bondage – The Adventures of Ryan Takahashi

What is Sexy?

Sexy - Kim Buck — Kim Buck beckoning us to hop in bed with her.

Female bodybuilders are sexy.

Soooooooooooo incredibly sexy. Steaming hot. They pulsate with sexual appeal. Every inch of their immaculate bodies is divine. Female bodybuilders produce emotions, thoughts, and gut reactions out of us that cannot be described, properly attributed, or replicated.

They are also beautiful. Immensely beautiful. Incomprehensibly beautiful.

Sexy and beautiful. Beautiful and sexy.

However, as strange as this may sound, what is beautiful is not necessarily sexy, and by that same token what is sexy is not necessarily beautiful. Hopefully this makes more sense if we dive into what these two concepts actually mean.

The questions of what is “sexy” and what is “beautiful” are two different – though interconnected – matters. Beauty is primarily concerned with aesthetic preferences. Sexy, on the other hand, has more to do with the feelings certain people, words, images, and objects elicit inside us. For example, some people get turned on by the feeling of leather or being picked up and carried. There’s nothing inherently beautiful about either of those things. Yet, they’re considered sexy by those who consider such things to be sexy.

I can look at an artist rendering of the Himalayan Mountains and say that it’s beautiful. I can also glance at a gorgeous woman stroll by on the sidewalk and think the exact same thing. But I can also stare (hopefully, inconspicuously) at a less attractive woman at the gym who’s deadlifting 250 pounds and say to myself:

“Damn. That’s sexy!”

Sidewalk Lady may check all the boxes of physical attractiveness. Every single one of them. Deadlift Lady may check some of the boxes – or very few of them – and yet, for some inexplicable reason, she makes me feel things that Sidewalk Lady doesn’t. This isn’t to insult or degrade Sidewalk Lady, but to point out that how we react to certain visual stimuli doesn’t always follow logical explanations.

Deadlift Lady’s activities spark inside me the desire to do things that are socially inappropriate. Many of us can keep our animalistic instincts in check, but staring a few seconds too long clearly isn’t one of them as far as I’m concerned. I want nothing more than to marvel at her raw strength, cheer her on, and fantasize about what other kinds of miraculous feats she can accomplish. Sidewalk Lady is someone I’ll most likely forget about 30 seconds later. Sorry, ma’am! Sidewalk Lady is a dime a dozen. Deadlift Lady, however, is a much more rare bird.

Sexy - Shannon Courtney — Deadlift Lady is sort of Shannon Courtney. Alright, it’s not “sort of” her. It’s actually Shannon Courtney.

This partially explains why so many people are perplexed that folks like you and I love female bodybuilders so much. On the surface, muscular women are, for lack of a better word, “freaky” looking. They’re not normal. They’re unconventional. They defy our preconceived notions of what a woman “should” look like. Because we typically associate large muscles as being a masculine trait, when we see big muscles on a feminine body our brains struggle to comprehend it. Our natural instinct is to dismiss it as being “against nature” or “unnatural” to the point that a disgusted reaction is a perfectly reasonable response. In other words, being revolted at the sight of a female bodybuilder isn’t bigotry; it’s simply the product of our upbringing and societal expectations.

Yet, for many of us the sight of a female bodybuilder elicits the exact opposite reaction. Instead of looking at her with terror or repulsion, we get turned on. Big time. No mistake about that. Our blood starts to boil. Sexual fantasies of all sorts immediately pop into our minds. Our breathing quickens. We suddenly have the urge to…uh, do certain things. To put it mildly.

This is because our love for female bodybuilders goes below the surface. It’s beyond what you simply see on the outside. The experience of seeing a photo of an FBB may seem jarring at first, but once you actually “get it” and understand their appeal, you become enthralled by them and cannot get enough. Yes, we do love them because we appreciate how they look (or at least, how most of them look). But it’s more than that. We find them sexy because of how they make us feel.

Female bodybuilders make us feel inspired, empowered, awestruck, dazed, imaginative, intrigued, aroused, sensual, curious, anxious, jealous, insecure, terrified, astonished, shocked, confused, provoked, delirious, uneasy, and everything in between. Please note that some of these emotions are contradictory. Some are negative. How can someone feel aroused and terrified at the same time? Is it possible to be inspired and insecure simultaneously? Do people really find it sexy to be both empowered and anxious?

The answer is simple to all these questions:

YES!

There is tremendous appeal in feeling strong contradictory emotions at the same time. This is why bondage role play is so popular. Some people get tremendously aroused being scared and aroused at the same time. In fact, being frightened heightens the sense of arousal. At least, that’s the idea. It’s totally possible to look at a picture of a large muscular woman and instantly feel inadequate, insecure, and pathetic when you think about your own lack of muscle mass. You’re a guy who lifts regularly at the gym and eats (fairly) healthy. “How the hell can a woman – who’s scientifically predisposed to being smaller in stature than men traditionally are – be bigger than me? It’s so agonizing because it makes me look bad! Compared to her, I’m fat, lazy, tiny, puny, pitiful, weak, and completely out of shape.”

“Yet, I think she’s the most beautiful woman who’s ever existed and I want to ravage her in bed all night!”

Sexy - Tina Nguyen — Who wouldn’t want to ravage Tina Nguyen all night long?

Well, then. This is something that’s a bit psychologically complicated. Is it possible that guys who love female bodybuilders are really – whether they realize it or not – projecting their own insecurities onto an object they find sexually desirable? That instead of seeing muscular women as the enemy, they treat them as an ally? That they secretly desire to be the weaker sex for once? That they get incredibly turned on by a woman who can take control? That when they feel at their most helpless, they actually feel the most powerful?

Human psychology is complex and beyond my amateurish understanding. But what I do know – and this comes from experience as well – is that these contradictory feelings are real. And not only are they real, they contribute to explaining why we find female bodybuilders so unbelievably sexy.

Our love for FBBs goes well below the surface. When I see Cindy Landolt post a photo on Instagram of her sprawling on a bed wearing sexy lingerie, it’s almost as though I can literally see powerful vibes exploding out of the computer screen. She doesn’t just look hot and beautiful. She looks powerful. At the top of her game. At her peak. She looks invincible. No one can stop her. She has her audience in the palm of her hand and she can control them however she likes. And this is the kicker: She isn’t doing this just because of the so-called “male gaze.” She does this because it makes her personally feel empowered. She chooses to flaunt her immaculate body in sexually provocative ways because it’s her way of transforming herself into a superhero. Yes, she is a human being. But her muscles allow her to transcend her humanness and become something else entirely. She becomes, well, superhuman.

Miss Landolt understands that men are visual creatures. And she just gave them more visual stimuli than they can handle. If their brains explode into a million pieces, so be it. That’s her super power. That’s why she’s world-famous (in a modest sense) while other traditionally beautiful women are not. That’s why we can scroll for hours through Instagram looking at thousands of photos of beautiful women and think to ourselves, “She’s cute.” But when we come across Cindy strutting around in a bikini showing off her perfectly sculpted figure, we then react by saying:

“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyuuuuuuuuuuuummmmm guuuuuuuuuuurrrrrlllllllllll!!!!!!!!!!!!”

See the difference? Subtle, it ain’t.

The question of deciphering “what is sexy” really boils down to these kinds of emotional reactions. There’s a cliché that states “sexy is an attitude.” There’s a lot of truth to that. But it’s more than that. What we find to be sexy (and by that same token, unsexy) is often a reflection of who we are. It shines a light on our own deepest fears, anxieties, insecurities, and inner demons. Perhaps this is a clever coping mechanism. No one wants to feel inadequate or weak. So instead of giving in to these failures, we turn it around. Rather than treat an FBB as a constant reminder of how “unmanly” we are, we treat them as a partner. An ally. A friend. A comrade. A compatriot. An equal.

Sexy - Cindy Landolt — Cindy Landolt is one of the most perfect female bodybuilders on planet Earth. Anyone want to argue with me about that? Yeah, didn’t think so!

We turn a loss into a victory. A weakness into a strength. A competitor into a teammate. This is our way of overcoming our fears. We conquer our insecurities not by letting them defeat us, but by embracing them as a source of inner strength. Here’s an odd anecdote that hopefully illustrates what I’m trying to convey:

One time a few years ago I met a well-known female bodybuilder for a muscle worship session. I won’t reveal her name for the sake of her privacy. She’s tall, thick, remarkably muscular, and smart. Very business savvy. She’s tough as nails and can physically dominate any man she encounters. While I’m not personally into fantasy wrestling, we did do some casual wrestling in bed just for the fun of it. She wrapped her strong legs around my torso and squeezed. I was helpless. I could not escape. She dominated me in every sense of the word. I struggled to breathe. She could have killed me if she’d wanted to. I was weak. She was the stronger sex, and it wasn’t even close.

At the end of our time together, she was kind enough to send me off on a positive note. It felt reciprocal because earlier I was giving her plenty of cunnilingus. First, she gave me oral. Then, once I was properly erect she got out a bottle of baby oil and smeared some on the palm of her hand. She then proceeded to jerk me off. I distinctly remember looking up at her and watching her perform this deed. She was on top of me, looking down upon this weak little boy who’s helplessly lying on this back, as defenseless as a newborn kitten. But as she stroked me, I felt a weird and unexpected feeling:

I felt powerful.

It’s strange to say this out loud, but it’s true. I felt like a manly man. I felt like a Real Man. Even though on the surface, I was the weak one and she was the strong one. She could easily snap me in half if she wanted to. Earlier, she demonstrated her superior strength with no ambiguity. There is no contest as to who is stronger. It’s her. No doubt about it. Yet, as odd as this sounds, I felt as powerful as I’d ever felt before in my entire life. There’s no logic to it. I just did.

From my perspective, I was a man receiving pleasure from a gorgeous woman. She was smiling as she was doing it. It looks like she was having fun as well. Inside, I felt like the one who was in charge. It was me who was controlling my own destiny. Even after I came, I still felt that way. For those few short moments, I was experiencing a heightened sort of pleasure that I rarely get to experience. Yet, on the surface it appears like she’s in total control. While that is technically true, that wasn’t true for me emotionally. On the inside, I felt a personal sense of empowerment that no one can understand except for me. And guess what? That’s good enough.

I didn’t treat her like an enemy. She was a friend. Not a literal friend, of course. But in that particular time and place, we were equals. I gave her pleasure. Then she gave me pleasure. This cooperative exchange felt right. It felt just. It was…sexy.

Sexy - Eiza Gonzalez — Eiza Gonzalez isn’t a female bodybuilder, but damn! She’s sexy. Or is it beautiful? She’s both, actually.

What is sexy? It’s simple: Sexy is that magical confluence when a singular human experience and mother nature collide in the most beautiful way imaginable. It’s more than just a pretty face or a killer body. It’s the emotions that come with it. It’s how we feel and how we grow as a human being as a result of experiencing those feelings.

Female bodybuilders have the unique ability to conjure up those emotions like very few other women can. Can a more “traditional” looking woman elicit those same feelings? Sure she can. Back in the day of my adolescent years, Famke Janssen, Monica Bellucci, Rena Mero, Trish Stratus, Sophie Marceau, Pamela Anderson, Halle Berry, and others did just that. But FBBs are like an addictive drug. We can’t get enough of them. We keep on returning to them. Whether we’ve liked FBBs for 30 years, 20 years, or 10 weeks, every single time we regard upon a new photo of a beautiful female bodybuilder proudly showing off her large muscles, it makes us feel jittery inside. It lights a fire in our souls. It’s a wonderful feeling, one that cannot be easily articulated. And in an unfathomable way, we don’t want to have to explain it. We embrace its mysteriousness.

That’s sexy.

Pin Me, Wrestle Me, Abuse Me, Dominate Me: The Uncomfortable Association of Female Bodybuilders with Violence

Uncomfortable with Mistress Treasure and Yvette Bova? Yeah, neither am I.

The association of female muscle fetishism with violence is an uncomfortable reality that cannot be overlooked. Anyone with even a casual level of knowledge of female bodybuilders and the men who love them can see this relationship underscored everywhere.

Guys who love female bodybuilders often fantasize about being dominated by them, disciplined by them, trampled by them, tied up by them, punched by them, pinned to the ground by them, verbally abused by them, and having other physically demeaning activities done to them. This is not to put all female muscle fantasies in the same boat, however. This is merely an observation of a trend that cannot be denied.

Nothing about this is inherently wrong. Nor is anything about this explicitly scandalous, surprising, or unethical. As far as I can tell, as long as all the parties are consenting, openly communicating, and enjoying these activities, there isn’t anything to complain about. I have no quarrel with a guy who becomes aroused by a female muscle dominatrix teasing him, pouring hot candle wax on his skin, and calling him all sorts of filthy names. I’m not personally into that, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be allowed to.

Whatever floats your boat, as the old saying goes.

However, I must be completely honest. I am a bit uncomfortable with the close association of female muscle fetishism with violence. Any decent human being should abhor violence in any form. We live in a particularly violent world filled with shootings, riots, terrorism, war, political repression, rape, abuse, genocide, and a whole host of other unspeakable acts of brutality. I’d like to think we live in a more peaceful world today than our ancestors did hundreds of years ago, but it only takes reading the news for five minutes to have that belief shaken to its core.

This is why the mixing of sex with violence should make any free thinking person squirm a little. You don’t have to be an ardent critic of “50 Shades of Grey” to hop on board this train. While experienced BDSM practitioners are, for the most part, intelligent people who define their sexual play with meticulous rules that ensure safety and mutual consent, accidents do happen. But more than that, it’s the root of BDSM fetishism that can create a cause for concern.

Why does sexuality have a violent component to it that seems, well, unavoidable? Surely, I am not the first person to have ever raised this question. Critics have argued that the proliferation of BDSM into pop culture could have the unintended effect of “justifying” rape and sexual assault in the eyes of people who are already prone to commit such atrocities. I cannot speak to how warranted these concerns are, but they are definitely worth mentioning. How can you not fear such a backlash?

Our pop culture reinforces these messages in other ways as well. I love the James Bond movie franchise just as much as anybody else, but it is clear what 007’s two chief pastimes are: Making love to beautiful women and shooting/punching/blowing up the bad guys. He also happens to participate in both activities in immodest quantities. And worst of all – to put myself in the shoes of a feminist media critic – Bond is “rewarded” with the former after doing the latter.

American football games feature scantily clad cheerleaders right next to big burly men pummeling each other to a pulp. The “Sex and Violence” motif is found everywhere: sports, movies, TV shows, video games, music, literature, advertisements, religious texts, folk tales, and so on. It even infests the evening news. Bombings in Baghdad are shown side-by-side with stories of young female teachers having sex with her teenage male students. It’s everywhere you look. It’s so pervasive it’s sometimes hard to see it because of how saturated it is in our culture. Because it’s everywhere you don’t actually notice it.

Who wants to be put in a headlock by Melody Spetko?

This motif is also deeply embedded within the world of female muscle fetishism. Of course, I’m referring more to the fantasy aspect of the fetish. In no way shape or form are female bodybuilders more inherently aggressive than non-muscular women. But maybe there exists in the imaginations of some of us the belief – or the desire – that this is somehow true. Or that we want it to be true because it titillates a part of our deeply held kinkiness.

One of the reasons why many people in society look down upon guys who love muscular women is because they’re also uncomfortable with how this fetish is played out. Perhaps they’re just as unnerved by the undertones of violence as I am – although I am less troubled by it than others are, for sure. But it is completely understandable why this uncomfortable reality exists…and why we need to talk about it.

I am not of the belief that sadomasochistic sexual activities are explicitly dangerous, oppressive, or dehumanizing. If it’s safe, consensual, and enjoyable by all parties involved, I have no bad words to say about it. But on the other side of the equation, I get why this makes some of us cringe. So I’m not trying to make a point so much as I’m trying to articulate a topic that I think needs to be discussed.

It should be stated that very rarely is any single act, interest, hobby, or creative endeavor inherently evil. Unless we’re talking about terrorism, overt political repression or murder, most activities exist in a gray area. Whether it’s “good” or “evil,” “valuable” or “trash,” all depends on the context in which it exists. A book unto itself isn’t evil. A science textbook, for example, can be a force for good. Books such as “Mein Kampf” or “Mao’s Little Red Book” on the other hand, could be used to spread hateful and dangerous ideas. So it’s not the object of a book that’s up for debate. It’s the intent behind creating a particular book that is. And the results.

If a guy fantasizes about a strong female dominatrix giving him physical pain because he finds it exciting, there’s nothing (on its surface) harmful in that. If this guy goes out of his way and pays a professional dominatrix to perform such acts on him, that also isn’t necessarily a red flag. The presence of violence within female muscle fetishism isn’t a bad thing, nor would I want to change a thing about it. However, what should be talked about is why this is and whether this should concern any of us.

From the beginning of human civilization to the present day, conflict has been a constant theme throughout our history. And not just conflict between groups of people, nations, governments or tribes. There has been conflict between individuals, ideas, cultural norms (both from without and from within), assumptions, and social hierarchies. Without getting too deep into the history of humankind, let’s just settle on this conclusion: Conflict has always been here and will be here to stay.

This is especially evident in the relationship between men and women. Or, to be more politically correct, between masculine and feminine dynamics. Whatever your worldview may be, the Battle of the Sexes is something we’re all familiar with. Hollywood screenwriters have made a fortune capitalizing on this. Lecturers have gone on tour and sold books purely on the basis of telling us how we can alleviate this perpetually awkward relationship. It’s the topic of endless discussions over coffee, beer, cocktails, and happy hour chicken wings. Men and women – and people who are not comfortable identifying as either of these two choices – just can’t seem to get along 100% of the time.

For better or for worse, we’ve managed to exist for thousands of years despite these tensions. And we will continue to exist. So will the next generation. And the generation after that one. And so on. Unfortunately, we are all too familiar with how violence has been intertwined in this ongoing conflict. Domestic violence, spousal fights, disagreements that lead to physical altercations, and cultural norms that accept these acts as being normal – or at the very least “acceptable” if it’s not openly talked about – have created a cycle of conflict that isn’t healthy. This won’t go away anytime soon, but that doesn’t mean we have to like it or turn our heads in the opposite direction whenever it happens.

This is why BDSM culture strikes a nerve in so many people. This is why people who are supportive of this subculture feel inclined to vehemently defend it with their dying breath. This is why so many of us don’t want to understand these things to begin with. After all, how can you argue in favor of violence? How can you possibly win that debate?

BDSM aside, female muscle fandom is different…but not at the same time. I’ve long argued that one can be not into BDSM but still really dig female bodybuilders. They can be mutually exclusive. Yet, the perception exists that they aren’t. For lots of folks, they are definitely interconnected.

Lots of guys love it when a female bodybuilder wrestles them into submission. Or pins them to the ground and holds them there against their will. Or verbally abuses them. Or smacks them with a paddle. Or “forces” them to do things upon command. This dominant/subordinate relationship carries the underlying theme of violence to its literal interpretation. However, because it’s all “fun and games,” it’s not really violence, is it?

Well, no. But yes. Uh, maybe both?

The relationship between a muscular woman and a normal-sized man can be jarring. It’s unusual. It flies in the face of social norms. We don’t expect to ever see such a sight. It challenges our notions of gender roles. It forces us to ask ourselves questions that we’d rather not contemplate.

Are women the weaker sex and men the stronger sex? Well, most of the time. But not all of the time. What does that mean? And how do we proceed going forward? Is an FBB more than just a woman, or is she just a “normal” woman with an abnormal physique? And is this man really a man, or an emasculated man? Wow, this is bonkers!

And yet, these questions don’t really come up with we witness a muscular woman and a normal-sized man quietly enjoying drinks at the pub. Or silently riding the subway together. Or holding hands while strolling down the sidewalk. If they physically appear to be a “normal” couple, we may stop and stare but we don’t necessarily ask these questions.

We only start to wonder about the dynamic of their relationship if we witness any conflict. What if they start to argue? What if they fight about who will pay the bill? What if she slaps him in the face? Will he slap her back? Or does he not dare? If he doesn’t hit her back, is it because he’s scared of her, or is it because he’s not naturally inclined to do such things? If she were “normal-looking” like him, would his reaction be different? How could we know for sure?

Do you want Amanda Dunbar to put you in an armbar?

Whew! All of this is so confusing. But this does bring up a crucial observation: When we see a female bodybuilder, our minds automatically – whether we consciously know this or not – wander off into the realm of violence. We wonder how rough their sex lives must be. How are they like in bed? Is she domineering? Does she prefer weaker men or men who are strong like her? How does she react if she’s angry? Is she naturally aggressive? Are men scared of her? Are other women scared of her? Is she fearful of people and that’s why she became so big and buff in the first place? Was she physically abused as a child, with bodybuilding acting as a “shield” against future abuse?

So it’s pretty clear that whenever we’re presented with a strong muscular woman, our natural inclination is to think about her within the framework of violence, self-defense, and aggression. Yes, we also think about her beauty, impressive strength, and numerous accomplishments; but doesn’t it seem like the first thoughts that pop into our minds consist of whether she can crush me with her thighs or if any of her ex-boyfriends have ever been sent to the emergency room after an argument?

Perhaps this speaks to the cognitive dissonance that muscular women create in our brains. We cannot accept the sight of a strong woman being “normal” or “no big deal.” There must be an explanation why she wants to look that way. And she must be a completely different person now that she does look that way.

But alas, these ideas are not always true. Maybe she always was aggressive, “alpha,” and assertive even before she ever picked up a dumbbell. Maybe for her, bodybuilding is an avenue for channeling her strong personality, not a result of it. Who knows?

The larger point to be made is this: Society, both fans of FBBs and everyone else, cannot seem to separate female bodybuilders and violence from their imaginations. I’ve written this before but will rewrite it again. My ultimate female muscle-related fantasy has nothing to do with violence. It has more to do with a romantic candle-lit dinner, a fine bottle of wine, a nice long walk along the beach, and an entire evening of passionate lovemaking. No one gets tied up. No one gets paddled for being “bad.” No one gets verbally abused. No one feels any pain. Everything is pleasant, sensual, low-key, and most of all, idyllic. In other words, I’d love to spend an entire night with Alina Popa in a setting that looks more like a cheap romance novel than a creepy bondage-themed Dark Web video.

I’d love to spend a peaceful evening with Gina Aliotti.

Yet, not everyone shares my pacifistic fantasy. There are lots of folks – and this is not a negative judgment about them – who want a more “antagonistic” experience. They want Miss Popa to burn them with hot candle wax. They want her to pick them up and toss them to the ground like a rag doll. They want her to punch them in the belly until they surrender. They want her to crush their head between her thighs until they “tap out.” They want all that…and more.

Well, to that I say this: That’s fine.

That’s fine. But that’s not for me. And it probably never will be my cup of tea. I tend to have a “live and let live” attitude toward most things in life. I have nothing against violent fantasies unless things cross a certain line. Yet, there is a significant part of my brain that feels uncomfortable with this. Why must we think about female bodybuilders within this context? Why are we unable to separate FBBs from the violent chambers of our imaginations? Why do our minds automatically go there? Is this unhealthy, or just the cost of doing business? Is it possible to love female bodybuilders in a non-violent way, or is it inevitable that this motif will always seep its way in?

I have no good answers. Only more questions.

Educating Jonathan – Part Three

A beautiful shot of a woman exuding sexuality.

“Listen, I’m…uh, not really comfortable doing this sort of thing,” Jonathan says. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say right now.

Samantha turns around but still remains on her hands and knees. She peers up at Jonathan with innocence in her eyes. She doesn’t like the fact she’s making Jonathan feel uncomfortable.

“I’m the one who should be sorry. Listen, Jonathan. I’m serious about what I’m saying. I really do deserve to be punished. Someone needs to do it, even if you don’t want to,” she says.

On the contrary, Jonathan sees absolutely no need for any of this to happen. Punishment for what exactly? Racism around the world? Slavery? Past crimes against humanity? Samantha isn’t responsible for any of that! She’s just a college professor. An author. A public speaker. She’s not a tyrant or a flaming bigot. Dear Lord…

“No, Samantha. You don’t need to do this. This is crazy. This doesn’t make sense. Get up off the floor. Let’s just…snuggle and make love again. I don’t like how you’re behaving.” He’s being sincere. Jonathan has never considered himself the “kinky” type. Of course, he’s not one to judge. What someone is into is their business and their business alone.

“I had a feeling you’d feel this way,” Samantha begins. “So I have a backup plan.”

Standing up, Dr. Sammy digs into her black bag again and takes out her cell phone. By this time Jonathan’s arousal has disappeared completely. When things started to get weird, Jonathan didn’t know how to react. He hopes things return back to normal soon.

“Do you mind if I invite my friend to come up here? I have an associate who’s been waiting in my car this whole time.”

“Wait, what? You came here with someone?”

“Yes. An associate of mine. An old friend. Can I invite her here? She’s friendly.” Now there’s someone else involved? Uh oh.

“Uh, sure. Invite her in. I don’t want anyone to be bored and wait in a car all night,” Jonathan says.

At this point, what’s the harm? It’s not like this night could get any stranger. Jonathan’s been with a few women in his life, but never under these circumstances. Most of his “hook-ups” have been just that: hook ups. No requests to whip anyone. No discussions about white guilt, compensating for injustices of the past, no need to sexually appease a so-called “oppressed” racial minority. None of that.

“Okay. Thanks!”

Samantha dials a number and puts the phone up to her ear. A moment later, the person she calls picks up and answers.

“Hello Mistress. It’s me. Come on up. He just gave me permission to invite you in. He’s in unit number 821. See you soon. Bye, honey.” She ends the call and puts her phone back in the black bag. There is a moment of silence. Samantha twirls her hair. Jonathan sits patiently on the bed, trying to rationalize this whole eventful evening. What the hell just happened during the past few minutes? Did he just step into the Twilight Zone or some other alternate dimension?

Finally, Samantha breaks the awkward silence.

“Like I said, she’s an old friend. She’ll punish me in a way I severely deserve,” Samantha insists.

“Who…exactly is your friend? And how is she going to punish you, you know, like you supposedly deserve? Or do I not want to know?”

“Oh, you’ll find out. Trust me. You’ll like her. You’ll like the Mistress.” Samantha sits down on an easy chair and rubs her nipples. They stand at attention. Jonathan sighs and leans back against the headboard. Mistress? What the hell does that mean? As if this night couldn’t get any creepier…it does!

Jonathan decides to use the bathroom. He does. After washing his hands, he hears the doorbell ring. Samantha, who still hasn’t put on any clothes as far as Jonathan knows, answers the door. He faintly hears Samantha and the “Mistress” exchange pleasantries, but he couldn’t quite understand what they were saying. Jonathan considers whether he should put on a bathrobe before meeting this unexpected guest, but is suddenly interrupted mid-thought.

“Oh, Jonathan! She’s here. Don’t worry about getting dressed. Just come out when you can,” Samantha says sweetly – like a mother calling her children in for suppertime.

Embarrassed and a little nervous, Jonathan reluctantly exits the bathroom to greet his newest guest. Standing near the entrance is a tall beautiful black woman wearing a long dark purple fur coat, scarlet red stiletto heels and large gold hoop earrings. She looks to be in her late 30s or early 40s. But black women can be difficult to age at times. Jonathan is mostly captured by her unique beauty. A sharp angular face, striking green eyes, minimal makeup and a husky build makes her a sight to behold.

Unsure of how to properly react, Jonathan is content to just stand there awkwardly and hope for the best.

“Jonathan, this is Mistress Nguvu. She and I go way back. We’re old friends,” Samantha proudly announces. Showing off her friend, Dr. Sammy takes the Mistress’s hand and leads her closer to Jonathan. When they finally approach him, Jonathan is taken aback by how tall she is. Well over six feet tall, his best friend from high school played on the varsity basketball team and was 6 foot 5 inches flat. She appears to be a little shorter, so Jonathan estimates her to be around 6’4” or 6’3”.

“Welcome. Make yourself at home, Mistress Nguvu,” Jonathan weakly says to her. He extends his hand to greet her and she shakes it. Her strong grip also surprises him. He feels like she could break every bone in his hand if she chooses to do so. Finally, their handshake comes to an end and all three are left standing around in silence. Samantha is relishing the moment. Mistress Nguvu’s gorgeous green eyes have not left Jonathan’s earthy brown eyes. While he is physically naked, but her piercing look leaves him exposed in ways that he’s never felt before.

“Thank you for inviting me into your home. I couldn’t stand sitting around in Sammy’s car in the rain for much longer. I needed to stretch my legs,” the Mistress says. Her deep baritone voice has a deep reverberation that could shake the foundations of Earth and Heaven; a voice that also carries confidence, wisdom, sexual prowess and unmistakable femininity. She speaks with a slight accent, one that Jonathan couldn’t quite figure out yet. In these brief few moments he’s known her; Jonathan already senses Mistress Nguvu is a human being unlike any he’s ever encountered before in his life.

“She’s here to give me the punishment you are uncomfortable to deliver. I don’t begrudge you for it. After all, we hardly know each other. But the Mistress and I have been friends for decades. We know each other all too well,” Samantha says. She leans over and licks the Mistress’s left cheek. Mistress Nguvu responds by teasing her right nipple with her long fingers. Dr. Sammy giggles at these sudden pleasurable sensations.

“Is there a place I can hang my coat?” Mistress Nguvu asks.

“Yes, there’s a coat rack right by the door. You passed it when you came in here,” Jonathan answers.

As Mistress Nguvu turns toward the front door, Samantha comes to the bed and picks up the whip, handcuffs and rope. She looks around the room, perhaps to determine where to best use these “toys.” All of this is completely new to Jonathan. He’s read about BDSM practices in a human sexuality class he took during his freshman year, but he mostly took that class to get closer to a girl he liked. They ended up dating for most of the semester, but he truthfully found the class genuinely interesting.

Who knew what he learned in that class would actually become relevant at this very moment?

As if what’s already happened weren’t astounding enough, what happens next would blow all of that completely out of the water. When Mistress Nguvu finds the wooden rack and takes off her handsome fur coat, she reveals an even more stunning spectacle:

A rock hard muscular body.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

Jonathan has never seen a sight like this. This striking black woman’s body exudes strength in a way he never knew was possible for a woman. Thick thighs, dense glutes, a chiseled eight-pack set of abdominal muscles, a broad back, plump breasts, a wide chest, vascular arms that look like they could burst out of her skin, shoulders of steel and forearms strong enough to bend iron; Mistress Nguvu has the physique of a male bodybuilder mixed with the grace of a gymnast and the sensuality of a salsa dancer. She hangs up her coat and returns back to the bedroom.

Imagine Mistress Nguvu looking a lot like a taller version of Victoria Dominguez (a.k.a. "Mistress Treasure"). — Imagine Mistress Nguvu looking a lot like a taller version of Victoria Dominguez (a.k.a. “Mistress Treasure”).

Wearing nothing but the stiletto heels, fishnet stockings, a tiny black g-string thong and a tight leather corset, Jonathan wasn’t sure whether to feel fear or uncontrollable arousal. Her massive muscles and remarkable height add to her mesmerizing allure.

After everyone finally gathers back in the bedroom, Samantha starts the evening’s activities.

“Jonathan darling, there’s something I want you to watch. The Mistress and I are going to play together. We do this sort of thing all the time, but I feel it is important for you to witness it. I am confident you will get an empowering and much-needed cathartic experience from it,” Dr. Sammy explains.

“Emotional healing is good for the soul. This is why the Mistress is so vital in my life. We have a symbiotic relationship. Our interdependence is crucial for each other’s existence. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Jonathan blinks. He nods.

“Great. Fantastic. So, let’s begin, shall we?” Samantha gets down on her knees and hugs Mistress Nguvu’s legs. Her thighs are so thick Dr. Sammy struggles to wrap her arms completely around them. Jonathan sits down on the easy chair and can do nothing else but stare at the exhibition unfolding before him. He is powerless to think or even begin to comprehend where this evening is going.

Playtime has begun.

“You fucking piece of shit. Why the fuck are you even touching me? I never gave you permission to touch me, you dirty little fucking whore!” Mistress Nguvu declares to Samantha. Still unable to place the source of her accent, the Mistress’s voice is like music to Jonathan’s ears.

“I’m sorry, Mistress. I fucked up. I’ll never disobey you again,” Samantha prostrates herself on the floor, her forehead touching the carpet.

“Yes, you will. You will because you’re a worthless slut. You white bitch. You worthless white piece of fucking shit. Look me in the eye when I’m talking to you, little slut,” the Mistress scolds.

It’s been a long time since Jonathan has heard language this foul between two adult women. He’d rather not rehash the specific circumstances.

“I’ll do what you say, Mistress. Discipline me for being a little slut, I beg of you!” Samantha – clearly “in character” – looks up at Mistress Nguvu and licks her muscular calf. A smile lurks underneath Nguvu’s threatening façade.

“Thank you, cunt. Now go into your bag and give me my cock.” On cue, Dr. Sammy reaches over for the bag and takes out a nine-inch long black strap-on. The black dildo’s lifelike appearance catches Jonathan by surprise. Its considerable girth and unrealistic length (at least, Jonathan hopes its length is unrealistic) nearly makes Jonathan gasp out loud. Thankfully, he remains perfectly silent.

Mistress Nguvu puts the strap-on around her crotch and strokes the dildo suggestively. Jonathan still cannot believe all this is happening right before him. Never in a billion years would he ever guess a brilliant college feminist professor and a black female bodybuilder dominatrix would ever pay his humble apartment a visit. But alas, here they are engaging in erotic “roleplaying” right in this very room.

“Suck my cock, you white slut. Suck my beautiful black cock till I tell you to stop. And never stop looking me in the eyes, you fucking white cunt,” Nguvu sternly instructs. “If you break any of my rules, you will pay the dire consequences.”

Obediently, Samantha remains on her knees and opens her mouth wide to suck on the nine-inch long black dildo. Her eyes never leave the Mistress’s eyes. Nguvu lightly strokes Samantha’s hair and rubs her shoulders. As she sucks, the Mistress pretends to be having an orgasm from the mock fellatio. A few moments later the Mistress “climaxes.” She moans. Samantha’s eyes remain locked onto the Mistress’s gorgeous face.

“Swallow all of it, little slut. Make me happy,” the Mistress says. She bends down and kisses Dr. Sammy on the forehead. Samantha pretends to swallow Nguvu’s imaginary semen. Afterward she wipes Samantha’s mouth and kisses her deeply on the lips. The whole time Jonathan does nothing but watch. The initial shock of the situation has at last worn off, but enthralling intrigue has taken its place.

“Now give me the rope and the handcuffs, you worthless white cunt.”

Samantha obliges the Mistress immediately.

Nguvu proceeds to tie the rope around Dr. Sammy’s ankles and straps the handcuffs on her wrists. Slumped over, Dr. Sammy looks worse for wear. Unkempt hair, makeup streaking down her face and sweat dripping off her brow, her physical appearance is about to erode even further. Without instructing anyone, Mistress Nguvu walks over to the bed and takes the whip. Jonathan’s heart flutters when this beautiful strong black woman comes near him. It’s as if her presence alone is enough to make his pulse race.

A very kinky photo of Desiree Ellis and a friend.

“Now, you are about to be punished for your earlier showcase of disobedience. I hope you learn your lesson from this, you fucking white cunt.”

The Mistress raises her fist high in the air, waits a beat, and lashes down on Samantha’s back. The crack of the whip against Dr. Sammy’s flesh makes a sound that stuns Jonathan. He never anticipated the whipping sound would be that…jarring. He thought this was all fun and games (granted, kinky fun and games). But this is something else entirely–

Before Jonathan could process another thought, Mistress Nguvu whips Samantha again. And again, and again, and again. Four, five, six, seven, eight times. More than that. More times than he could count.

Samantha screams. Mistress Nguvu laughs out of sheer sadistic pleasure. Her screams continue. The laughter also continues. Jonathan is frozen stiff. The screams burn his ears. The lashings persist unmercifully.

The Mistress whips her at every angle: her back, her sides, her butt, her legs, her feet, her stomach, her chest, her breasts, her arms, everywhere except for her neck and face. Perhaps they agreed prior to this evening the head area was off limits. But still, Samantha hollers in pain.

For a brief moment, the Mistress stops whipping Samantha. Dr. Sammy is helplessly lying on her stomach, weeping nonstop. Is she actually crying or is she pretending to be crying? Jonathan couldn’t tell. Samantha’s beautiful body is now covered in swollen red streaks. No blood. No evidence of her skin breaking. But the redness on her body appears authentically painful. If she’s really crying because of the pain, Jonathan could understand why.

“Have you had enough, little white bitch?”

Samantha rolls on her back and looks up at the Mistress. Real tears are streaming from her eyes. She’s choked up. She’s sobbing uncontrollably. Jonathan considers intervening, but what the hell could he do? He looks at Mistress Nguvu’s face. She looks angry. Genuinely angry. Jonathan is afraid. He is clueless about what to do next.

“No answer. Pathetic. Fucking pathetic. I always want an answer. I demand an answer from you, little white cunt. You fucking piece of garbage. Just for that, I’ll give you what you deserve. I will officially make you my little slut,” the Mistress threatens.

By now, Jonathan gets it. He understands completely what’s going on here. In a “reverse slavery” motif, Samantha is, within the context of BDSM play, receiving the same treatment African slaves received from their white slave masters. The supposed “cathartic” experience she’s getting from this is feeling the same excruciating humiliation her ancestors brought upon Mistress Nguvu’s ancestors.

Mistress Nguvu, a dominant and powerful black woman, is unleashing relentless physical pain upon a wealthy, educated, privileged white woman. The irony is, of course, how they are reversing the historic roles their predecessors played centuries ago. Dr. Sammy must feel as though her white guilty conscience can come clean after this. Perhaps Mistress Nguvu gets a small degree of vicarious revenge as well.

The rope. And no, this isn't "Clue!" — The rope. And no, this isn’t “Clue!”

The Mistress throws the whip down and straddles herself on top of Samantha’s weary body. She leans over and kisses her. Her tongue slips into Samantha’s mouth. She still has not stopped crying. Her sobs and the tongue entering her mouth cause her to gag. Nguvu snickers condescendingly.

“Jonathan,” Mistress Nguvu says.

Jonathan awakes from his trance. For the first time since they shook hands, the Mistress addresses him directly. Awoken from the spell she’s cast over him, Jonathan dutifully replies.

“Yes, Mistress?”

Mistress Nguvu continues to sit on top of Samantha. The large black dildo pokes her in the back of her head. Dr. Sammy’s persistent wails fill the room. Jonathan’s heartbeat skyrockets. The room is dead quiet. The Mistress then speaks:

“I’m about to give this little slut the next phase of her punishment. But this time, I need your help.”

Educating Jonathan – Part Two

A woman's bottom. A lovely sight, indeed. — A woman’s bottom. A lovely sight, indeed.

Jonathan loves the way she tastes. Subtle hints of expensive wine mixed with irresistible feminine prowess make for a concoction he cannot get enough of.

“God, make love to me, Jonathan. I need it,” she pleads with him. Samantha rolls on her back and spreads her legs wide, welcoming him to her. Her eyes never leaves his eyes.

His breathing becomes heavy. It’s apparent she’s kept her body in great shape. Long sleek legs, rounded butt, a flat tummy and curvy hips made her an aesthetic treat. Her small, slightly sagging breasts do not distract from her otherwise flawless beauty. Jonathan plans on enjoying every inch of her.

He takes her right nipple into his mouth. She gasps. He sucks hard, caressing his tongue over the sensitive tip. It stands up straight, hardened by Jonathan’s warm wet touch. He wraps his arms around her waist and embraces her tightly. He has no intention of letting her go.

Samantha looks up and closes her eyes, focusing all her attention on the pleasure her new lover is selflessly giving her. By now Jonathan has moved on to her other nipple, lapping it with his tongue languorously. She is thankful for this moment. She is thankful for him.

Her expression of her thanks inspires her to take matters into her own hands. She takes Jonathan’s erect penis into her hand and slowly strokes it up and down. He lets out a gentle moan that only she can hear. She strokes him harder. His mouth releases from her nipple and he kisses her.

“Do you want to end this before it starts?” he teases.

“Why? Are you really that close?” she teases back, fondling his scrotum with her fingertips.

Jonathan looks into her eyes and is captivated by her deep blue irises. Like a calming ocean, her eyes seem like they jump out of her body. Her fingers release from his manhood and they hold hands.

“I like you, Samantha. You’re so damn beautiful. Your skin is so soft. Your eyes are so…”

He pauses. She blushes.

“So what?” she asks.

“…so hypnotizing. It’s like you’re casting a spell on me.” He smiles wryly.

“Hypnotizing? I cast a spell on you? I like that. Are you like my own personal voodoo doll?” She extends a finger and outlines his jaw. Jonathan takes that finger into his mouth and sucks on it suggestively. In response, she groans and moans as if he were giving her an orgasm through her finger. Jonathan laughs, freeing her from his lips.

“You’re silly. Such a silly woman.”

She pauses. This time, he blushes.

“A silly woman? I’m a silly doctor. And don’t you forget it!” Samantha playfully nibbles on his shoulder.

Still not believing his good fortune, Jonathan takes a moment to reflect on this moment. How did he get so lucky to be here, engaging in fun foreplay with a gorgeous and intelligent woman like Dr. Sammy? It’s evident she needs this. It’s obvious she’s craving the touch of a man. She’s desperate to be desired.

And Jonathan is just the man to desire her.

“Enough. I want to make love to you,” he declares.

“Then…” she begins, kissing him on the cheek. “…let’s.”

As he reaches for a condom stuffed in his wallet, Samantha urgently grabs his hand.

“No. We don’t need it.” She looks at him earnestly, a sweet innocence glowing from her.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m a woman of a certain age. We don’t need it. Come here, you!” Just like that, she straddles him and tosses Jonathan onto his back. Samantha reaches over and turns off the bedside lamp. The room darkens, but the moody glow remains. Outside, the full moon beams a bright stream of light into the bedroom. The rain continues to patter against the windows. He can still see her beautiful face.

Gorgeous downtown Seattle during the evening.

“I love how trusting you are,” he says.

“Shut up.”

Samantha opens her legs and nudges them against his thighs. She lets out a deep breath. He does the same. They stare into each other’s eyes, realizing this perfect moment will never be this perfect again. They could never replicate the feelings they share at this time, when they are seconds away from joining their bodies in the most intimate way possible.

Jonathan nods. She interprets that as her cue.

It takes a few attempts, but eventually she lowers herself onto Jonathan’s manhood at the proper angle and successfully pushes his penis inside her. A primal moan escapes from them both, a shared moan that can only happen when two lovers are tuned into the moment. Samantha experiments with a few up and down thrusts as she rides him like a cowgirl. Jonathan reaches up and cups her breasts. Insecure about her small size and sagging shape, she tries to forget about her body and enjoy the moment. She’s not young, but she’s still got enough appeal as far as her current lover is concerned.

A groan leaves his throat as her motions grow in their intensity. He still cannot believe she doesn’t want him to wear protection. Is she that trusting of him? Jonathan didn’t think pregnancy would be an issue, but she hardly knows him. How could she possibly know what history he has with other women?

These thoughts exit his mind as they continue to make love. Samantha leans forward and kisses him passionately. She turned off the light partially because of her own insecurity, but also because making love in the dark – lit only by the moonlight – is so damn romantic. At heart, she’s a hopeless romantic. She hopes he is too.

“You feel so good, Samantha…so good.” Jonathan struggles to breathe between her incessant kisses and experiencing the pleasure she’s giving him.

“Thank you.” As she continues to ride him, she focuses on her own pleasure. He isn’t as big as her husband, but Jonathan feels…so right inside her. As if he was always meant to be inside her. As if this 5 and a half inch Asian penis was always meant to please her. In all her research about men’s penises, the conclusion she’s universally found was that a woman’s ability to achieve orgasm during penile-vaginal sex has less to do with the size of the man’s endowment and more about her state of mind. Right now, her state of mind couldn’t be better.

Their breathing gets louder. Samantha feels her orgasm reaching its peak. Jonathan’s hands are still feeling her breasts. Her small size doesn’t bother him. What right does he have to criticize the size of a person’s body part?

Her focus dissolves. His world blurs out of view. She is about to come. He is about to come. They both know the other is close.

“I love you, Jonathan.”

“I love you, Samantha.”

Such foolish declarations of love are enough to send both lovers over the edge. Samantha’s orgasm consumes her entire body from head to toe. The pulsating pleasure reverberates out from her vagina and throughout the entire room. Her muscles contract rhythmically, creating music from within her body. Jonathan also comes, carelessly emptying himself into her. He closes his eyes and indulges in the sensations his body is giving him. Samantha collapses on top of him and they kiss. Jonathan grabs her butt and pinches her right cheek. She gasps at this sudden action. She responds by tickling his scrotum as the last waves of his ejaculation subsides.

They remain still for what seems like an eternity. Neither speaks. Both breathe loudly. Samantha never wants this moment to end. Jonathan wonders how many more moments like this they will share together.

A beautiful white overcoat Dr. Sammy would have worn.

“That was fun,” Samantha whispers.

Jonathan is left speechless. She prefers it that way.

Several moments later Samantha gets up from the bed and walks to the bathroom. Jonathan can hear her pee. Still dazed from their lovemaking, he turns the bedside lamp back on and looks at the condom jammed in his wallet. He smiles, knowing this little piece of latex wouldn’t be used tonight.

The toilet flushes and minutes later Samantha returns to the bed. She lies down on her stomach and spreads her legs wide. Jonathan is amused that she has the nerve to take up all the room. He playfully pushes her legs off to the side.

“In the heat of the moment, we say some pretty imprudent things,” she observes.

“Are you referring to when we said we loved each other?”

“Yes. I don’t know what came over me. And I have no idea what came over you. Were you just being polite?”

“Polite? More like agreeable. I never want to ruin a good moment. And that was a great moment between the two of us.” Jonathan’s penis returns back to a smaller size. He strokes her naked back, hoping the act of caressing her beautiful body would bring him back in the mood. But for now, he’s perfectly content to massage her skin.

Moments pass. Neither lover has a single care in the world.

“Can I ask you a question, Jonathan?”

“Go ahead.” Jonathan looks at her beautiful face, memorizing every inch of her.

“What if I told you your penis was the greatest penis I’ve ever made love to?”

Wait…what?

Time stops. The Earth ceases to spin on its axis. Hell freezes over.

“Uh, what?” His concentration breaks. Jonathan sits up on the bed. A deep sigh escapes from her. Basking in the sensual glow of her two most recent climaxes, Samantha doesn’t know if what she’s talking about makes any sense. Jonathan doesn’t care. He likes what he’s hearing.

“What I mean is complicated. It’s not what you think,” she says. Jonathan strokes her back as she rolls over on her side. Her breathing calms. She doesn’t look at him but instead fixes her gaze outside the north-facing window.

“I’ve always admired Asian men. I find them fascinating. I think young men like you are fascinating. I’d love to follow you around for one day and find out everything about you. Do you ever feel oppressed in your everyday life?”

“Oppressed? Gosh, I don’t think so. People have always treated me well.”

Her focus remains on whatever is outside that window. She may be looking outside, but her mind is somewhere else.

“I’m glad to hear that. I really am.” Samantha turns over on her back and peers at her lover.

Jonathan cuddles closer to her and strokes her breasts, teasing her nipples. He leans over and they kiss. She reaches down and fondles his much-discussed penis. Initial feelings of arousal return, but he still needs time to recover from their previous coupling.

“Are you asking whether people make fun of my…penis?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I was getting at. Do people do that?”

“Some do. I’ve been hearing jokes about it since middle school. But what does that have to do with…?” He stops toying with her nipples and kisses her shoulders. Not really wanting to have this discussion right now, Jonathan is doing what he can to steer the conversation in a different direction.

“Oh. Well, I’m glad I was able to do this. I’m glad you were willing to invite me to your apartment tonight. I owe you.” Though she’s not making much sense, Jonathan politely remains silent and listens to her speak.

“This is going to sound weird. I know. But please bear with me for a moment. Have you ever heard of the concept of white guilt?”

“Yes. It’s when…white people feel bad about the crimes their ancestors committed against racial minorities in the past. Right?”

“Right, but it’s a little more complicated than that. But here’s the thing,” she sits up and leans against the bed’s headboard. “I too feel guilty. I feel guilty that our society desexualizes Asian men. I feel terrible that boys like you had to grow up hearing all those awful jokes. It makes me sad to think that the dominant white culture has to emasculate you like that for no apparent reason. Do you follow me?”

Hm. Jonathan certainly did not expect a sociology lesson to break out post-coitus. But he will continue to listen to her soliloquy.

“Yes, I follow you. Go on.”

“So this is my way of apologizing to you and other Asian men out there. I chose to come here for many reasons. You’re smart, handsome, well-spoken, studious and courteous. Not too many college-age men are like that to someone who’s willing to fuck them with no strings attached. But there’s another reason at play here. I feel…empowered to make love to you. It’s empowering to know that I’m giving you an opportunity not too many of your Asian brethren are granted. I feel like I’m making right a past injustice by allowing you to come inside me and give me your seed. Your seed liberates me.”

By now Jonathan is a little creeped out. What the hell is this lady talking about? “White Guilt” inspired her to come here and have sex with him? What the fuck?

“Listen, Samantha. This is a pretty strange thing to talk about. I mean, what we’re doing here has nothing to do with society, culture, history or anything like that. We’re just, you know, hooking up. That’s it, am I right?”

“Yes, you’re right to an extent. But there’s more at stake here. By making love to you, by allowing you inside my body, I’m redeeming myself. I’m turning racism on its ugly head and fucking it away. Like magic, you know?”

No, honestly Jonathan has no clue what the hell she’s talking about. Really, what is she trying to–

Samantha spontaneously leaps out from the bed and speed walks toward the front door. When she arrived at his apartment she came with a white overcoat and a black bag. She grabs the mysterious black bag and returns to bed. She sits down and unzips it. Jonathan tries to peer inside while appearing calm and indifferent at the same time.

This is what the mysterious black bag looks like. Intriguing, isn't it? — This is what the mysterious black bag looks like. Intriguing, isn’t it?

“So, Jonathan, I want to redeem myself further. I want to erase the racist crimes of the past committed by my white ancestors. Slavery, the genocide of the Native Americans, pogroms against the Jews, the capitalist exploitation of colored children in the developing world, the Japanese Internment, everything. I want to make right with the Universe. And you’re going to help me out with this, my love.” It appears she’s finally found what she’s looking for inside the bag. By now, Jonathan is officially creeped out. This lady has clearly gone psycho! She’s off her rocker. She’s gone off the deep end of the pool. She’s…

“Take this, Jonathan.”

Jonathan snaps out of his daze and turns to look at her. Samantha, with an eerie look in her eye, is holding a long black leather whip, handcuffs and rope. She hands the items to him. He has absolutely no idea how to react.

“I want you to punish me, Jonathan.”

Just like that, Dr. Sammy stands up and gets down on all fours on the floor. She sticks her butt up in the air facing his direction. Jonathan is utterly shocked and frozen. He cannot move, think or even come close to comprehending what’s going on.

“Punish me. Hard.”

What Your Female Muscle Fantasies Say About You

If your female muscle fantasy doesn't involve Ava Cowan, well...I don't know what to do with you. — If your female muscle fantasy doesn’t involve Ava Cowan, well…I don’t know what to do with you.

We all have fantasies. Fantasies about throwing the game-winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. Fantasies about being a brilliant scientist winning the Nobel Peace Prize for curing world hunger. Fantasies about hitting the go-ahead home run in Game 7 of the World Series. Fantasies about being elected President of the United States.

Without fantasies, what fun would it be to live our lives knowing something more exciting wasn’t possible? Of course, no one realistically expects to ever become POTUS, but it sure is fun to daydream while you’re wasting time at your desk job.

But for female muscle fans, we also have fantasies. In fact, these fantasies make up the majority of our female muscle fandom. Odds are we’re never going to ever be able to date a beautiful female bodybuilder. Romantic (and platonic) relationships with them are not going to happen any time soon. It sucks, but this is reality.

This explains why fantasy is so appealing to us. If we can’t live out our dreams, we might as well keep dreaming, right?

Right! There’s no harm in daydreaming, is there? Well, maybe if we take our fantasies a little too far or we let them negatively affect our personal lives. But that is neither here nor there. What is infinitely more interesting is dissecting what our fantasies say about us. Fantasies reveal what we find attractive. They tell us about our fears, our insecurities, our views about certain people, our most intimate desires.

The beauty about fantasies is that no one has to know about them but you. Unless you tell someone, of course. But more often than not, we keep our sex fantasies to ourselves because, well, it’s a little weird for our friends and family to be in the know about these things!

I’m not a psychology expert and haven’t done any extensive research about sexual fantasies and secret fetishes. Therefore I’m only going off of what little I do know and my own educated guesses. So take what I have to say with the proverbial grain of salt. It may be informative salt, but it’s a mere grain of salt nevertheless.

So let’s discuss a few common sexual fantasies involving female muscle and explore what they might possibly mean. Some of these fantasies I have, and others I do not but I know for a fact that other guys do. I want to be inclusive and not exclude anyone’s perspective(s) just because I don’t happen to share it.

1. I want a strong woman as my wife/girlfriend and I want her to control the relationship

The desire to have a muscular girlfriend or wife is nothing unusual for men like us. However, the dynamics of that relationship can differ from guy to guy. For example, let’s talk about the concept of a Female Led Relationship (commonly referred to an FLR). Simply put, a Female Led Relationship is exactly what it sounds like. In a male/female relationship, instead of the man being the leader of the relationship, the woman takes on that role.

However, this particular relationship arrangement is more erotic in nature than financial. When the woman is the main breadwinner of the household, this is not necessarily an FLR in the strictest sense of the term. There has to be an erotic aspect to it to really make it a true FLR. Roleplaying, BDSM-type activities and sexual banter meant to demean the man and demonstrate dominance of the woman are all par for the course.

If Kim Birtch wanted to take control in bed, I'd let her. Wouldn't you? — If Kim Birtch wanted to take control in bed, I’d let her. Wouldn’t you?

This fantasy really boils down to power. A guy who desires a muscular woman to control of the relationship really desires to relinquish the power he actually has in real life. There is a lot of pressure on American men to be everything: the moneymaker, the leader, the decision-maker and the strong one in times of duress. Unfortunately, a down economy makes this difficult. With unemployment rates continuing to stagger and women gaining higher social status than ever before, it’s difficult for a man to be a “man’s man” in today’s world.

The eroticism behind a Female Led Relationship takes root in the secret desire of a lot of straight men to have this burden lifted from their shoulders. They don’t want to lead. They don’t want to make decisions. They want someone else to “wear the pants” and “be the man.” These feelings come out in the bedroom.

Your muscular girlfriend decides what happens in bed? Check. She hurls insults at you and degrades your masculinity? Check. You let her do whatever she wants sexually and you have no say in the matter? Check. The list goes on and on.

2. I want a muscular woman to dominate me in the bedroom and torture me

This takes point #1 a step further. This crosses into the territory of bondage, domination, submission and masochism (sometimes the “d” stands for “discipline” and the “s” stands for “sadism”). You know the drill: humiliation, being tied up, forced sexual activities, ball gags, ropes, hot candle wax, collars, anal plugs, chains, whips, handcuffs, strict rules, safe words, etc.

This list is so long I won’t even attempt to summarize everything! Just Google it if you’re really curious about what BDSM and the lifestyle is all about.

This fantasy means you have a really kinky side to you. But ignore what you think you know about BDSM. Forget “50 Shades of Grey” or whatever introduced you to this subculture. BDSM, at its core, is all about trust and excitement. Regular “vanilla” sex can sometime get, well, a little dull. Why not spice things up a bit?

For female muscle fans, the BDSM fantasy seems like a natural fit. A strong woman is appealing because she is in a unique position of dominance. Her physical strength makes her unusual. She shatters the belief that women are the weaker sex. She can put a man in his place due to her physical abilities alone. This separates an FBB from a normal woman. For men who are insecure about themselves but would never dream of breaking their alpha male façade, this fantasy is the perfect escape. You can be a wuss (and enjoy it) in the privacy of your own mind without anyone judging you. How cool is that?

In addition to wanting to surrender control, men who share this fantasy want her to not only take control, but bring the definition of “control” to the next level. This is more than just a Female Led Relationship. This is a Female Dominated Relationship. The complete loss of power turns many men on because breaking social taboos can be so damn exciting!

The chief appeal of this fantasy is knowing that even though she has supreme authority over you during “play” time, she’s doing this with your pleasure completely in mind. Sure, a dominatrix definitely enjoys her work, but she’s really doing it for her client’s sake.

Oh Angela Salvagno. Tie me up. Spank me. Do what you want to me. RIGHT NOW.

The concept of torture can be bizarre if you think about it too much. Let’s just put it like this: there’s a reason why the Saw movies are so popular. Horror movies that feature gruesome torture scenes (also known as “torture porn”) for whatever reason tap into a part of the human psyche that gets extreme pleasure from pain. I personally don’t feel that way, nor do I actually believe people honestly want to get physically tortured. This is just another example of the dark side of human nature that can safely come out during consensual BDSM playtime.

3. I want to physically dominate a muscular woman and control her

This fantasy spins upside down the previous two fantasies. It’s the first two in complete reverse. This is where you want to be the dominate one in the bedroom and your fantasy FBB girlfriend is the one at your mercy.

A fantasy like this means you get turned on by control, but you want to gain control over someone who’s formidable, strong and considered (more or less) your equal. In other words, you want to earn your dominance. If you can control a strong female bodybuilder who’s unambiguously stronger than you, it signifies that you deserve your alpha male stripes.

One of the strange appeals of a female bodybuilder is that she breaks the conventional mold of a “conventional” woman. She’s strong, assertive, physically dominant and has bigger muscles than most men. Because men traditionally have had a monopoly on musculature, an FBB should be admired because she’s staking her claim that having a vagina doesn’t mean you are condemned to lifelong sentence of “weakness.” It isn’t a barrier. Nothing can hold her back.

But this fantasy allows the man to gain back that monopoly by putting a strong woman back in her place. She may be able to lift more than you, but you’re still above her. She has larger muscles than you, but your male authority will never go unquestioned. Her attempts to break the stereotype of the “weaker sex” are admirable, but at the end of the day your masculinity still reigns supreme.

I won’t go as far as to say that this fantasy is misogynist. It definitely seems like it, but let’s not jump to conclusions quite yet. This fantasy still falls into the BDSM realm, which most of its adherents will argue is not misogynist/misandrist at all. The desire to control an FBB in the bedroom really boils down to being turned on by power.

We’ve all heard the infamous quote from former U.S. Secretary of State Henry Kissinger: “Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.” How exciting is it to know that someone’s (or in the case of a politician, an entire nations’) fate is entirely in your hands? If you want her to perform oral sex on you, she’ll do it without question. If you want her to bow down and worship you, she has no choice in the matter. If you want her to follow your every command, she must obey you or suffer the consequences. I’m not personally into this sort of fantasy, but I can see why certain men would find this alluring. When your whims alone can effectively manipulate your environment, how incredible is that?

Just a side note, I’ll acknowledge that this particular fantasy can be rooted in misogyny. It’s certainly possible. I just wanted to say that there are alternate explanations out there.

4. I want an army of gorgeous Amazon warriors fighting alongside me on the battlefield

Now we get into territory that I can personally identify with! This is definitely a fantasy of mine. Imagine, if you will:

Dusk. In a dusty, post-Apocalyptic futuristic wasteland, planet Earth is controlled by a ruthless army of zombies (or aliens, inter-dimensional beings, robots, Communists, Nazis, werewolves, vampires, rabid bunny rabbits, etc.) who are bent on destroying the human race. Enter <insert your name> and his army of gorgeous, muscular Amazon warriors. Will our small group of badass heroes vanquish their enemies and restore peace and justice on Earth? Tune in next week for the next episode…

Yadda, yadda, yadda. The actual details can vary. The circumstances can differ. What matters is this: unlike the previous three fantasies, this one treats you and your FBBs as equals, not antagonists. You’re peers with no one in either a dominant or subordinate position. This is a fantasy I have. Here’s a little background information:

In Greek and Classical mythology, the Amazons were a nation of all-female warriors. Located in either Eurasia or Asia Minor, the Amazons participated in the Trojan War and among other things, established themselves as hardcore ladies you shouldn’t mess around with (unless you want to get your head chopped off). I understand that male sex slaves were used to keep their population going, but my specific fantasy has them fighting alongside me in battle, not me staying at home waiting for them to return safely.

Is sex involved in this? Well, yes! But after we slaughter an army of helpless zombies and liberate a captured town from oppression.

I have this fantasy because I don’t view female muscle within the lens of power and power struggles. Instead, I look at female muscle as an expression of confidence and inner-strength. A woman shouldn’t become muscular because she wants to counterbalance the power of men – she should do so because she wants to improve herself regardless of what the outside world thinks. For me, female muscle isn’t about power and control, it’s about self-determination, self-improvement and self-empowerment.

Chellss. It's a very unusual name, but she's one extraordinary woman. — Chellss. It’s a very unusual name, but she’s one extraordinary woman.

In this fantasy, my army of strong women uses their power for a greater good: fighting against the forces of evil and freeing the oppressed from captivity. With my assistance (I’m not necessarily their leader, but I could be) we are working together, side by side, to free the world from the clutches of totalitarianism, militarism and fear.

Perhaps this means that deep down inside, I’m a firm believer in using our collective strength for the greater good. Strength shouldn’t be abused or used for selfish purposes. Strength should be used to fight against tyranny. Should I reference the quote that “With great power comes great responsibility?” Well, I just did!

For me, this means female muscle doesn’t just fulfill an erotic niche in my personal psychology. It fulfills my desire for people to use their gifts for good. The gift of strength is a beautiful thing that can help liberate our planet. Don’t abuse it. Don’t ignore it. Use it to fulfill your destiny.

5. I want every woman to be as strong and muscular as a female bodybuilder

Now this is an interesting fantasy. How many of you have had this thought before? Have you ever found yourself sitting on a public bus or standing on a busy street corner and wishing every female looked like Marthe Sundby or Lindsay Mulinazzi? If this were to magically happen, I can assure you I’d struggle to contain my excitement!

Whether you like it or not, this fantasy means you secretly abhor the idea that “skinny is beautiful” or “fat is beautiful.” I don’t want to get into a debate about body image, body shaming or mass media, so here is what I will say. We all have our preferences, but we should never judge anyone negatively because of them.

I don’t believe shame and embarrassment are the best ways to inspire someone to change. Positive beliefs (I want to live healthier) instead of negative beliefs (I need to stop being so fat) are probably a more sustainable approach to weight loss. That being said, the fantasy of being completely surrounded by muscular women is rooted in being unsatisfied with how our collective culture views beauty.

If Kristin Nunn walked past me on a busy street, I'd probably hit my forehead against a light pole. — If Kristin Nunn walked past me on a busy street, I’d probably hit my forehead against a light pole.

How often do you go to the gym and see guys force their wives/girlfriends to lift with them? She always looks reluctant to be there and probably holds a grudge against him for pressuring her to lift weights. I see this all the time. The truth is lots of men wish their significant other had toned arms, a firm butt and shapely legs. And you’re not going to achieve this by sitting around all day eating potato chips and watching reruns of Gossip Girl.

Unhappy with our culture’s current standards of beauty? Sick and tired of the weight room being a “boys club?” Are you too politically correct to admit that you don’t like looking at unattractive people of the opposite sex? This fantasy is probably right up your alley.

6. I want my female bodybuilder girlfriend to have a penis

This is a strange one, but not unusual. Transgender fetishes aside, this fantasy doesn’t literally mean you want your FBB girlfriend to have a penis. You want her to have an endowment between her legs that resembles a penis.

It’s no secret that lots of FBBs who’ve taken human growth hormones tend to have enlarged clitorises. The clitoris, which is homologous to the male penis, is essentially a woman’s “little penis.” It’s ultrasensitive and exists for the sole purpose of giving her pleasure. She can achieve orgasm from it. It pleases her. She masturbates with it. Her partner can please her by stimulating it. Not unlike a penis, right?

So basically, there are men out there who want their girlfriends to have a clit that rivals Denise Masino’s in terms of size and girth. Ms. Masino is legendary for her large feminine endowment. Don’t believe me? Just run a Google or Bing search on her and turn off the safe search filter. Then enjoy.

In my opinion, this fantasy returns back to the concept of equality. You want your FBB girlfriend to be like a man, but not a man at the same time. She can have the large muscles and a penis-like clitoris proudly hanging between her legs, but she’ll never be The Man. YOU are The Man. She is still The Woman. And no freakishly large piece of female genitalia will ever change that.

Do you want all women to look like Marthe Sundby? Uh, yes, Your Honor.

This fantasy doesn’t mean you’re gay. It doesn’t mean you have a transsexual or transgender fetish. It means you want her to come very close to being like you, but never actually cross that line. Her enlarged clitoris gives her some additional power she never had before (if we’re going to assume that having a penis automatically puts you in a position of power), but at the end of the day it will never come close to fully emasculating you.

We like our women strong, but not TOO strong. We like our women to enjoy the privileges of being a man, but not ACTUALLY be a man. We want her clitoris to grant her male powers, but still maintain the distinct definition that it’s a female sex organ, not a male sex organ. A large clitoris gives her the illusion of maleness without ever making her a male. YOU are the male. Not her.

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Of course, this list is neither exhaustive nor complete. This doesn’t even come close to scratching the surface. I will not pretend these are the only fantasies female muscle-loving men have.

Rather, this essay mostly explores how your views on gender relations, power dynamics and personal securities/insecurities determine what fantasies you have in relation to female muscle. Whether you’re comfortable in your masculinity, struggle with your identity, hold deep-seeded disdain for women (or your fellow men), recovering from being bullied when you were younger, or are in a position of power that puts too much pressure on you, hopefully you can identify with what I’m talking about.

Our fantasies that we dare not share publicly say a lot about us. They tell us things we would rather people not know about us. They expose our fears, our desires, our likes/dislikes, our insecurities, our opinions, our childhoods and some things we aren’t consciously aware of.

This is a subject countless psychologists, anthropologists, sex experts and writers have tried to explain. I am not an expert. I’m just writing about what I think can be part of a productive dialogue. I can probably lay out multiple reasons for having any of the fantasies listed above. You can too.

To claim to be a connoisseur would be delusional. I can’t write a book on the subject, but I can reassure you that whether you dream about being a Super Bowl hero or being hogtied and spanked by a muscular dominatrix, you can sleep well at night knowing this:

You’re not alone. And you’re not out of your mind.