Dirty True Confessions

36 Women Confess The Kinky Sexual Secrets They’ve Never Told Anyone

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One of the promises that keeps us all going is "this too shall pass. That I see nothing I want to return to in the novels of Toni Morrison identifies me so much more firmly as brain dead, acultural, off-the-list, than that I haven't seen, and don't want to see, the Godfather movies. And that's what I abhor about bookish culture; books are used as socioeconomic class shibboleths in a way that film usually is not. Compare bookish bouncers with the open door that movies afford. I watched classic films with the housewives in my hometown; these were often immigrants who cleaned luckier, richer women's homes.

Watching these films as a child, I delighted to exotic locales, nifty costumes, charismatic stars, and high style; after I grew up, I realized, with some shock, that these films addressed imperialism, sadism, sexual perversion, and corruption. While we children were hypnotized by the sparkle of sunlight reflected off the rippled surface, grown-ups focused on the movements beneath, as if studying shadowed aquatic life invisible to less experienced eyes. Director John Ford was notoriously coy about the nature of his work in his interviews with Peter Bogdanovich. Bogdanovich, a young filmmaker and fan, would probe Ford, a respected elder, about the symbolism, the allusions to classic literature, the multiple meanings in a given scene, and Ford would respond by growling something like, "I shot it that way because I thought it looked pretty.

I make Westerns," this record-breaking, four-time Academy-Award-winning director famously, and humbly, identified himself.

I love it that every fanboy wearing out his keyboard insists in fervid Internet posts that the latest comic book summer blockbuster is an unprecedented work of genius. I love it that when I went to my local theater's very first, I didn't know if they were taking it seriously as a parable exhorting America to nuke Iran and would leave the theater and enlist in the Marines, or they were if taking it seriously as a parable exhorting America to nuke Iran and would leave the theater to hammer out an anti-American manifesto.

Maybe they were giggling at campy, gleaming, depilitated Spartan torsos and capped, gritting Spartan teeth. Maybe they were just in the theater for the air conditioning. With books, it isn't just the much heavier prescription that you must like certain authors, and the heavier opprobrium if you don't. Morocco has no plot, except to the extent that Marlene Dietrich kicking off her high heels as she, barefoot, follows French Legionnaire Gary Cooper into the Sahara Desert constitutes a plot.

Tall and lithe Cooper is obscenely beautiful, graced with sensual lips, a colt's nostrils, and long, lush lashes; Dietrich impregnates every gesture with the erotic. Off-screen lovers, with these two in a room, no other man or woman would get any attention. Morocco is about an alpha male and an alpha female having alpha, hetero sex, while the rest of us beta schlubs, including the film's director and Dietrich's spurned lover, Josef von Sternberg, resign ourselves to the queasy pleasures of a voyeur.

But the young Susie Bright, before she became a famous lesbian sexologist, saw something completely different. Bright described her reaction: I saw Marlene Dietrich in Morocco when I was a teenager. I just was flipping the channels and saw her and decided to settle in for an old movie She has a romance with Gary Cooper in this movie but that romance just went right out the window for me. I was just like, who was that woman, what had happened?

I started writing a whole other script for what was really going on!

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Scholar Molly Haskell asks which plots women registered when they watched Golden Age movies: Or did viewers attend to everything that went before, in which the heroine was hell-on-wheels, a ball-buster, a temptress, a murderess? Movies have commented on fans' ability to see what they want to see. In Kiss of the Spider Woman, Luis Molina William Hurt watches Nazi propaganda films and decides that they are all about pretty clothes and noble self-sacrifice.

We aren't allowed the same freedom with books. You can't say you read any serious modern American fiction writer because you really like that author's sex scenes, or mastery of local dialects, or recipes, or even for her plot twists. You have to like him because he's saying something serious about society, dammit. My list of bests has a lot in common with the official canon: I'm in awe of the same directors as most everybody else: The cinematic moments that reduce film fans around the world to heaps of pale and moist and quivering gel move me equally: That luminous Lincoln Memorial pep talk where Jean Arthur nudges, cajoles, and inspires Jimmy Stewart into pulling up his socks, acting like a man, and bringing sweat, honor, and a masochistic, operatic, cathartic filibuster to the floor of the United States Senate in Mr.

Smith Goes to Washington.

The crane shot in Gone with the Wind where the camera pulls back, and shows you Scarlett O'Hara, narcissist extraordinaire, next to one dying solider, the camera pulls back some more, she's surrounded by five dying soldiers, it pulls back some more, a hundred, a thousand. Over them all a battered Confederate flag flies, and you get it that this is about so much more than one princess's doomed and foolish crush on one passive aggressive, latently homosexual, parasitic blonde named Ashley Wilkes.

The twister from The Wizard of Oz. I've seen that movie, what, a couple of dozen times? And every time, that twister scares me. Folks, they made it with a muslin stocking. Makes you think twice about today's multimillion-dollar special effects, don't it? The flight of arrows, the silent battle in Akira Kurosawa's Ran.

The Odessa steps sequence from The Battleship Potemkin. In , I was an eyewitness to the final spasms of Soviet communism's rotting hulk. The Odessa steps sequence makes me wanna sign a party membership card. Behold the power of film. The street lamp light reflected off of the porch screen that stands as a fragile battlement between shotgun-wielding matriarch Lillian Gish and inhuman-menace Robert Mitchum in Night of the Hunter. These moments belong to everyone. Some say that for love to be genuine it has to be exclusive.

Maybe that's true for the love between romantic partners, but not only do we film fans have to share our best moments, we want to. Our friends know that we can't let them rest till we've gotten them to see the movies we want them to see, in the way we want them to see them. And yet, I have to admit that I am a bit intimidated by the sheer number of fans who worship Gone with the Wind. I've read GWTW three times. Some fans read it yearly. I once worked for a woman whose office looked like a diorama at the Margaret Mitchell Memorial Museum.

A life-size, cardboard cut-out of Rhett and Scarlett manned her door.

"Sometimes it embarrasses me, but I'm making a living for my son as a single mom."

My love wilts in comparison. I think that in film fans' private hearts there lurks some yearning for a moment of exclusive cinematic intimacy. A star who scintillates for our delight; a line tweaked just to ring in time with our life story; an understanding that shouts, "Yes, yes," to our "Yes, yes"; a shaft of light, summoned from klieg and dust motes, crafted on the cinematographer's hammer and anvil, aimed at our very eyes, that we, alone, can store in our memories to be called up when we need that kick of inspiration, that resonant thrum, that whiff of cinematic perfume.

And then, of course, we'd have to tell the world. We'd shout, "Did you see how great that was?

Some of my favorite writing comes from sources that aren't sanctioned as "art. From "Operating Instructions for the Mr. Coffee Electric Fruit Dehydrator. This appliance has a polarized plug. One blade is larger than the other. As a safety feature, this plug will fit in a polarized outlet only one way. If the plug does not fit, reverse the plug. If it still does not fit, contact a qualified electrician. Skin adds a longer drying time. However, skin is a highly nutritious part of the fruit. Personal preference is the only way to decide about peeling.

When I first read this, I practically wept with delight. I heard it in a voice something like Mr. I wish more of my day were conducted with that degree of calm, authoritative, care.

I can hear this voice in other circumstances. What if, before investing in the wrong stock or falling in love with the wrong person, God whispered in your ear: I've given you fear to keep you from rushing in where angels fear to tread. Do not attempt to defeat this safety feature. Loving one of the same gender offers more bumps in life's path. However, this love is genuine and equally nutritious. Personal preference is the only way to decide about love. As Noel Coward observed, "Extraordinary how potent cheap music is. He's completely dedicated to his story because he thinks it's unique.

His prose is purple, overburdened with adjectives; there's no sense of audience; you feel as if you are locked in a cell listening to a stranger's dreams.

Dedicated to your stories and ideas.

And yet this mess pulses with life, and moves you in ways you are embarrassed to confront. How, you ask yourself, did this amateur who can't make a noun and verb agree get under your skin? He's doing it because the narrative's archetypal characters and conflict are driving him mad.

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These raw elements suck you in, but he can't juggle them adroitly. You watch as his eggs fall on his face, his knives slice through his toes. Humans are pattern-seeking creatures. In the same way that you add elements to make a cloud look just like Snoopy, you invest yourself in bad writing. The Sistine Chapel does not need me.

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My friend's crazy novel about his girlfriend does. I let that book get to me in a way that the Sistine Chapel never has. All the loose ends dangle, quiver, await our investment to take them home to rest. But let me get back to my true confessions I confess: I love a handful of rather weird, high ick-factor, uncelebrated, almost unknown movies. Exactly because these films are so little seen and appreciated, I love them all the more. I stumbled on these movies. Ok darling, what's started will be finished.

My confession is as follows: I want to seduce her and make her fall in love with me. But I am not willing to start a relationship with this woman. I want the adventure of the forbidden. I know she's forbidden fruit as she's married and that's why I want her even more. And she has kids. I don't want kids. The world's cruel, dirty and dark. So I am, too. I secretly want my friend, T, so badly. I'm 4 years into a relationship with an amazing guy but I miss the phone sex and sexting T and I used to enjoy.

I think about him when I masturbate occasionally. His cock tasted so good in my mouth, I wish I could've swallowed his cum. Hell I wanted him to use and abuse every hole I have. I get wet just thinking of him calling me his Mistress like he used to. I can hear his voice moan my name, call me a goddess, curse when I've made him so hard it hurt. Fuck I miss him. You need a Premium Account to access that feature! We provide many cool features for confessions exclusively for premium users Go Premium. Dirty Confessions Dirty confession stories and sins.

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