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trapdoor at my feet, there gently to part my willing legs. It’s funny how little time during a fantasy it takes to sort out the mechanical details…but time, during a fantasy, is not like normal time. Sometimes this man is black, more often he is unknown. Perhaps he is a new face in our dull little group, a face I have responded to all evening, as I respond to his touch on my thighs. I want him, this fantasy man, as much as I want the man who is actually between my legs.
    There is always the most amazing amount of detail. in the fantasy at this point: me, casually arranging the tablecloth over my lap so that no one can see he has, raised my skirt, or see his head tight up against me, or his tongue…yes, there is a lot of the lips, actually seeing them, and the tongue. Or there is the intricate arranging of feet, like a ballet, under the table, with me praying that no one will bump into him with their feet! Funny thing is, all this detail makes it even more exciting. But mostly there is the fear – sweet agony – that someone may ask me to dance! Or, worst of all, that the man under the table will stop …that someone will call for the bill and say, "Okay, everybody up, let’s go."
    What I am really afraid of, I suppose, is that the real man, the man who is making love to me, will stop, will tire. I do take a long time to reach a climax…mostly because I enjoy getting there so much. And there have been men in the past, lovers, who get impatient, who will suddenly stop before I have reached an orgasm, when I already know that I am going to…and you know what a letdown that is.
    All of this suspense in my fantasy, of course, heightens the real excitement, and what ultimately makes the pleasure excruciating is the thrilling fear of what in the hell I am going to do in the fantasy restaurant when the man between my legs makes me come. So I put one hand on his head – don’t stop! –and with the other hand I accept a cigarette or toy with my salad, always this perfect social smile on my face, but always the 29

    clutch: What am I going to do when I come? (I’m pretty noisy.) The closer I get to actually coming, the realer the suspense in the fantasy becomes, until, thank God, there is a sudden power failure in the restaurant. All the lights ‘ go out. Then pow! In the darkness and shouting of the fantasy restaurant, I have my very real, very loud orgasm. [Taped interview]

    I realize how much anxiety is aroused by the mention of fantasy during sex…but was there anything threatening in that fantasy? It’s an exciting little scenario, and it’s also fun; as a follow-up, Patricia states that it made her real lover feel and enjoy her own excitement…without ever having to know what caused it. (And as he was Italian it would be better that he never did know.) Most people – men and women – understandably don’t like to hear that their lover’s minds are on anything but them during sex. Anxiety in bed is one of the most contagious emotions going; the smart woman will know just how much her lover wants to hear. The only way Patricia’s lover will ever know about her fantasy is through the added emotion that fantasy communicates to him through her body. Because you don’t always feel that it would be an unalloyed joy for your partner to hear about your fantasies doesn’t mean you yourself should not have them. How much she tells and how much she keeps to herself is a true measure of a woman’s subtlety.
    Patricia and the other women who contributed to this book are admittedly in a minority; the average woman is not consciously aware of her fantasies, and if she is, would not dream of telling anyone. Most women never get beyond this; their fantasies are not merely unspoken but unacknowledged even to themselves, never deliberately put at the service of their sexual lives. In the end, both these women, and their men, lose what fantasy might have added.
    I know there will be some men who will say that Patricia’s