Part of the pleasure of reading Want – a collection of 174 anonymous sexual fantasies submitted by women from around the world – is that the scenarios are often strikingly odd. One contributor dreams of being fed chocolate by the Hogwarts potion master. Another longs to have sex with her office door knob. Women are still seen as less sexual than men, but this book attests to a vivid imaginative hinterland, where the desires are far more inventive than the “Milf” and “cheerleader” tropes that dominate man-made porn. In one particularly detailed submission, a woman daydreams about breastfeeding an attractive cashier at the supermarket.

The fantasies in this book are sometimes shocking, but hard limits were imposed during the selection process to remove anything that, if acted out in real life, would be illegal. Want is edited by Gillian Anderson, who has restyled herself as a sort of sexual agony aunt after playing a charismatic therapist in Netflix’s Sex Education. In her introduction, Anderson explains how she struggled with the less straightforwardly empowering submissions. Some did make the final cut, but they are punctuated by anxious self-justification. One woman interrupts her fantasy about being held captive by a group of robbers to insist that she is “a feminist”, and that the imaginary robbers have her “consent”.

The disclaimers suggest that some of the women are editing themselves as they write. It’s a shame, because the best contributions in this book – such as the one about breastfeeding a cashier – are erotic precisely because they are a little depraved. Want is framed as a kind of sequel to My Secret Garden, Nancy Friday’s 1973 collection of anonymous female fantasies, but that was a much more unfiltered exploration of desire. There were chapters titled Incest and Rape, as well as a section called The Zoo, where women imagined having sex with their pets.

We may think we have become more sexually open in the past 50 years, but what was possible in 1973 is simply unpublishable today. Want seems hyperaware of its place in a culture that is liberal enough to produce a children’s show called Sex Education, but also seeks to tidy up sex and make it palatable. We have gained a more nuanced understanding of harmful power dynamics in sexual relationships, but one consequence of that progress is an impulse to prune even our most secret sexual dreams, if the sex we are dreaming of doesn’t conform to certain standards. I’m not disputing the importance of consent and safe sex practices in real life – but the crucial point is that this is supposed to be fantasy, not reality.

As a result, some of the stories in this book feel too self-censored to be truly erotic. If you’re looking to get off, Nancy Friday’s daring original is more likely to do the trick. Even so, Want makes for addictive reading. More compelling than the fantasies themselves are the frequent glimpses into the women’s real worlds. One contributor confesses that she fantasises about her partner’s death – she longs to be free, because she has never explored her true feelings for women. Another writes that she brings herself to orgasm by thinking about her husband cheating on her. He has been unfaithful in reality, so every time she does this, she cries. The real-life loneliness conveyed here is much rawer than the wish-fulfilment. At its best, Want gives you privileged access into the most painful, truthful corners of these women’s lives.

Anderson tells us on the fourth page that she has hidden her own entry somewhere within the collection, which invites you to play a guessing game. Is she the door knob? The Potter fan? The woman who longs for her partner to die? The idea that you might be peeping into a celebrity’s life adds a certain frisson, as you scour the pages for hints. In essence, you are invited to fantasise about her in a way that feels voyeuristic, or least morally ambiguous. But then, perhaps that’s what great fantasy always needs – a dash of moral ambiguity.