Hi, Amy here. The following is either virtually entirely fiction, or 75% true. I'll let you decide. I am vain enough to describe myself in the first paragraph in what I consider to be an accurate manner; I hope that I'm not delusional.
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I'm a mid-40s white female, 126 pounds virtually every morning when I step on the bathroom scale naked after my shower, with an oversized ass, and snug pussy, both of which I'm really proud of, one solely nature's doing, the other the result of daily Kegel exercises. All the details of my life and appearance are unimportant; suffice it to say that I had fairly average experiences in my youth and in school, have a fairly prestigious job, have been married over twenty years to Jim, a really great and sexy guy, and have two children.
There was one "feature," for lack of a better word, of my late teenage years (until I was getting sex from Jim on a regular basis) that I never revealed to anyone. I had what I called a persistent "rape fantasy." I called it that even before I knew that was something that apparently was a known term when I came across it in a psychology textbook my freshman year in college. The term was used without explanation just twice in the entire 600+ page textbook, leading me to believe – which I always had since it first popped into my brain shortly after my eighteenth birthday – that it was a disorder.
The fantasy was not like a real rape – which is a violent act, not an act of sexual lust – but a "sanitized" version. In my fantasy I was never harmed, and never got an STD. The majority of times it was pleasurable while I experienced it, but sometimes disturbing while experiencing it. It was always disturbing when I snapped out of the fantasy.
The fantasy rarely appeared after I met Jim, and certainly no more than a handful of times during my married life. I don't know why that is – maybe I was fulfilled and had no need for it, maybe it was being too busy with a husband, kids, and a challenging job; who knows? It starkly returned on Thursday, January 15, 2015. How do I remember that date? It could be because it was the last day for filing estimated tax for 2014, or because I had a doctor's appointment with a new physician; but it wasn't. It was because while waiting for my appointment I picked up the November, 2014 issue of Psychology Today that was in the doctor's waiting room.
I had a fairly long wait for the doctor, so I actually read a couple of articles. I was starting to get bored and look at my watch when I turned the page to an article entitled "Don't Call Them Rape Fantasies" by Leon Seltzer, PhD
The article was the first text I had seen on the subject – I never went looking for it before since I didn't want to find out how much of a pervert I was. However, now having it thrown in my face I couldn't possibly ignore it; I had to read it.
I only got through the first half of the article before I was called to see the doctor. Looking around the busy waiting room I didn't want to take the chance that someone else would be reading the magazine when my appointment was over, so I took it with me. Fortunately I have a big purse so it wasn't easily visible. The doctor came into the room almost immediately after I sat down so I didn't have a further chance to read it in the examination room.
When I was done with my appointment I thought it would be silly to sit in the waiting room and read the rest of the article – plus I really wanted to look it over carefully, and I had a meeting in a half an hour; so I did something that I had never done before in my adult life. I stole it. I guess I could have found it on line, but I didn't want to take the chance that I wouldn't be able to. My conscious bothered me a little bit, but considering what happened to me in the next few months I considered that sufficient punishment and stopped feeling guilty.
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Over the next few days I read the article four times. It made me feel better in some ways because I found out that having my rape fantasies in the past was not as unusual or freakish as I had believed as a late teens-early twenties woman. However, it started to have a significant adverse impact on my life when the fantasies started re-occurring, this time much more vividly and with significantly greater regularity than before.
When in March, 2015, I was so pre-occupied with a fantasy in a meeting that someone had to nudge me to awaken me from my stupor to answer a question that only I was knowledgeable about, and I had to endure the embarrassment of asking the question to be repeated, I decided that I needed professional help. I had never been to a psychologist or psychiatrist before so I didn't know how to go about it.
Without boring you with the details, many of the possible professionals were out because they were too close geographically or socially; the first two that I actually went to were duds. The third time was the charm when I ended up with PhD Psychologist Mary Ross in a city sixty miles from my home, and seventy five miles from my office.
When I showed up bright and early on a Monday morning in March I remember Mary's receptionist telling me that her methods were unusual and that I had to carefully read the engagement contract I was given, and needed to initial at three places and sign and date at the bottom. I started reading, but it was mostly what I considered legal mumbo-jumbo, and I was distracted by the décor in her office. I had never seen anything like it.
Only one wall was fairly normal – a large fish tank.
The other three walls could best be described as weird modern art, images of comic book and TV character versions of Wonder Woman (the 2017 movie had obviously not come out yet), and adhesively secured nuts, bolts, tools, and car parts.
The furniture was just as weird, and the waiting room was packed with it. The furniture included: a chair with simulated wings as armrests, another chair shaped like a King Cobra, a two-person couch with ballerina print fabric and ballerina shaped arms, a wobble stool, a saddle stool, and a coffee table comprising a naked woman in doggy position.
I was so distracted by the decorating scheme and what it could possibly mean about Mary Ross that I didn't do as told – I did not read the engagement contract carefully, but just flashed through it – especially the "Privacy Notice" portion – and just initialed at the "Treatment Options," "Privacy Notice," and "Video and Audio Recording" sections, and signed and dated at the bottom.
I had in my mind that someone with the totally ordinary and conventional name of Mary Ross would herself be ordinary and conventional. I was disabused of that notion as soon as I walked into her office. While her office was as calm as the reception room was hectic, she was anything but ordinary and conventional. She had to be at least six feet tall (even without her obvious 4 inch heels on) and although ultra feminine had the handshake of a male weightlifter, large tits that were barely restrained by her halter top, and helter-skelter obviously dyed red hair. I was a little unsettled by her appearance, but once she started talking I could tell that she was highly intelligent (also attested to by her various degrees from Yale, Stanford, and Northwestern that were displayed on the wall behind her).
Our first half hour was spent just getting to know each other. She reiterated what her receptionist had said about her methods being unconventional, and she even chuckled "I trust that you read the engagement contract carefully," which I nodded assent to even though I hadn't. Looking back on it, her questioning was very skillful. She ended up knowing where I lived, about my summer cabin at a nearby lake, everything about my job and family, and my relationships with my parents, siblings, and kids, in a half hour without breaking a sweat or letting on how much information she was getting.
The last fifteen minutes of the 45 minute initial consultation I told her about my "issue," its history, and its present revival and control of my life. While I had had a very hard time even broaching the subject – let alone effusively spilling the beans about it – with the first two psychologists that I consulted, it was no problem at all talking with Mary about it.
When forty five minutes was up – denoted by a chime – she said "I'll be happy to take your case."
I didn't even know that it was a possibility that she would decline – I guess that was also in the sparsely reviewed contract.
"Make an appointment with my assistant Michelle for two or three days from now. Don't try and address the problem in the meantime. Don't think of it as controlling your life as much as enriching it until we meet again."
Strange advice, but I took it to the extent that I could, although careful to make the second appointment on Wednesday, just two days after the first one.
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Mary didn't waste any time at the start of the second, hour long, appointment.
"I want to first tell you that a 'rape fantasy' as you call it, although I prefer the term of 'ravaged fantasy,' which is similar to the term Seltzer coined in his Psychology Today article, is not unusual. The 18th and 19th century elegant and intelligent French woman of letters Madame de Staël, probably the first person to at least tangentially address the subject, had prescient words that I regard as seminal. 'The desire of the man is for the woman, but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man.' Putting it in the terms of a contemporary UNLV professor, 'being desired is the orgasm.'"
She paused and I thought about what she said. It obviously had many meanings, but it was clear that in the context of my ravaged fantasy that it meant that women want to be desired more than they actually want a man. I nodded, she continued.
"So tell me, how often do you have ravaged fantasies?"
"Since our last meeting, just two days ago, I had six full blown drawn out fantasies, and dozens of passing thoughts, too numerous to count."
"Were all of your fantasies since January 15 this year pleasurable?"
I was impressed that she remembered the date that I read Seltzer's article. "All except for one were – in none was I hurt in any way, physically or psychologically, and contracted no disease," I responded, "not like a real rape would be – I like your term 'ravaged fantasy.'"
"Did you consent in any of them?"
"No, I fought in each, but ultimately succumbed without getting hurt."
"How many attackers were there?"
"In about half, one, the other half two; only one had multiple attackers, and that's the one that I did not find pleasurable when I snapped out of it."
"Were the attackers strangers or people that you knew?"
"Most of the time they were strangers, or I couldn't see their faces to positively identify them," I replied. Then I paused and thought hard – Mary patiently waited realizing that I was not finished with my response. "Actually, now that I think about it, probably a quarter of the time they were men that I knew."
"Who were they?" Mary asked, leaning toward me in her chair. She could tell that I was hesitant, so she said, "Stand up and pace back and forth; that will not only help you remember, but it will lessen your anxiety about telling me."
