That is why the women in this book are so significant historically. They are the first generation to grow up with a semblance of sexual acceptance, an ease with masturbation. Will they give their daughters a middle ground between madonna and whore? Will they change the course of women’s sexual history? It is by no means certain they will. The fact is, we have become our parents. Not the parents we loved but those parts of our parents we hated: nay-saying, guilty, and asexual. Access-restricted-item true Addeddate 2020-12-10 00:14:11 Boxid IA40001614 Camera USB PTP Class Camera Collection_set printdisabled External-identifier

Four years later it would be the identical story with My Mother/My Self, the book that grew immediately out of My Secret Garden’s questioning of the source of women’s terrible guilt about sex. Initially this later book was violently rejected by both publishers and readers. I threw your book across the room! I wanted to kill you! were typical reader’s comments. But what followed was a snowballing acceptance as one woman told another to read this book that talked about the unmentionable: the mother/daughter relationship (another subject about which there was not a word in any of the libraries). If we were to change the repetitious pattern of women’s lives, we had to honestly accept what we had with her/mother. Timing. These women are for the most part in their twenties, the generation that followed the sexual revolution and the initial momentum of the women’s movement. Their voices sound like a new race of women compared to those in My Secret Garden, my first book on women’s sexual fantasies, which was published in 1973 and is now in its twenty-ninth printing. While they have all read that earlier book and taken heart from it, these young women accept their sexual fantasies as a natural extension of their lives. Given the unique period in women’s history in which they grew up, how could it be otherwise?As for the behavioral world, the dozens of psychologists and psychiatrists I interviewed informed me that I was on a deadend street. "Only men have sexual fantasies," they told me. As late as June 1973, the same month My Secret Garden was published, permissive Cosmopolitan magazine printed a cover story by the eminent and equally permissive Dr. Allan Fromme, stating, "Women do not have sexual fantasies....The reason for this is obvious: Women haven't been brought up to enjoy sex...women are by and large destitute of sexual fantasy." Women lived in the Good Girl/Bad Girl split until economic forces in the 1960s built to a pitch that exploded into the women’s movement and the sexual revolution. So immediate were these two social phenomena that it seemed as if women had been waiting in the wings for centuries, pent up, frustrated, with all of our enormous energies just barely under control. It’s taken me half a lifetime and the writing of six books, all of which deal at least in part with sexuality, to appreciate the role masturbation plays in our lives, or might play if we weren’t so troubled about this simple, private act. Once, it seemed as if the women’s movement for economic and political equality and the sexual revolution were one campaign. But they were merely simultaneous. Society adapted more readily to women’s entry into the workplace than to their growing into full sexuality. It is seldom discussed but nonetheless true that economic parity is less threatening to the system than sexual equality. Like the X ray of a broken bone held up to the light, a fantasy reveals the healthy line of human sexual desire and shows where this conscious wish to feel sexual has been shattered by a fear so old and threatening as to be unconscious pressure. As children we feared that the sexual feeling would lose us the love of someone upon whom we depended for life itself; the guilt, planted early and deep, arose because we didn't want the forbidden sexual feeling to go away. Now it is fantasy's job to get us past the fear/guilt/anxiety. The characters and story lines we conjure up take what was most forbidden, and with the omnipotent power of the mind, make the forbidden work for us so that now, just for a moment, we may rise to orgasm and release.

There was a popular school of painting early in this century that catered especially to man’s split vision of woman. These large oil canvases depicted naked women lying about, usually in pastoral scenes, and allowed a man to gaze for hours, satisfying his voyeuristic fantasies without fear. The women, you see, always had their eyes closed and looked near death, or so obviously exhausted that they were in no position to make demands on the man’s precious bodily fluids. And it was understood why they were so worn out; their carefully painted snakelike hands lay suspiciously close to that forbidden area between their legs. Often they were shown in groups, intertwined, their heads on one another’s breasts. A man could well imagine what they’d been up to—that left to themselves, we women would soon be encouraging one another in the criminal practice of masturbation. Doctors warned that girls’ boarding schools were literal hotbeds of young female proselytizers, eager to vamp one another into the practice of masturbation. Let me emphasize that it requires the support of both sexes for the patriarchal system to hold; it tottered in the 1970s only because enough women banded together and loudly demanded change. But that alliance didn’t last. We lost much of the potential we might have had as a cohesive unit. The angry feminists, having little sympathy for men or the women who loved men, turned up their noses at the sexual revolution. And both camps alienated traditional women, who had stayed within the family unit and whose values, needs, and very existence were ignored. But if some women didn’t know what a fantasy was, then many more had no idea what an orgasm was or how to get one. Dodson made it her life’s work to show women how to do that – to go beyond the fantasy and get to the nuts and bolts of how your sexual body actually works. But Friday had another path. Her third book, My Mother/My Self: The Daughter’s Search for Identity (1977) is a fascinating, reflective and critically acclaimed look at why so many of her previous interviewees had such deep feelings of guilt about sex. Jane Colbert Friday to Wed Naval Officer" (PDF). fultonhistory.com. May 21, 1948 . Retrieved September 1, 2023. Nancy Friday was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, the daughter of Walter F. Friday and Jane Colbert Friday (later Scott). [2] She grew up in Charleston, South Carolina, and attended the only local girls' college-preparatory school, Ashley Hall, where she graduated in 1951. [3] She then attended Wellesley College in Massachusetts, where she graduated in 1955. [4] She worked briefly as a reporter for the San Juan Island Times and subsequently established herself as a magazine journalist in New York City, England, and France before turning to writing full-time.

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Then I learned the power of permission that comes from other women’s voices. Only when I told them my own fantasies did recognition dawn. No man, certainly not Dr. Fromme, could have persuaded these women to drop the veil from the preconscious—that level of consciousness between the unconscious and full awareness—and reveal the fantasy they had repeatedly enjoyed and then denied. Only women can liberate other women; only women’s voices grant permission to be sexual, to be free to be anything we want, when enough of us tell one another it is okay. Initially the women I interviewed bore out Fromme's prophecy. "What's a sexual fantasy?" they would ask, or, "What do you mean by suggesting I have sexual fantasies? I love my husband!" or, "Who needs fantasy? My real sex life is great." Even the most sexually active women I knew, who wanted to be part of the research, would strain to understand and then shake their heads.