However, after getting out of a bad relationship and realizing that my mind was my own toy, I realized that I could explore those thoughts without fear of exposure to anyone but myself. At a time when my thoughts were to be confessed on demand, I deprived my lover by depriving myself: those weren't fantasies, they were just random weird thoughts that made me uncomfortable. I am especially grateful to the women who commented on making the decision to share, or not share, their fantasies with their lovers. The brave women who contributed their fantasies and feelings showed me that even if what I was drawn to was "sick," it certainly wasn't uncommon. Those horrid, disturbing thoughts that floated into my brain, that I would shove down quickly as "sick," were indeed fantasies. Reading "My Secret Garden" changed my perception of myself drastically. For years, I used erotica books as surrogate fantasy material, believing that I was incapable of fantasizing during sex, that I had no fantasies of my own and had to use other people's.
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