One Friday night, as we cuddled together and basked in the afterglow of a bout of truly delicious but utterly vanilla sex, my boyfriend Saleem asked me a question that made me raise my eyebrows:
“Andrea, have you ever had a rape fantasy?”
I was in love with Saleem; if I could be anyone in the world, I would be him. He is beautiful, smart and funny, generous, kind and loving. We had been together a year, and had shared an apartment in Williamsburg for the last six months. He was great, a real keeper. The only problem, as far as I was concerned, was that he was a little… tame in bed.
There was nothing wrong with his sex drive, far from it. And vanilla is a nice flavor too. But whenever I suggested anything even remotely kinky, the answer was always the same:
Bondage play, golden showers? “Hmm, sounds interesting.”
Threesomes, spanking? “That could be fun.”
Anal sex, exhibitionism? “Could be interesting.”
Role playing, dildos? Well you get the picture. He was always positive but noncommittal, and it never happened. Saleem’s idea of kinky was going down on me with the lights on. And he was pretty fucking good at that, I must say.