Everyone is has a fantasy life. A fantasy life does not have to be filled with internet porn and vibrators, either. That kind of arousal is the pedestrian, pathetic, and boring, mostly boring. Fantasy life also does not always have to be sexual in nature. Often people fantasize about killing their boss, beating up annoying customers, pissing on demanding clients, or humiliating a condescending coworker. Traffic is the worst time for the idle mind. The mind imagines that if everyone was wearing their seat belts and if no one really gets hurt, it would be great to ram your compact sedan in the back of the slow moving mini-van with its turn signal on for the last five miles. These violent and dirty fantasies can be demeaning to all parties, especially the dreamer.
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I admit to some of these fantasies. I fall victim to the occasional road rage, and I do hope a certain over-aged “mean girl” at work gets a scorching case of mouth herpes from making out with our much younger coworker just so she is as ugly on the outside as she is on the inside. That’s normal, right? I abhor porn, a topic to be explored later, and I never fantasize about celebrities. I never dream or fantasize about making out with Brad Pitt or wiggling and sighing under Gerard Butler. Does even mentioning Brad Pitt as a sex object age me? Celebrities bore me. Sure, I love the movies and the music of U2, Pearl Jam, and Prince, especially Prince, taught me more about sex than school or even lovers, but I do not fantasize about famous people. I fantasize about real people. The man I love, men I have loved, men I want to love me, or even the occasional woman with a great sense of style.
Of course, old lovers are a great source of material on lonely week nights when there is nothing good on TV and your resolve for ice cream wins over other solo carnal delights. But the men I have never had, but almost had are the best fantasies of all.
I dream of an old choir buddy from high school who is a lover of all women no matter their size, shape, or color. Twenty year old mores of biracial dating preventing us being anything more than “choir buddies” back in the day, but a long distance digital, secret affair has been brewing for years now. Never consummated, but the taste of that sweetness, just kissing in a parking lot of a certain IHOP at three in the morning just after my divorce and just before moving to Florida packed more romance and sex than I could have ever imagined. Making out in parked cars is greatly underrated. Even though the two of us are way too old for that shit and we both had the money to get a hotel, we did not indulge. The promise and potential was enough, or at least that is what I keep telling myself.
Then there was the drummer from the marching band in my high school. Musicians are just sexy, I don’t care who you are. He and his friends did have a garage band in the mid-90’s that played some local clubs. Not seeing his band play because I didn’t think I was “cool” enough is one of the greatest regrets of my misspent youth. He is and was never really available to me. I don’t even know if the attraction was mutual, and really, it does not matter. I imagine what it would be like to make out with him in his mom’s basement listening to early 90’s Grunge or even listening to his dad’s old “Led Zeppelin” or “The Who” records on a turn table. I do not know if this man even had a basement or a dad for that matter. In my mind we would hide away after school, listen to music, kiss, and I would let him touch my breasts even under my shirt. I sometimes fantasize I lost my virginity to this man because I imagine him gentle, yet interested, and most of all respectful. He did and does not seem like a guy to “punish” a girl for being sexual. Then I might know what the line from Pearl Jam’s “Alive” was like, “Oh, she walks slowly, across a young man’s room. She said, ‘I’m ready for you.” Then I would lose my virginity to a young man who was sweet, sexy, and had no possible future with, as the loss of girl’s virginity should be. Virginity is far too magical and embarrassing to lose it to someone you’d be with forever.
Pornography or even celebrity crushes have nothing to do with sex. Celebrity crushes are about the ideal of the female or male form and it is more of their manufactured image or the character that is created by a writer than anything to do with the real person. That, and Johnny Depp really has never done much for me. Pornography is the exact opposite. It is the dirtiness of sex, the rawness and nakedness without any of the intimacy or vulnerability of what it is like to invite someone into your body, let alone your heart.
Perhaps I am romanticizing sex. It is a woman’s prerogative. It is what we do. It is how we are wired, or at least it is how I am wired. How many of my “dream boys,” real boyfriends, or my ex-husband for that matter, were just figments of my imagination? I molded them out of the stirrings of my heart, they were beauty in my eyes, and I breathed life into them with my sweet and wicked words.
I am not a hopeless romantic where I think the dream of love is better than the waking everyday life that real love, life, and partnership is like. I’m not that kind of girl. I am no Jane Austen, the virgin lover who wrote about men who loved and married but never fucked. I’m not that kind or writer, nor am I that kind of girl. But I know that real life is better than imagination, and even imagined lovers based on real people are better than celebrities and way better than porn. Those kinds of crushes and addictions are an insult to the institute obsession and infatuation. Like crushes need to be more embarrassing and time consuming.