimeter by centimeter, and for me to feel how he settles inside me, how he stretches me, how he reaches a place where no one has ever reached me before. I want to finish with my legs trembling, my cunt burning, with the real mark of having been fucked by something that wouldn’t fit all the way inside me.

***

There’s a fantasy that feels more intimate than the others, even though on the surface it sounds simpler. Someone kissing my breasts long enough to bring me to orgasm with that alone. Without anything else happening, without rush, without the constant urge to move on to the next step.

I’ve looked for it. I haven’t had any luck.

It’s not that my partners haven’t paid attention to that part of my body. The problem is that they always do it like a prelude, like a mandatory step before continuing to what they consider the main event. Two or three minutes and then they move on to something else.

I want someone to stay. To decide that this is the destination, not the journey. To suck my nipples until they’re hard as stones, to bite them with just enough force that I arch my back and gasp without realizing it. To take them fully into his mouth, one and then the other, to lick them in slow circles until I feel wetness gathering between my legs without anyone having touched me there. To take the time to learn what pressure, what rhythm, what temperature. To understand that if he gives me the right attention in that spot, he doesn’t need to do anything else for the result to be exactly what he wants: me coming with my tits out, my nipples reddened by his mouth, without his hand having gone down to my cunt even once.

***

Squirt is another obsession on the list. I’ve been chasing it for years.

I’ve watched videos, read articles, listened to friends describe it with expressions that mix scandal and nostalgia in equal parts. They say the body takes full control, that you stop thinking, that there’s a moment when the brain simply shuts off and what’s left is pure, nameless sensation. That the bed ends up soaked, that the sheets have to be changed, that you lie there on your back with your thighs shining and unable to close your legs because your muscles won’t respond anymore.

I want it.

I know it depends on the right stimulation, the right angle, a certain kind of relaxation that I don’t always manage because at the crucial moment my head decides to start processing the day’s pending tasks. But I keep trying. With my toys, in the positions they say work, curling my fingers forward looking for that rough patch they say is a couple of centimeters inside. Sometimes I feel like I’m close, that there’s a pressure building, that my cunt is contracting in a different way from a normal orgasm, but just when it seems like something is about to happen my head shuts down and the moment slips through my fingers.

It hasn’t happened yet. But when it does, I’ll know. And I want it to be with someone on top of me, fucking me patiently and methodically, someone who won’t panic when he feels the first gush and who keeps going until I’m completely emptied out.

***

Oral sex is its own chapter on this list.

No one has ever done it to me well. I say that calmly and without needing to point fingers at anyone, because I’m pretty sure the problem isn’t my body. I’ve had partners who tried with good intentions but no guidance. Partners who treat it like a favor they’re granting and not like something they could learn to do well, or even enjoy. Partners who go straight for the clit with a stiff tongue and attack it like it’s a button they have to press until the alarm goes off.

The result: I feel nothing. Or worse, I feel a vague discomfort, like when someone keeps touching you in the wrong place and you can’t find the way to say stop.

I want someone to really do it right. To open my legs slowly and take a second to look. To start by kissing the insides of my thighs, moving up with his mouth to my groin without touching my cunt yet, until I’m begging for it with my hips. To lick me from bottom to top with a flat, full tongue, from my perineum to my clit in one long motion, and to repeat that until I’m soaking his chin. To suck my lips one by one, to slide his tongue into my cunt and move it in circles inside, then come back to my clit and work it with the soft tip, in the rhythm I set with my hips. To listen to the signals. To slip in two fingers and curl them upward while he keeps licking me, to feel how I contract and not change the rhythm just before I come in his mouth. To stay there after, licking slowly while I tremble, without pulling his tongue away, taking advantage of that moment when the body asks for a little more even though the brain says enough.

***

Anal is a different story.

I’ve been exploring that possibility on my own for a while now. With the right toys, very carefully, and I’ve discovered that I like the sensation more than I expected. I started with small plugs, leaving them in while I masturbated with the vibrator on my clit, and I discovered that coming with my ass full is a different kind of orgasm: deeper, longer, with contractions that can be felt everywhere at once. Then I went up in size, with plenty of lube, breathing deeply as the toy made its way in, and I was surprised by how much I liked the feeling of being full on both ends at once.

The problem is logistical: the right lubricant, the time required, the patience not to be in a hurry.

I don’t always meet those conditions. Sometimes impatience arrives before judgment. I know it and I accept it, although I also know it’s not ideal.

I haven’t tried it with a partner yet, and it’s not because I don’t want to. It’s because it requires the right level of trust and the right person. Someone who doesn’t treat it like a conquest but like something we explore together, with care and mutual attention, without rush and without ego getting in the way. Someone who takes the time to prepare me, who fills me first with lubricant, who slips in one finger, then two, who opens me slowly with his mouth on my cunt so the mix of sensations makes me loosen up completely. And then, when I’m ready, who takes it in centimeter by centimeter, waiting each time I ask for a pause, until he’s all the way inside and we can start moving together.

***

Toys have been part of my everyday life for years. Not in a sad way, as if they were a substitute for something missing, but in a practical, no-drama way. I have them, I use them, they do me good. I have a suction vibrator that makes me come in under five minutes when I don’t have time, a dildo with a curved base for days when I want something deeper, and a couple of plugs for when I want to play with my ass.

What frustrates me is that several men I’ve dated get uncomfortable when they see them. As if their presence were some implicit comment on their performance, when in reality it has nothing to do with that.

I’ve had to put them away before someone arrived because I knew that if he saw them, the night would take an unnecessarily complicated turn. As if admitting that I masturbate alone were some kind of threat.

I want a partner who doesn’t just tolerate them but wants to incorporate them. Who asks to watch me use them, who sits on the edge of the bed and watches me spread my legs and shove the dildo all the way in, who strokes his cock while I make myself come for him. Who then takes the toy from my hands and uses it on me himself, moving it while he sucks my clit. Who puts the plug in my ass before fucking me in the cunt, so I can feel both things at once. Who understands that I’m not replacing anything, I’m adding to it.

***

Threesomes are on the list in two possible versions.

The first: two men and me. I imagine the dynamic of double, simultaneous attention, the sensation of being completely present in every sense at once. One underneath, his cock inside me, moving me slowly up and down while the other stands beside my face and puts his in my mouth. Four hands moving over my body at the same time, two mouths taking turns on my nipples, and me in the middle not knowing where to look or which hole to focus on. They take turns. One fucks me while the other licks my clit. Then they switch places without saying a word, with the synchrony of two men who know what they’re doing. They both finish on top of me, one coming in my mouth and the other on my tits, and I swallow what one gives me while the other paints my chest with hot cum.

The second version makes me even more curious: another woman and a man. Because that would mean the first time I’d be with a woman for real, and that’s also on the list in its own right.

I kissed a woman once. At a party, several years ago, with enough alcohol in me that I couldn’t clearly tell what exactly I felt. Since then I’ve wondered what would have happened if we’d had privacy and no rush. If the party had never existed. If instead of separating we’d gone to a room and taken our clothes off, if I had licked her tits first, if she had pulled down my underwear with her teeth, if we’d ended up with one of our mouths on the other’s cunt until we both came at the same time.

***

With women in general: it’s something I want to explore calmly and without labels. I don’t know whether I’d like it more or less than with men, or just differently. I suspect a woman would know exactly how to touch another woman, because she knows the terrain from the inside. That she would know how much pressure to apply to the clit, when to slow down, when to slide her fingers in and curl them. That she’d know how to suck nipples without treating them like a technical exercise. I don’t know because I haven’t really lived it yet, and not knowing creates a curiosity that sometimes feels like impatience.

The same goes for trans experience. I’ve met trans girls, and there’s something about that mix of familiarity and difference that I find genuinely attractive. Not as a fetish or as exoticism, but as true curiosity. As a desire to connect with someone who lives her body and desire in a way I don’t know yet.

***

Outdoor sex is on the list too. In a forest, on a beach at night, anywhere with sky overhead and real texture underfoot. I don’t know exactly what attracts me most about that idea: whether it’s the latent risk of someone passing by, or the feeling of being small in a huge space, or simply the contrast between the cold night air and the heat of two bodies together that don’t want to separate. I imagine myself in the sand, with my skirt hitched up to my waist, someone on top of me fucking me while the waves break a few meters away and I try not to scream too loudly in case someone comes walking by. I imagine myself in the forest, pressed against a tree, the bark scraping my back while he fucks me standing up, one of my legs hooked around his waist and the other barely touching the ground.

And in a car. That one too. With all the awkward logistics it implies: seats that don’t cooperate, not enough space, windows fogging up from the inside. There’s something about that discomfort that makes it more intense, not less. As if the body adapts to the limits and finds there something it doesn’t find in the comfort of a neatly made bed. I imagine myself in the back seat, half undressed, riding him astride while the car’s roof forces me to hunch over, with the handbrake digging into me somewhere, and still coming harder than in many beds where everything was perfect.

***

Writing this was harder than I thought at first.

Not because the fantasies themselves embarrass me, but because putting them into words forces me to recognize how many have been waiting for years. How many times I was with someone and thought one thing while doing another, because the situation didn’t allow for more or because I didn’t dare ask for what I really wanted.

That’s part of the confession too: that I’m still learning how to ask. How to say yes and no, slower here, I want to try this, suck me here, put a finger in me while you lick me. It’s not that I don’t know what I want. It’s that sometimes there’s no space to say it, or when the space appears the moment has already passed, or I’m simply afraid the person on the other side will take it as criticism when all I’m doing is being honest.

I’m twenty-eight years old and I’m still discovering my own body. I’m still learning what to ask for, how to ask for it, and who’s worth asking. And while I learn, I keep exploring, I keep writing, I keep finding out what my body already knows and what it still has left to do.

This was my confession for today.