From the author of Me and Earl and the Dying Girl comes a novel about music, love, friendship, and freedom. When it first appeared, Nancy Friday's taboo-shattering bestseller My Secret Garden created a mixed storm of outrage and exhilaration. Published in 1973 during the sexual revolution, this volume brought women's hardcore sexual fantasies out of the realm of pornography and into the mainstream. Enabling JavaScript in your browser will allow you to experience all the features of our site.
Though it no doubt raised many an eyebrow at the time, it doesn't really contain anything that you won't find in an average issue of today's women's magazines. This 25th-anniversary edition contains a new introduction by the author and a few new fantasies. As he races down the field, we all turn as a body, wrapped in our blanket, screaming with excitement. Somehow, one of the men -- I don't know who, and in my excitement I can't look -- has gotten himself more closely behind me. I can feel his erection through his pants as he signals me with a touch to turn my hips more directly toward him.
Unitas is blocked, but all the action, thank God, is still going toward that goal and all of us keep turned to watch.
He's got his cock out now and somehow it's between my legs; he's torn a hole in my tights under my short skirt and I yell louder as the touchdown gets nearer now. We are all jumping up and down and I have to lift my leg higher, to the next step on the bleachers, to steady myself; now the man behind me can slip it in more easily. We are all leaping about, thumping one another on the back, and he puts his arm around my shoulders to keep us in rhythm.

He's inside me now, shot straight up through me like a ramrod; my God, it's like he's in my throat! It's Unitas' last down, everything depends on him; we're racing madly, almost at our own touchdown. My excitement gets wilder, almost out of control as I scream for Unitas to make it as we do, so that we all go over the line together.
They exist only for their elasticity, their ability to instantly incorporate any new character, image or idea or, as in dreams, to which they bear so close a relationship -- to contain conflicting ideas simultaneously. They expand, heighten, distort or exaggerate reality, taking one further, faster in the direction in which the unashamed unconscious already knows it wants to go. They present the astonished self with the incredible, the opportunity to entertain the impossible.
Were you really thinking that?" His look of amused admiration came as a reprieve; I realized how much he loved me, and in loving me, loved anything that gave me more abundant life.
My fantasies to him were a sudden unveiling of a new garden of pleasure, as yet unknown to him, into which I would invite him. Lawrence and Norman Mailer -- to say nothing of Genet -- put their fantasies on paper, they are recognized for what they can be: art. Why then, I could have asked my editor, can't the sexual fantasies of women be called the same? It wasn't a commercial idea then, even though I'm talking about four years ago and not four hundred. But men didn't really want to know about some new, possibly threatening, potential in women. It would immediately pose a sexual realignment, some rethinking of the male (superior) position.

And we women weren't yet ready either to share this potential, our common but unspoken knowledge, with one another. But the same culture that gave men this freedom sternly barred it to women, leaving us sexually mistrustful of each other, forcing us into patterns of deception, shame, and above all, silence. The idea that women had sexual fantasies, the enigma of just what they might be, the prospect that the age-old question of men to women, "What are you thinking about?" might at last be answered, now suddenly fascinated editors. No longer was it a matter of the sales-minded editor deciding what a commercial gimmick it would be to publish a series of sexy novels by sexy ladies, novels that would give an odd new sales tickle to the age-old fucking scenes that had always been written by men.
Now it was suddenly out of the editors' hands: Women were writing about sex, but it was from their point of view (women seen only as male sex fantasies no more), and it was a whole new bedroom. The realization was suddenly obvious, that with the liberation of women, men would be liberated too from all the stereotypes that made them think of women as burdens, prudes, and necessary evils, even at best something less than a man. What's the matter with good old-fashioned sex?" Nothing's the matter with good old-fashioned sex. I used to try to explain that it wasn't a question of need, that a woman is no less a woman if she doesn't fantasize. I think it was this idea, the notion of some unknown sexual potential in their women, the threat of the unseen, all-powerful rival, that bothered men most.

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