Like a lot of women, I love to daydream and diddle. I have an active imagination and elaborate erotic fantasies get me extremely turned on. One of my favorites is the schoolgirl fantasy.
It starts with 15-year-old me wearing a naughty uniform skirt that goes a mandatory 2-inches past my knees. Sometimes I consider not doing my homework, but I decide that wouldn’t be good for my future. What a bad girl!
Then I attend a boarding school party at a suburban Maryland home. When I excuse myself to use the restroom, this loud know-it-all drags me into a bedroom with his friend who seems to have no awareness of social cues. It’s so hot being around entitled private school boys when they first start drinking!
He pins me down, puts his hand over my mouth, and yells, “What’s my name?” It’s hard to respond when you’re choking, but I’m afraid he might kill me, so I manage to eek out, “Brett Kavanaugh.”
He continues to assault me, then screams again louder, “WHAT’S MY NAME?!” I repeat “Brett Kavanaugh.” He corrects me, “Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh.” I scream, “Noooooo!”
Then he makes me write my name in shit all over the Internet. The image is so hot it makes me pass out for a minute.
I live to be a pawn for uncontrollable male passion.
My biggest turn-on is decades later facing the moral quandary whether or not to provide critical character information to the American people and their lawmakers on the cusp appointing my abuser to a lifetime judicial post, the highest in the land.
It makes my nipples hard when feminist lawmakers find my story too risky.
I get hot and bothered by the idea of fleeing my home with my husband and two young children who are still developing their sense of security in the world.
Death threats make me wet. The more death threats, the better.
It also makes me super wet to think about my abandoning my job. Oh god, reducing my entire professional reputation — 30 years of painstaking research and underpaid academia — to a series of headlines that paint me as a politically opportunistic liar lights my clit on fire!
On special occasions, I tell my therapist about my fantasies. I ask her to document them. I secretly hope that she’ll call me a slut because I’ve been subtly indoctrinated from a young age to believe that women are somehow responsible for every horrible way they are treated (yet aren’t allowed to have any sexual urges of their own).
When she doesn’t, I bring my husband and tell her again in front of him. When neither of them calls me a slut and I cry and say “write it down, bitch” and she does.
I love it when people take my soundbites completely out of context and rearrange them to make me sound like a dirty little whore.
I want my fantasies to create so many false rumors about me that the false rumors become fantasies and vice versa to the point where I can’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality anymore. Oh my god, YES!
I can only cum by triggering millions of women about their own experiences with sexual assault.
I get off on becoming a symbol for second-class citizenship.
I testify before Congress in all my fantasies. I can’t imagine anything more erotic than telling my story to America’s preeminent misogynists. Sweating in their suits as they question me. Wagging their erect fingers at me for slowing down an appointment critical to their agenda. Holy shit, my legs are quaking!
My schoolgirl fantasy always involves public scrutiny sure to jeopardize my personal and career credibility for the rest of my life.
I guess you could say I like it rough.