Fantasy or Fucking?

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Ewan-McGregor

I…was just staring, slack-jawed, at these lovely men, and wondering why I don’t masturbate to their pictures more. Or at all, for that matter. And I realized that when it comes to fantasy, I’m very High School Musical, whereas when it comes to fucking, I’m very Working Girl.

Let me ‘splain. When I go into la-la land with that chiseled face of perfection beside me, it tends to be the stuff of 9th grade diary entries. We’d go to dinner, he’d whisk me off to Paris on his yacht, I mean plane, then we’d go have a picnic in the Eiffel Tower and make out. Of course we’d have sex! But it would be making looooove, like on a cloud with rainbows and fake smoke and shit. And he’d whisper sexy shit but really more loooooovey-dovey stuff. Then we’d get married and live happily ever after.

Now, when I’m in the mood for fucking, and need some mental stimulation (and say my wi-fi/internet is down), then I usually just go into the ol’ grab bag of previous fuck-fests. Focusing not so much the person, per se, because if they’re an ex then their name is Asshat Fuckface McGillicutty, and that will totally, irrevocably, kill my mojo. So I just focus on the actual act, the buildup, and the payoff. Or I use my mental rolodex for various porn scenes that seemed to a. get me suitably aroused and b. not gross me out. Done and done.

Now, why don’t I merge the two? That’s a damn good idea, and I don’t know why in the hell I haven’t. I think it’s because I’ve been brainwashed by every rom-com I’ve seen. It feeds into that myth that these good-looking studs are only built for a ripe-good lovemaking. And antiquing, judging by the racy quality of my fantasy itinerary. And also presumably because once you snag one of these dudes, you sure as hell aint letting him get away anytime soon.

So, here’s my solution – and I think it will work for everyone: these guys need to start doing porn.

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