I was listening to The Killers on Media Player with headphones as loud as I could bear. “He doesn’t look a thing like Jesus, but he talks like a gentleman, like you imagined, when you were young.” When I was young. I don’t know if I was ever truly young.
I wanted him to take my virginity — meaning that he had to be in the dominant position. I was so subservient. I was in love. That was eleven years ago. I was fouteen.
That night was important, it was special, and the anniversary of it should have be spent in either quiet reflection or in the throes of passion. It would seem like a betrayal to have made love to someone else on this night. Even though it was over, this still night belonged to us. It was sacrosanct.
I thought it might be interesting to call him — the man who made this night special all those years ago — but what would we really have to say to one another? Like all my other daydreams, this one was more pleasurable when locked safely in the realm of fantasy.
I always said that I would rather be someone’s fantasy than their mediocre reality. The same goes for my own. There are plenty of things that I think about, dream about, that are more interesting when they remain within the four walls of my mind. Reality is never as interesting as what my blissfully overactive imagination can construct.
My husband doesn’t understand this. He thinks that fantasies were made to be realized — dreams had to eventually come true. When he feels that things are getting stale in our relationship, he asks me about my fantasies. I never tell him.
What kind of man wants to hear, “Well, I fantasize about a man I loved, but could not be with. These are not sexual thoughts. These are passionate thoughts. I fantasize about being loved by someone other than you.”
These things simply don’t need to be said.
Everyone has a story. What’s yours?