The New Black Lace Book of Women's Sexual Fantasies by Mitzi Szereto Page B

face
beneath my messy hair. I kiss the pillowcase and turn it over,
hoping he can hold his breath a long time. I remove my shirt,
folding it carefully and placing it gingerly on the floor. If my
ultimate celebrity fantasy hallucination is naked, I should be
too.
    He slowly saunters back, taking a prolonged swig from the
longneck bottle, his manhood swinging in the breeze, hat still
on. Maybe it's sewn on. I should check. The hat, I mean. He
climbs back into bed with me, placing the beer on the bedside
table. I'm not going to worry about a coaster right now.
    'So, what do you wanna do?' he asks, grinning behind a
flirtatious wink of his magnificent eye. Sounds like a Cyclops.
No, he has two eyes. Now that might be an interesting future
fantasy: if Tim were missing one eye he might have an
extra . . . My mind floods with a multitude of X-rated images,
contortions, locations, props, extras. No, not extras. Well, maybe
Chris Cagle. I'll put his CDs next to Tim's in my case for easy
access.
    My conscience hits me like a bolt of lightning from the
tempest outside. I channel Benjamin Franklin. I lean over the
foot of my bed, reaching for the dresser. Digging in a drawer
I produce a pair of my husband's boxer-briefs, waving them
above my head, surrendering, scruples still intact.
    'I'd feel better. They are clean.' He slips them on. Not as sexy
as his jeans, but they'll do. Abruptly realising my own nakedness,
I casually retrieve my nightshirt from the floor and yank
it over my head.
    'Nice shirt,' he observes. I smile, turning eleven shades of
fuchsia. 'Want me to sign it for you?'
    'Let me get a pen.' I leap out of bed, like a pad-less cat on a
hot tin roof, and sprint down the hall in twelve seconds flat,
unearth the Sharpie from the top of the refrigerator and race
back. 'Here you go,' I pant, handing him the pen, cap removed
for his convenience.
    'Whoa. Slow down there.'
    I lie on my back as he signs my boobs, his other hand on
my belly holding his face still. I can't move until the ink dries.
'Thanks a lot,' I gush.
    'Anytime.' Yeah, anytime I hallucinate you into my bed.
    'Do you ever take your hat off?' I am nosy.
    'Only in the shower.' Only? I am intrigued. I ask why. 'It's
"The Cowboy in Me".' I should have known.
    'You know I'm your number one fan.'
    'Uh, please don't say that. It scares me in a Stephen King Misery sort of way.'
    I giggle. 'Sorry, Mr McGraw.'
    'Call me Tim.'
    'Call me anytime. Oh, and "Please Remember Me".'
    He chuckles. 'You're a funny one. Mind if I keep these?' He
points at his luscious ass.
    'Unless you want to moon the neighbours. I don't think my
husband will miss them.'
    He kisses me on the cheek, the tickle of his goatee titillating
my every nerve. I'm never washing my face again. Then he
left. Just left. Vanished. Disappeared. Adios. Hasta la vista ,
baby.
    'I like it, I love it . . .' I had forgotten about the radio. Oh yeah,
I'd love some more of him. I close my eyes, remembering the
look in his eyes, the softness of his moustache on my skin, his
fluid signature decorating my chest like icing on a cake. I check
the ink. My nipples are so hard, I am afraid they'll poke his
eyes out. I stroke my thigh, recalling his smell: a macho mixture
of beer, testosterone and denim. Denim? I am soaked. My
fingers slide across my clit. Randy Travis is on the radio now.
I feel guilty masturbating to him. I sigh insu-erably and crawl
out of bed, adjusting the tuner on the radio. Tim, Tim, where
are you? I need you.
    Four stations later, the sweet strains of 'Let's Make Love' fly
out of my radio and into my soul. Tim and Faith. Faith and
Tim. The way it should be. All is right with the world now. I
dance back into bed and close my eyes. My hand continues my
extracurricular activities. I am happy. I am tired. I come. I
sleep.
    My husband climbing into bed at dawn awakens me. 'Did
that come signed?'

3
Sex on the Edge
    'Come to the edge, he said. They said, we are afraid. Come to
the edge, he said. They came, he