THE SEX COLUMN: My X-rated fantasy grew to become actuality

Women’s fantasies are being talked about among my friends again as a result of Want, the new collection of anonymous essays curated by ­Gillian Anderson. I was fascinated – and relieved – to read that other women feel embarrassed about what they think of when having sex, or when they are alone. I felt that too, for years.

I’ve worried my fantasies are weird, or too much, or anti-feminist, or they reflect badly on the sex I’m actually having.

Sadly, as my (now defunct) marriage went on, the role of fantasy became more important, for us both. Locating Simon’s sexual fantasy was easy: he liked to imagine there was another man in bed with us.

I’ve since read that this scenario is very common, especially for married couples, although I was surprised at the time.

The reality was that I was the ‘good’ wife and mother to our three children; the fantasy was that I was the ‘bad’ girl, having sex with him and another guy at the same time. Classic Madonna/Whore complex.

Needless to say the fantasy never became a reality.

‘I’ve worried my fantasies are weird, or too much, or anti-feminist, or they reflect badly on the sex I’m actually having’

But my fantasies were harder to speak about. I’m tempted to say my main fantasy was that Simon took the bins out without complaint, or organised the children’s haircuts. The long hours spent watching Emi’s favourite programme, Operation Ouch! on the BBC, were enlivened by the massive crush I sustained on both of the presenters, the Van Tulleken twins, in their colourful scrubs. They could examine me any day.

But the truth was that the more mired in domesticity I became, the more outrageous my fantasies grew. And by the end of the relationship it seemed easier to be lost in the fantasy inside my head than be present with Simon. It left me feeling lonely – and guilty. I’d hardly even been in the room.

With Eliot, at first I didn’t need to fantasise at all – he was the dream. But at around the eight month mark of our relationship I found myself reaching for my favourite X-rated scenarios, only now it’s different: instead of playing the usual secret dirty films in my head, I was still present. We were both still in bed, having sex, only sometimes I’d give our situation a little enhancement.

Last month, after we watched Braveheart in his flat in north London, I imagined we were in Scotland in the 13th Century.

Instead of dropping his jeans, Eliot had just unbuckled his kilt (he’d look so great in that). Instead of the slightly uncomfortable bed in his tiny rented room, we were in an even more uncomfortable hut surrounded by bracken. His body was not far off from a young Mel ­Gibson’s so it was not too much of a stretch. 

Sometimes I imagined that we were being watched. Objectifying what the real us was doing made it even hotter. I still kept these things to myself though: I wasn’t sure how Eliot felt about playing ­William Wallace, and I knew he wasn’t into voyeurism.

But last week, while his flatmates were out and the kids were at school, we met up for some naughty afternoon sex.

I loved Eliot for many reasons, he was funny, caring, successful, but he was also young and fit. And I knew that to him, I was the sexy older woman. It struck me: our age gap was the ultimate sexual fantasy for us. We were living it anyway, but it would be even hotter if we openly expressed it.

I lay back and guided his hand to my breast, then I pushed his hand further down. Then I took the risk – and talked. ‘I am only here for one thing,’ I told him (not quite true, we’d shared a sandwich earlier), ‘And you are going to give it to me, with your young, hard body.’

Eliot looked at me, his eyebrows raised, but I ploughed on. ‘First you will do everything to me that I want, like a good boy,’ I told him. ‘And then, if you are very good, I will let you do what you want, which is to…’ I listed a few things, explicitly.

Eliot gasped. ‘Tell me again,’ he said.

I told him again, making it dirtier.

‘Yes, yes please.’

Role play really, but only because we were speaking ourselves into the parts.

A little bit of fantasy ran in my head too, that I’d use Eliot mercilessly and afterwards I’d get up and leave, no strings attached. Really, though, when I left for the school run, my heart hurt for days.

•  Annabel Bond is a pseudonym. Names have been changed