Is this sexual fantasy deeply narcissistic? Is the friend-partner just a female me? Does this fantasy assume that someone would be as content with such a gaze as I would? Does this fantasy assume that my visual appreciation (quite a male trait, I hear) is more important that the types of fulfilment desired by this partner? Do I have a specific partner in mind (I do, somewhat dismayingly.) Does this fantasy not place sexuality outside the home (as in grand-patriarchal tradition), and yet even deny any kind wet fulfilment to the partner? Isn’t the fantasy quite a selfish one, really? It assumes a trust. It also assumes a frame between the everyday and the hour or so a week within. It is essentially Platonic. Am I now a bad human for this desire? There are frames where the desire to penetrate is one of violence and violation, an implementation of male force. I’m safe on that count. There are also (more recent) frames where the non-consummation is a denial of a sort, a violence of emotion, a manipulation and eschewing of pleasure-giving. Then I am guilty. Also there could be read an aversion to emotional responsibility here. But at the same time, to assume the emotional dependence of another seems to me a quiet sort of sexism.
The essential thing about a desire is that it is a projection outward of some very rooted instincts. Most humans share the same sorts of instincts when it comes to desire, and I pass no judgement on the colourful forms it can assume.
One of the most important elements in my specific fantasy is the mutual respect and trust to not overstay. In other words, it is a silent relationship where the fundamental structure is the specific otherworldliness of the hour or so a week.
To be very honest, I had a relationship with someone in my mid-twenties that was very very much like the one above. My partner was a colleague student from Florida. We loved each other deeply, as we both know (to this day) because of the small smiles and unsaid collusion we shared. We had a joke that if we went on a jaunt in my El Camino to Mutual, OH, then anything we said would be mutually felt. We only said the usual three words in that township, and we only whispered them very secretively. These encounters continued for about six months without very much conversation until she broke her spine in a car accident, where my emotional loyalty rushed me to her hospital side and nursed her through the pain. When I touched her then my light touch would cause her battered body to literally quiver with off-balance pleasure. That time in the hospital caused us to fall in love in a more traditional way than the love we had before, and of course the silent encounters lessened in favour of more traditional fireworks and rhythms. Those were the best in my life, but all the talking ruined our relationship and we lost something very special, as we both to this day know. (In all senses aside from the body ones we were totally mismatched.)
So (yes) the detailed fantasy above has some basis in reality: it existed and it wasn’t sexist or coercive or manipulative. Perhaps there would always have been a cut-off point, but it was still nice. I should like to have that again. Truthfully, I did not link the present desire for that kind of relationship with its existence in the past till just a few minutes ago when I wrote the above paragraph. I liked the sense of giving that that relationship had. It was very nice.