“What’s your fanta-ta-ta-sy?” -Ludacris
The first adult film I ever watched was called “Naughty Fantasies,” or something like that, from Baby Doll Productions. I found it in a CD case for Now That’s What I Call Music: Volume 18 that my college roommate left lying around. She was out of town when I made the discovery, so I invited all of my little college dorm friends over for a viewing party. Since then, I’ve become well-versed in adult film genres: gonzo, amateur, POV, MILF, transsexual, fetish, and “special interest,” which is basically an all-encompassing term used to describe anything and everything outside the status quo. (Trust me, if you can dream it, it’s out there. It exists).
I recently had the question posed to me: Do you have any taboo fantasies? I don’t really consider anything that taboo anymore, so I had no clue how to respond. I mean, define taboo. Go ahead:
I took the wind out of this guy’s sails when I didn’t answer his question. I’m pretty sure he wanted to tie me up like a Christmas goose and spank me with a spatula. In fact, this blog, and therefore my LIFE, cannot be accessed at any Erie County public libraries anymore because it’s been deemed unacceptable for children under 18! It’s been banned. Found to be “suspicious.”
Now I have no choice but to put this up:
Last night, I wanted to make sure I still had the ability to vocalize my fantasies. When I was driving with Mick in his car, I let everything out.
“The cop who just drove by, omigod, he looked pretty sexy,” I said while eyeing a police SUV cruising down Allen St.
“Like I care,” Mick said, totally pissed and smoking a cig. I’m pretty sure Mick considers the two of us in a relationship, but I fail to grasp this and continuously try to date other men. I’m not super satisfied with monogamy, what can I say?
“That’s definitely one of my fantasies,” I said, oblivious and smoking weed in a nonchalant manner. “For a hot police officer to arrest me and beat me into submission.”
“Great…” Mick said.
“But not in the holding center,” I said. “I heard it’s pretty smelly in there.”
“Whatever,” Mick said. “We’re here.”
Mick brought me to a Christmas party in a dark Allentown mansion. I love going to mansion parties – they are excellent networking opportunities. In the middle of the party, when a bunch of people found themselves on pink striped chaise lounges listening to an elderly art dealer play the trumpet, I embarked on another taboo discussion with two people I thought were a couple.
“….Swingers parties,” I heard the guy next to me say. My ears perked up, full-on SONAR, and his female accomplice noticed.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just, I attempted to infiltrate the swingers scene here before. I’m a writer.”
“I’ve never gone to any swingers parties before,” the woman said. She was pretty and tan. “But he has.”
“It’s pretty wild out in Calabasas,” he said. “Have you seen Eyes Wide Shut?”
“Yes, and honestly, I don’t think it gets that steamy around here,” I said. “At least, everything I went to just had a bunch of people sitting around eating mozzarella sticks.”
“Really?” the woman said.
“Yeah, apparently there’s some Bad Kitty Club that meets down in Dunkirk,” I continued. “We should go! What are you two doing after this? We’re going to Mother’s. Want to come? Hey, Mick -”
Mick stormed off and left me sitting on the couch to talk about the swingers lifestyle on my own.
“Are you guys dating?” the woman asked me.
“Um, not really,” I said. “At least, I don’t think we are.”
“We’re not a couple either,” she laughed and swirled her chardonnay.
“I’ll go find Mick,” I said. “He probably had to go to the bathroom. One sec.”
I found Mick slouched in front of the kitchen sink.
“Um, what?” I said.
“Look, I don’t want to hear you talking about threesomes and inviting random strangers into our romantic night alone -”
“I didn’t know we were having a romantic night alone,” I said. “You have to be honest about your needs and wants. Now that I know, we can have one.”
“If you are into these things, threesomes, group sex, blah blah blah, ” Mick continued to rave like Steve Aoki in Vegas, “Then we are just not compatible. I want a normal life, marriage…”
“That’s not what I’m into!” I clutched Mick by the shoulders. “That’s not my real life!”
Later on in the evening, after meeting tons of interesting people at the party, I went into one of the many bathrooms to think.
“STOP TELLING WELL-CONNECTED MIDDLE-AGED MEN THAT YOU WORK AT THE ADULT STORE,” I paced around the bathroom. “EVERYONE IS GOING TO THINK YOU ARE COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY INSANE.”
“But I’m a writer,” the other side of me said, and whether it was the angel or devil on my shoulder I’m still not sure. “Anything goes if you are a writer with talent.”
“EVERYONE AT THE PARTY THINKS YOU ARE A TOTAL NUT,” the voices in my head continued. “AND IT’S BECAUSE YOU ARE!”
“Ok, shut up and stay positive,” I said to myself. “You are indeed crazy and talking to yourself but it works for you.”
Mick and I left a little while later. We went off to continue our supposedly romantic evening, but in my estimation, it really wasn’t. He kept criticizing my life choices the entire time, mainly because Mick is from an older and more traditional generation.
“Your generation, all you want to do is cohabitate and share living expenses and fuck each other,” Mick said while driving me home, furiously puffing on cigarette after cigarette.
“So what?” I said. “My generation, we don’t need someone else to make us happy. We find strength within ourselves.”
I went to sleep knowing I’m insane. And when I woke up, I didn’t care.