I’ve always thought everyone keeps one fantasy they’d never confess; the sort that arrives in the middle of an idle afternoon, entirely uninvited and wholly delicious. They’re the private films we direct in secret: the stranger on the train, the particularly handsome waiter at your favourite restaurant, the lover who obeys without question. We rarely say them aloud because we know they’re usually filthy and sumptuously out of place. And yet, it’s fantasies and imaginings that are usually the downfall and drive of great figures of literature and cinema; they turn the mundane sensational; what makes the drive of the imagination so persistently irresistible?

Freud argued that children play to fulfil wishes and imaginations, let’s think about it – how many of us were little policemen or Van Goghs when we were five years old? He claims that this feeling of wanting to play or wish never goes away, but when it is no longer fulfilled or entertained as a child, it simply evolves into the adult daydream. Daydreams become a fantasy or wish fulfilment of desire; private, hidden and shameful sometimes. Freud argued that the want to hide feelings or imaginings were out of their often selfish, erotic, or impossible natures, resigning themselves to small utopias that keep the psyche alive when reality disappoints. Freud doesn’t stop here though, he says that artistic expression is for the lucky people who can turn their desire into something palpable and shareable, often creating some wish fulfilment with great aesthetic beauty or emotional resonance. 

I had this fantasy of a past lover of mine where I would have been some grand countess and he, my very dedicated butler. Much like his muse I knew from reality, he would be tall and slim, and unfairly handsome, with particularly fantastic shoulders and arms. Although I could tell you a million scenarios with him in this role, I always come back to one. He would be bringing me breakfast in bed, in his pristine uniform, with baby pink socks and slicked-back hair. After he realised that he had neglected to select a sturdy enough tray for the breakfast, he would bend over my lap in bed, let me tie his ankles and wrists with soft pink ribbon and make himself useful as a breakfast table. All the time I would be slowly enjoying each mouthful, he’d be thanking me for how he adored the opportunity to serve and please. I could describe everything about the setting, costume and feeling of this scenario, and I am sure if you asked me more, my mind would do nothing but expand the dream to create a larger world. Alas, my muse for this fantasy has acquired the most dreadful beard, endearing as it may be, its ruggedness would not fit my rose-tinted dream; I insist on clean shaven. 

Sexual fantasies are curious to me sometimes, I think a lot of people feel that despite their deep passion or curiosity for the idea of something, as soon as it were realised, it couldn’t live up to their idea in their head, no matter how perfect, how identical the real version would be to the dream. Is it because we know what we want best, or is there something about something being entirely private and exclusive, dare I say forbidden, that makes a fantasy so tantalising? Is it the fact that a fantasy stays just that, something to think about but cannot have? Is that the appeal? Barthes says that fantasies cannot work in a real sense, as they can only truly exist in a world that does not need to negotiate with another person or place, it stays fully yours, unspoiled, he calls it ‘The Lover’s solitude’. This is why fantasies often feel more vivid than memory, they exist at that impractical point where desire has a true purity before consequence or compromise. 

I feel this slightly begs the question: where do fantasies come from? When I first became sexually curious, I remember being obsessed with male figures of authority, I was crazy for teacher, policemen, doctor scenarios in my head; now these ideas interest me very little, making me think that the imaginative desire is stimulated particularly by hollow areas of deprivation, natural curiosities, or new areas that we can consider ‘forbidden’. Many people I know, that identify as more sexually dominant, started off as particularly sexually submissive (don’t take my word for it- waste six hours of your life you wont’t get back and watch the Fifty Shades trilogy), so yes, desire and fantasy evolve to fit a changing person as curiosity naturally pivots. I can’t help but wonder – is it bad to have something unfulfilled? Our generation does a lot to curate ‘the fantasy’ if we really think about it; TikTok thirst traps of people who will never know we exist, hours-long playlists with sensual or particularly emotive songs we make fake scenarios in our heads to, fashion leaning into sexuality, or period dress that is entirely impractical. I think there is a merciful angle to all of this, that there is a place where we can act out our wildest urges without consequence, and maybe this is so strong it can inform and create our character. Even if it reminds us occasionally of longing or what we’re missing, a private imagination can be a perfect kind of silk-lined escape room. 

Perhaps it’s better my pink ribboned butler remains trapped in my imagination, I suspect he behaves far better there than in reality – forever obedient and clean shaven, it’s nice to think that he’s always where I leave him; eyes lowered, wearing his tight, suave uniform and aching for instruction. Perhaps it’s the real charm of the fantasy – it never has to wake up beside reality, untouched, and unspoiled, waiting patiently for the next rainy afternoon.