This past weekend, I was driving from Chicago to Wisconsin for a friend’s wedding when I spotted a billboard – admittedly advertising some sort of Christian cause – that said, “All our dreams can come true if we have the courage to pursue them.”
“Fair enough,” I thought, as the night before I’d had one of those hyper-realistic dreams in which I was I engaged to Don Draper in season one of “Mad Men” (back when he almost ran away with that hot Jewess). Oh, what a world! To be wed to Jon Hamm in lieu of driving a Chevy rental to a wedding with a cash bar!
This got me thinking that although Don Draper was admittedly out of reach as future sex partner, there was nothing at all wrong in dreaming about it, aspiring toward it. And seeing as how I was out there on the open road with nothing better to do then listen to fuzzy radio stations and/or “The Help” on tape, I opted to build up a list of other sexually desirable characters, more attainable than Don, from film and TV. Why? Because every woman’s vagina wants to have sex with Don. My desires must be more original than that. And because, as I said, I was bored. And because in this godforsaken life we all need some bit of delusional hoo-ha to Calgon-take-us-away. Click through to see more fictional men I am more than happy to fantasize about.
Let me tell you about a thing that happened to me once: It was 2004. and I was 25 and out to dinner with a guy I’d been casually seeing for awhile. I was under the impression that, following our post-dinner drinks, we’d be going back to his place so we could … pick your euphemism why don’t you: Do the horizontal mambo, do it, bone. But then, as we exited the bar, he was all, “Well, I should really be getting home.”
I took this as an indication that he was shy – unsure of whether or not I was in the mood – and so I took it upon myself to throw my arms around his neck and say, “Whaaaaat? Nooooo! Don’t you want to have sex with me tonight? It’ll be … fun!”
Then I burped accidentally. I’m talking, like, right in his face. Keep reading »
A few years back, I enjoyed a dream-like experience. It was like something out of the most ridiculous rom-com starring … oh, let’s say, Amanda Seyfried as me, the protagonist, and Channing Tatum as Mark, my strapping love interest.
I’d been on a I-just-broke-up-with-my-boyfriend-let-me-get-away-from-it-all vacation to San Francisco. I stayed with a friend, wandered around, ate good food, drank high-end coffee. I spent a lot of time complaining about what the humidity was doing to my hair. One afternoon, I wandered into a local coffee shop for one more five-dollar latte, and there was Mark. Think: Not as hot as a mid-90s Jared Leto, but close; think: mid-90s Jared Leto’s slightly less attractive cousin.
Mark asked me what I was reading, and this launched us into a two-hour conversation on everything from over-priced coffee to over-indulgent pet owners to which U.S. cities are the most self-delighted. He explained his facial hair wasn’t usually so unkempt, I explained my head-hair wasn’t usually so frizzy. In short: It felt like meeting of the minds. Like I’d somehow – impossibly – dodged the bullet of single-hood; like I’d get the gift of slipping seamlessly from one relationship into the next. Sure, Mark lived in San Francisco and I lived in New York. But we’d bonded on the subject of indulgent pet owners. We were so clearly meant to be! Keep reading »
A decade ago, my grandmother, then 82, broke her hip. Her recovery involved a month in the hospital while she learned to walk comfortably again, a month that drove my mother, my grandmother’s sole caretaker, to the brink of insanity.
“I can’t go on,” she’d moan. “Calgon, take me away.”
Such was her constant refrain, and this was owing to the fact my grandmother’s behavior while infirm was impossible. Every half-hour my mother fielded a phone call from the hospital: “Bring me my robe! Different hand soap! Scotch tape!” she’d demand.
She’d be angry with a nurse or the limited food selection in the cafeteria, and the constant catering to such needs without nary a please or thank you? It was too much for one woman, my mother, to bear. Keep reading »
Back in 1992, at the age of 13, I went on an exchange program to France and fell madly in love with a boy named Guillaume. Guillaume Boner. (“Boner” pronounced in the French style, Bone-errrr, emphasis on the errr.) I confessed my crush to Jamie Goldfarb, one of my fellow American travelers, while on an underwhelming tour of the Evian factory.
“Jamie,” I whispered. “I have such a crush on Guillaume.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Guillaume,” I repeated. “Guillaume Boner. He’s Josh Steinberg’s exchange student.”
I’d hoped for a little female bonding on the subject, a little “OMG, I know! I want him too, like la beurre on brioche!” Instead, though, Jamie Goldfarb squealed, “Eww! Gross! How can you like someone whose last name is ‘Boner!’ You’re, like, totally disgusting!” Keep reading »
I was a late-in-life virgin. I’m not talking one of those extreme ones – 30 years old, 35, etc. – I mean, like, 23. So does that qualify? Not really. But my point is that most of my friends went about losing their virginity at 17, and an extra six years of virginity back then — well, it felt like a lifetime. All this is to say that by the time I finally got around to The Knocking of The Boots, I was out of my parents’ house, living in my first apartment with this gay dude who spent most of his time at his boyfriend’s apartment. And all that is to say that a thing I never had to struggle with was finding a place to have sex. I had my own room by the time I really needed one. So any gentlemanly partner in the erotic arts I stumbled across, he and I would just do it in there. Great. Boom. Done. Keep reading »