I definitely have some fantasies that center on less than sanitary locations – like dirty basements, for example. There’s just something about being forced to do something so wet and sexual in such an unsexy environment. Dusty offices with wood-paneled walls and ancient equipment cluttering the desks. Empty alleys next to the garbage bins and oil-soaked asphalt. Lower levels of empty parking garages under a flickering fluorescent bulb. Hard-tiled bathrooms with clogged air vents and graffiti all over the stall doors that don’t actually lock and have way too large a gap between the door and the frame to offer any viable privacy.
I even have fantasies about being groped by unsexy men. It’s that whole “I have no choice in this” thing that attracts me to it.
Because, of course, if I had a choice (and I do), it would be with someone I find attractive in a warm and comfy bed with high thread-count sheets, six pillows, a bottle of Evian on the bedside table, and a bidet in the bathroom for later. (Yes, I just described my bedroom).
But that’s why I love fantasies. In my mind, I’m the set designer, script writer, art director, wardrobe director, makeup artist, and director.
I’m the auteur of my own imagination. In those stories, I get to do all those dirty, depraved things without requiring a prescription for antibiotics (or filing a police report). It’s not *real* dirty. It’s “Hollywood” dirty.
Would it be fun to get thrown up against a wobbly desk with a dust-covered CRT monitor and a yellowing plastic wired keyboard in a rough-carpeted office with brown aluminum mini-blinds on the windows and a concave mirror in the corner that shows what’s happening in every roach-infested corner of the paper and cable-littered building?
The beauty of this imagination thing is that I just had that experience, and I can modify or repeat it again whenever I want to call it up.
Now, please excuse me while I go open a bottle of Evian and use the bidet.