Friday B.S.: Angelic Repose

Jul 13

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[singing]“Whatcha gonna do when you get out of jail?”

“I’m gonna do a remix.”

When you listen to Mariah, you almost have to pour some spring water on yourself and lift your head back like you’re being sexy. I tried it with seltzer but I don’t recommend it. And it’s probably worth nothing that the “I’m too sexy for my shorts” look is not quite the same as the “I just peed in my pants” look.

(Having said that, the visual image is me pouring a bottle of seltzer water down my pants and even I can’t really figure out what that has to do with Mariah Carey.)

I don’t fantasize. I tell you why. My fantasy life always have this weird requirement to be based first in reality before it is allowed to swoop into fantastical. For instance, it’s not enough to just sex dream about someone. No first, I have to set it up. And it’s elaborate. It usually involves me walking by on the streets and my laughing boyfriend is trying to move some boxes into his apartment which is always a brownstone so it involves a lot of steps. So he tries to take two heavy boxes at once, and quite can’t manage to get up the steps at which point, I offer to help. It’s a hot day. (If you can’t see where I’m going here, I can’t help you.) When we get upstairs (3rd floor) for some reason the air conditioning isn’t doing it’s job.

I know what you’re thinking. You think that he offers me a beer and we take off our shirts and make out.

Oh NO! Not in my fantasy. In my fantasy, he offers me a beer, and we begin a hour plus conversation that I have to plot out in my head in excruciating detail. I need a topic, his point of view, my responses, some casual yet suggestive banter and least one more beer for each of us. And that’s just to get to the point where he takes off his shirt. And lest we forget that in reality, just one beer would make me have to pee, forget trying to drink two in barely an hour. Between the stifling apartment air and the beers, I would be asleep on the coach in 40 minutes flat while the guy rifles through my wallet for twenties.

(By the way, I went through a phase in college where any time I touched a bed I fell asleep. My hallmates found it very disconcerting to be talking to me, and they would turn away to turn on a light, for instance, and when they turned back around, I was snoring softly in angelic repose.)

So he takes off his shirt and sometimes the fantasy kicks in. But even then, it’s not always the smoothest transition. For one, I always sabotage my fantasies in the oddest ways. A lot of times I take off my shirt and I’m as hairy as Sasquatch. Which no offense to Sasquatch, but in my fantasies, it causes a lot of unnecessary anxiety to take off my shirt and notice that I went from “hairy chest” to Cousin It. In my daydreams, there is always a lot of self-incrimination and doubt as though it was exclusively my fault that I wolfed out.

I’ve already been in the guy’s apartment for two hours, and there may not even be necking yet. First I need to find out if the roommates are home, if they are male or female, how many, who sleeps in which room, is someone asleep at that moment, and if all that is resolved to my satisfaction, I now have to get up out of my fantasy and go pee in real life. This may or may not be relevant, but we always watch a video in my fantasies. Sometimes porn, but more often than not Fellowship of the Rings extended edition. That’s two discs, three plus hours. I want you to imagine a fantasy with a three-hour movie interlude that requires a disc change and intense concentration. Granted, that Billy Boyd is tasty.

Yeah, sometimes it’s easier just to stick to reality.

[singing] “Whatcha gonna do when you get out of jail?”

“I’m gonna have some fun.”