A Mosaic of Us

By Iris van der Goes

The following article contains imaginative sexual content, including but not limited to non-consent, hints of voyeurism and vanilla sex…Consider this a fair warning to buckle up!

In my book club, we read Want by Gillian Anderson. People from all over the world sent her their sexual fantasies through letters, which she collected and published. This book serves as the direct inspiration for this article. I found myself intrigued by the range of the fantasies: some are wild and rough (and illegal), while others are soft and sweet. It made me question my fantasies, something that feels so private. I hold an enormous amount of respect for the women who sent in their deepest thoughts. I am also a lover of Amsterdam and its inhabitants. I want to highlight Amsterdam's sexuality. Not the men’s, which can be found in the red light district, in the many toy shops or with one click on a computer in almost every household. I wanted to look for the women exploring their pleasure with a partner, who are frustratingly fingering themselves after a disappointing one-night-stand, who want to be caressed and bruised like an overripe apple. I asked them for their secrets, their fantasies, their inner sexual voice. Of course, these women answered.

I have collected little crumbs from the sexual desires of those who live in Amsterdam. Mostly hidden behind closed doors or private corners, these little bits highlight the fluidity and complexity of sex. The stories range from fantasy to reality and from the secret to the discussed. While the topic of sex and sex-positivity has gained more traction and tolerance, it is still considered a taboo topic. But as Journalist Caitlin Moran once said: “I just think that’s something we need to drag screaming out into the light and discuss. Because taboos are where our fears live, and taboos are the things that keep us tiny. Particularly for women.” Sex and intimacy can be weird and scary. Your fantasies might feel strange or abnormal. You blunder and fail, laugh and try again (or never do it again). You might feel ashamed or shy, you might not even know what you like. I want to thank the women who decided to participate in this little love letter to ourselves. May we drag it all into the light.

“They are nameless. They are broad and restrictive. I am mere pray. They hunt for me to try and corner me. I run. My heart is pumping, my legs shake, my core is pulsing. I am afraid. But oh so excited. They will find me and they will hurt me. Not too much, but just enough to know I shouldn’t have run. That I’m being punished for my resistance. I feel a fear draped in a sense of safety and trust. My breathing quickens. The only thing I am aware of is the heartbeat in my ears and the creaking of the leaves as they come closer. When they find me, they will take me against the trees, the bark sticking into my back uncomfortably, painfully. But there is no way to escape anymore, one hand on my throat, the other gripping my hip. I am completely vulnerable to their will. It will be too much, and at the same time not enough. I will want more, but do not know how to ask for it. They will tighten their hand and give me more. So much more.”

“With my current partner, I’ve figured out I’m super into filming us doing the deed. It’s kind of surprising to me, because I’m not super confident about my looks, but I think seeing myself totally letting go and not caring is good for my self-confidence. It’s hot to be able to see myself how they see me”.

“I often fantasize about making love on a warm summer evening in the mountains of a sunny country, while my beloved whispers how much they love me. I imagine an evening where the sun slowly sets, and a soft breeze caresses my skin. Together, we stand on the balcony of a secluded mountain cabin, overlooking a breathtaking landscape that stretches endlessly before us, bathed in the golden glow of the sunset.

His arms slowly wrap around my waist, his lips find my neck, leaving gentle kisses behind. A whisper in my ear: “You look so beautiful in this light.” His hands explore my body with patient, loving intensity. He slowly turns me around, looks deeply into my eyes, and lifts me up, carrying me inside while his mouth never leaves mine.

Inside, it’s warm, the atmosphere intimate. He carefully lays me down on the bed, his hands tracing softly from my shoulders downward, his lips following in a trail of delicate kisses—my neck, my collarbone, my breasts, my stomach… Slowly and seductively, until I crave nothing but his touch. His fingers dance over my skin, seeking out my most sensitive spots, while he senses and teases my desires with a mischievous smile.

But then, just as I surrender completely to his tenderness, the energy shifts. He pushes me onto my back, firm yet playful, and whispers, “I don’t just want to love you gently… I want to consume you completely.” His grip tightens, his breathing grows heavier. He pulls me up, leads me to the wooden wall of the cabin, and presses me against it with an intoxicating roughness. His hands slide beneath my thighs, lifting me effortlessly, my legs wrapped around him as he presses my body against his. The excitement rises—the thought that someone could catch us, the tension between tenderness and raw desire…

And then, just when the intensity becomes almost unbearable, he carries me back to the bed. He throws me onto it, his eyes burning with desire, and in a husky voice, he says, “I only want you.” What follows is a night full of passion, where tenderness and fierce longing blend together in perfect harmony.”

“Last year, at my company's annual meeting—held at an external location in Belgium this time—there was a party in the evening with an open bar. I was chatting with colleagues when my eye caught a guy walking by with a whole collection of name tags on his collar. I asked if those were all his personalities, he laughed, and that’s how we started talking. It turned out he worked for the Belgian branch of the company. What started as lighthearted flirting and lots of laughter turned into endless chatting and dancing to Roxy Dekker. At some point, he asked if I wanted to go outside with him. We walked out together, finding ourselves in a large botanical garden with different enclosed areas surrounded by tall hedges. As soon as we found a secluded spot, he pulled me closer and started kissing me intensely. We had both had a few drinks, so we didn’t hold back. We almost forgot that a colleague could walk by at any moment. His hands began exploring my body while my fingers ran through his curls. Before I knew it, his hand slipped into my pants, and not long after, his were off. He sat down on one of the stone ledges, and I straddled him. It was a little awkward and sometimes even uncomfortable, but the tension and the risk of getting caught made it all the more exciting. Afterward, we straightened ourselves up and casually walked back to our colleagues, who—for all I know—had no idea what had happened. I never would’ve thought something like this would happen at a company meeting, but I’m definitely not complaining…”

“Disrespect and feelings of inferiority make me mad. Tell me I ‘have to’ do something and I start brewing on the inside. It’s almost a hilariously stark contrast. The moment I’m intimate with someone, it’s perhaps the greatest contributor to my pleasure. The feeling of being - bluntly put - an object. Something that deserves this air of inferiority. Something that serves. Serves somebody. Whether it manifests itself in how I’m addressed or how I’m 'used', it doesn’t matter. It feels like an outlet for always ‘being strong’. At that moment, I do not have to be. Yet this sense of pleasure only comes with partners where I feel a sense of comfort. I know that outside of this setting, they don’t see me as something submissive. Something that listens and is obedient. I only exist like that in the space between the head and foot of a bed.”

“My fantasy is inspired by Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I am Lady Constance living in the English countryside in the 1920s with my boring upper-class husband. But then there is Cook (Jack O’Connell), the gamekeeper who lives in a hut on my land. His skin shines 24/7 from all the hard work. Sometimes I run into him when I take a walk along the river. He is rude to me at first, he doesn’t seem to notice me. It’s not a surprise to me that this (beautiful) lower-class man has prejudices about me, after all, I am the lady of the house. The cold winter makes way for spring. I run into him more and more often during my walks, which I take to escape my boring marriage. On a sunny spring day, I ran into Cook again. He walks with me. We walk closer to each other than is necessary. My hand sometimes touches his. I don’t dare make eye contact. We arrive at his hut in the woods. From here on it quickly gets steamy. He starts kissing me and I respond eagerly. I pull (or rather tear) his shirt open. He lifts me with his muscular worker arms and puts me on the wooden kitchen counter. He starts to go down on me with an intensity which already almost makes me cum. Our sex session continues on the floor of the hut, where we have very passionate vanilla sex. We cum at the same time. After he declares his love to me, we fall asleep in each other's arms. The secret sex affair continues for weeks. We do it everywhere: along streams, rivers, against trees, in the tall grass. In the end, I leave my small-dick-energy husband and marry Cook. Together we live in a small house in the woods surrounded by nature. We live hornily and happily ever after.

Love, Lady Constance”