this is probably the shortest of them all.

so we’re there, chilling at a pizza party. he tells me that if i’ve got a blunt, then we can get high. i happen to have a joint. so that night i smoke the joint with him. we find ourselves in bed. when i wake up, he’s gone.

i lie in bed as i realize that i had just had crazy, off the wall sex with the diplomat’s son.

that’s it.

this one’s relatively short.

i go to one of ringo’s concerts. in the middle of his set, i look down at the floor and find a backstage pass. i pick it up quickly and put it around my neck. later that evening, i go backstage. i enter the dressing room.

there, sitting with his band, is ringo. he is even more cuddly in person. without hesitation, i drop to the floor and grovel at his feet. “be still, my child,” he says. i stop my groveling and raise myself up on one knee, curling my hand into a fist and placing it across my chest to rest on my opposite shoulder. i bow my head.

ringo rises, producing a scepter from behind his seat. he touches it to both of my shoulders, announcing, “i hereby declare thee a knight of the peace and love army.”

he gestures to the man at his right and is handed a pair of official ringo drumsticks. he places them in my hand, and i feel something change within me.

“go forth, noble one. do your duty to your army. go forth and rock.”

i bow my head. “i shall, master.”

i rise and bow one last time to ringo and his band before exiting the room. i now have a quest. it is time to fulfill my destiny.

it’s a tad shorter, but just as passionate. 

i’m walking down the street, strutting my stuff. i come to a corner and press the button to cross the street. i look up and lock eyes with julian. he is on the other side. i take a deep breath. this is the moment i have been preparing for my entire life.

i square my shoulders. i walk proudly, confidently, with a sense of purpose. we approach each other. times slows. i feel my hand twitch by my side. in the middle of the crosswalk he stops to check his watch. it’s not working again. this is it. this is my moment.

i come to a stop next to him. we’re facing opposite directions. cautiously, i move my hand closer to his butt. he doesn’t seem to notice, still occupied with his watch. at last my hand meets the worn denim of his jeans. i am touching julian casablancas’s butt. this is it.

he looks up but doesn’t turn to me, staring directly ahead of him as if experiencing an epiphany. slowly, i go up on my tiptoes, lean over to his ear and whisper, “fo’shella.”

i give his butt one final squeeze, inhale one last time the tantalizing aroma of leather, sweat and stupidity. i cross the street.

by the time he snaps out of his reverie and turns to look behind him, i’m out of view. he appears dazed, shaking his head as he tries to sort out what just happened. he crosses the rest of the street and makes his way home. for a moment on the sidewalk he pauses and turns his head to face the sky, looking upon it with a newfound sense of wonder. he feels he has learned something, though he doesn’t know what.

from the top of a building on the other side of the street i watch, satisfied with the results of my actions. my work is done. i’ve accomplished all that i have set out to do. all is well.

alright, this is my ultimate fantasy.

i break into alex turner’s house. i stealthily slither across the floor like a snake in the grass, virtually undetectable. i go for his leather jacket. just as i touch i touch the bottom of the left sleeve, the light turns on. i turn. alex is there. he is wearing footed pajamas with multicolored margaritas on them. he sees me. he tells me to stop. i say no. we make love all night. i leave at dawn, leaving a note behind telling him to meet me by the death balloon. he thinks i’m serious. he spends 5 sleepless nights trying to find an address. he doesn’t realize that i’ve just quoted one of his songs. he has forgotten his own lyrics.

flash forward 10 years. i’m vacationing in paris, spending my afternoons people-watching at a small cafe named Le Petit Poisson. i am about to finish my crepe when a shadow comes over me. i look up. it’s alex. he’s aged well, though he now sports a rather shaggy mullet. he tells me that he waited for me by the death balloon for 3 months (apparently there is a bed and breakfast in rural illinois called “the death balloon”). i stand, leaning over to peck him on the lips. he’s stunned, his surprise disorienting him for long enough for me to make my escape. he chases me for 9 blocks. finally i duck into an alleyway. it’s a dead end. i turn slowly, the sound of boots clacking across the pavement echo off the brick walls. he produces his guitar out of nowhere. he steps atop a trashcan and jumps, striking his signature pose before his foot collides with the side of my head. everything goes black.

i jolt awake. i’m in a hotel room, in a bed. it was all a dream.

i sigh in relief, turning on my side to face the wall as i prepare to fall asleep again.

my eyes slide shut, and i’m just about to drift off when i hear a noise behind me. a voice whispers in my ear, “tha knows.”

i jolt awake again, this time finding that i’m in my own room, in my own bed. it was a dream within a dream. i rub my face, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened. i walk to the bathroom and wash my face. as i reenter my room, i hear a strange noise. i look to my desk. there, a top is spinning. the word “inception” is whispered behind me, but when i turn around there is no one there. as i turn back to face the top, i am horrified. folded neatly beside the top is alex’s leather jacket, with the note i wrote to him lying on top.

cut to black. directed by christopher nolan slowly fades in. the credits roll.

…

sexy fantasy ain’t it?