There are lots of dream men. Right!
Wrong!
I spend most of my time as a psychologist or pyschoanalyst to be precise. I get to hear a lot of different views about men, few of them good, but that may be down to the nature of who I listen to, and their over-arching experience of men in general.
I specialise in analysing women, especially their sexual problems. My clients have a lot of issues with men. Either they don’t treat them right, or their men don’t understand them. I sometimes ask myself, where have I heard that before? Oh! Yes, often by the men cheating on their wives and loved ones and who are only out for a quick fuck. I’ve come across them in my travels too; some are so sweet, but others know they are bad apples that have fallen a very long way from Eve’s tree.
There are so many different kinds of dream men, according to my clients.
One day, Jennifer, reclined on my sofa and proceeded to tell me about her dream man, about how she wanted a man to treat her with respect, love her and comfort her, play with her and fuck her. At one point, I thought she was reciting her marriage vows, but she was being serious. Her husband of twenty years, apparently, sits with her watching the TV; yet he rarely kisses her, or touches her, or frolicks with her on the sofa. He is nice, but not sexually nice. They go to bed and they sleep on the edges of the bed; separated by an invisible barrier of sameness. In the morning they wake and go their separate ways to work. It’s not her ideal marriage anymore and he is no longer her dream man. She misses the cuddles, the playfulness and the sex. Oh! Yes, she misses the sex. Which is why she is sitting with me trying to understand what has gone wrong? When it went wrong? And what she can do to put it right.
I would like to tell her that her husband is an arsehole and he doesn’t love her or care for her anymore, but that would be unprofessional conduct. Only she can come to that conclusion, but she wants to put it right. Bless her.
Then there was Melanie, a very bright, young girl. She was ever so attractive, she always told me that her husband loved her dearly. That was until I saw the bruises around her neck and shoulders and I questioned her about it. She started to cry and eventually blurted out the whole story of how he loved to strangle her while they had sex, and how he loved to plunge his cock into her from behind while pulling her forcefully towards him until he satisfied himself. She told me how she was always left on the bed, unsatisfied, while he pranced off for a shower; not a thought for her or how she felt. But, she added, he really loves me and I love him.
I understand the type of sex that she related to me, I have even caught myself wanting to try it myself, yet there should be some give and take. We are only on our second session together and I so want to tell her what I think of her dream man.
The most unique was Helena. She always insisted that she had her dream man and only came to see me because her sex life was getting out of control. She was desperate to reduce it rather than spice it up. I think she only came to see whether the world approved of her antics; and I was the world. Perhaps she wanted to see if she could shock someone with her stories; there was no fucking chance of that happening, not with me.
Helena was funny, she used to tell me stories of how she became a bi-sexual, loving the taste of women and loving the way her female partners treated her. I often thought that her tales were directed at me, some sort of conversion process in the making. I just used to sit and listen to her. I hope I never gave away my feelings with the wry smile that was so often on my face, or the wet patch that so eagerly tried to escape my panties.
Every time I met Helena, her stories became more and more adventurous. First she described the threesomes, mostly with other women but sometimes with men. Then came the foursomes and moresomes. I would call them orgies but she was more tactful than I could ever be.
It wasn’t until she confided in me that she was following her husband’s requests all along, that I became concerned. She told me that it was all his doing, his organising, and how she had to follow along behind him like a dog on a lead. She didn’t know it, but Helena was a trained submissive. I know what they are like, I’ve come across a few just like her. She believes that if she doesn’t play along, he will leave her for some other woman.
She’s probably right too. I have to admit, I was secretly envious of Helena and her activities up to the point when she told me about her husband’s controlling nature. Then I felt sorry for her. It’s not my place to feel sorry, but I did.
One lady I will never forget is Melissa. Melissa was an exhibitionist, a voyeur, a sexual predator and a very naughty girl indeed. She told me stories of her ideal man, of how he would parade her naked in front of other people and allow them to touch her; often in a dog collar and lead. He would allow them to fuck her and pleasure her but only after he gave her a good caning or spanking first. She would do all sorts of dirty things to please him. She relished being bound in ropes or chains, waiting for him to take his pleasure on her. Apparently, she loved the tension, the edginess and unsurity of the situation. She described to me how it thrilled her to her very core.
The way Melissa described these depraved sexual liaisons intrigued me. I was won over by her enthusiasm for it all. I even started to look up BDSM and fetish sites on the internet. I read as much as I could on the subject so that I could better understand our conversations and her needs.
I have to admit to being slightly unprofessional with Melissa. I put the seed in her head that she could turn the tables on her dream man and dominate him instead. Do unto others as they do unto you, kind of thing. Her ears pricked up at the suggestion and well that’s all history now. I know that they are no longer together yet I’m so happy for her.
I have to try and make my clients understand what it is they are dealing with. Sometimes, it’s hard when they are so wrapped up in what they believe is the truth. They all have one thing in common though. They are all looking for or believe they have found their dream man. I mean, from what I have heard, from their stories, dream men just don’t exist. Not for my clients anyway.
I generally listen to about four to seven variations on one form of sexual exploitation or another, every day. That’s a lot to take in, it’s a lot to digest and it’s a lot to try and forget as well; which is why I have to seriously unwind at the end of a busy day.
But I do have my dream man. Sort of. My dream man waits at home while I work, cooks the dinner when I get home, pours me a drink, and lavishes me with kisses. That’s what almost makes me puke, but after all of that, my dream man does what I need them to do.
It’s not what you think. It’s far more than that.
I often disappear to the bedroom early in the evening, right after we have eaten and downed a couple of glasses of wine. I dress up in some sexy underwear or chemise or sometimes just plain white cotton knickers and silky top. I choose whatever garment I am in the mood for; generally dictated by the mood of the day. I get the toys out ready and place them at the foot of the bed. Then I return to my dream man.
If I’m lucky, my dream man is already doing the dishes, in which case I either sneak up behind them and playfully grapple with them, or kiss and caress them, or I may just rest against the kitchen divide and wait until they notice me.
The latter usually brings a wry smile to my dream man’s face, especially when I am dressed to kill, in stockings and suspenders. My dream man loves me to dress for them.
By the time we have stoked each other’s sexual energy, most of the thoughts and traumas of the day have disappeared. I only have thoughts of what my dream man is going to do to me.
It usually starts the same way, mostly anyway. My dream man pulls me close to them, caresses my bum while looking me in the eye.