Fantasy

Brad Pitt at the Burn After Reading premiere

Image via Wikipedia

There I am, at the reception desk of a perfectly nice hotel, with my best pal Brad Pitt (it might be Nicolas Cage or even Viggo Mortensen actually – the face is a bit blurry).  I’ve no idea of the purpose for our stay, but what’s that got to do with anything? This is fantasy, right?

And whaddya know? Our booking for two single rooms has got mixed up. The hotel is fully booked except for one last double. Every other hotel in the area is stacked to the rafters, it’s a wild and stormy night and the only other option is to sleep in the car.

What’s a girl to do?

So I turn to Brad/Nick/Viggo and say in my very best we’re-all-adults-here-I’ve-seen-it-all-before-jolly-hockey-sticks voice, “I’m sure we could make do, couldn’t we? If the hotel could find us a few extra blankets and pillows I don’t mind taking the floor.”

And before you can say “tickle-me-with-a-feather-till-I-squeal-you-sexy-beast”, we’re in the room, feeling this huge attraction to each other but trying desperately not to show it. I’m snuggling under a quilt on the floor, doing my best to cover the Minnie Mouse nightdress which is all I thought to bring with me, having had no idea my super-stud movie star best pal and I would be getting cosy.

The lights are out and I’m actually getting sleepy when his growly voice rumbles in the dark…

“You must be uncomfortable down there. It’s a big bed. We can be grown up about this. Wanna double up..?”

Now it might be occurring to you at this point that the selfish bugger should have offered to take the floor in the first place, but that would ruin the whole fantasy.

So of course I slip in beside Brad/Nick/Viggo (whose face, rather worryingly, is becoming even more fuzzy, even allowing for the fact that we’re in a dark room). After a while spent clinging for dear life to my edge of the mattress, we accidentally brush against each other. We ignore it but then one of us moves again and there it is…another little touch. And another. And before you know it we’ve given up any pretence of the touching being accidental.

Now at this point, the fantasy should start getting interesting. Oh BOY, should it start getting interesting! We’re in serious bone-jumping territory now.

Where were we?

Oh yes. Touching. Stroking. Holding.

Wait a minute. Where are you? What’s going on?

Don’t go! You haven’t even kissed me yet, you bastard. Get back here!

The fact is, I’m crap at fantasies. You might have gathered that when my Minnie Mouse nightdress had a star turn in the show; when I was actually getting sleepy right before Mr Hot Buns invited me into bed; when the face of my paramour was a blur? I know the whole idea of a fantasy is that it’s all pretend, but my stupid brain insists on the truth.

Look brain, you’ve let me get as far as pretending that I’m in this sodding bed with the man of my dreams. You’ve even got me to the point of believing that he wants to make whoopee, for God’s sake! Just a bit more? Please?

Sorry old girl. No can do. Minnie Mouse? Like it. Rumpy pumpy? Get over yourself!

Am I alone here? Aren’t women supposed to be experts at dreaming up saucy stuff? Is my sadly lacking imagination the only problem here or has it simply been so long since I had a real toe-tingling, shirt-ripping experience that I’ve forgotten how it even feels?

Perhaps I just need to practice. Eyes tight shut, no distracting noise, that sort of thing? It started off well but then images of the hotel got me speculating whether we could afford a holiday next year. Lost the dream.

I tried staring at a photo of my hunk but I just started wondering if he wasn’t looking a little jowly these days. Lost the dream.

Props maybe? That slinky, strappy nightdress I was given six Christmases ago might have done the trick if I hadn’t turned it into a cushion cover the following Spring. Lost the dream…and the cushion cover.

The truth is, I’m not cut out for fantasising. Real life intrudes. Truth intrudes, damn it!

On reflection, I’ll settle for what I’ve got. It’s a nice hotel and Brad/Nick/Viggo is a good pal, even if he doesn’t offer to take the floor in an accommodation crisis.

And perhaps one day, if I’m very lucky, he might just kiss me goodnight.

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About Mandy Cochrane

I'm a control freak but I'm also a pushover, I cry too easily but don't cry when I really need to, I'm a workaholic but too lazy to do the things that really matter. I'm a whole mixed up bag of conundrums. I'll work it all out one day. Probably.

Posted on September 2, 2011, in Being a Woman and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 3 Comments.

  1. Stay away from my man. Ohhhhh, don’t act all coy, like he was yours first just because you wrote this in sept. the blurr was because he was making an appearance in my dream that night and left you with a stand in. That’s right a look alike, ish , esque to get you through to the point where you almost kissed and then poof, even his look alike joined in my Bratt Pitt dream orgy… and don’t think I didn’t borrow your Minnie Mouse dress that showed all the right bits of skin. A little neck, the bottom half of my knee. Oh we were squeaking like mice, yes, I realize the last line was not that sexy, but you get the picture. Come calling for Brad on Saturday night, assuming I’m inebriated enough I’ll barely dream and he can be all yours. I’ll fall off some randomly placed ledge and not budge until morning.

    Much Love,
    Jenny From the Blog

  2. We can work this out Jenny. We’re in different time zones – it’s easy! I’ll have him UK nights and by the time I’m finished with him you’ll just be turning back the sheets for bed yourself. Problem solved.

  3. Mandy- this is why I find all British people smart… even when I can’t hear their accents. OK, we can be friends, just don’t wear him out!

    xo
    Jenny from the blog

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