I remember laying in my bed, with all the lights off, trying to force myself to cry while Prince sang his heart out, and Purple Rain came pouring from my tape deck. It usually worked. 13 year olds have a particular talent for method acting.
He wailed and groaned and moaned and peaked my sexual curiosity as Darling Nikki showed us no mercy.
It didn’t matter that he wore more make-up than I did or that he was at least twice my age
and about a foot shorter than me. He had an attitude and a motorcycle and he wanted to be my fantasy.
“If we can’t find no place to go, Girl I’ll take you to a movie show. Sittin’ in the back, and I’ll jack you off”
I didn’t stand a chance.
Later in life, and by later in life I mean after actually having sex, instead of just smothering myself with my pillow and writhing around in my bed imagining what it might be like;
After watching 9 1/2 weeks and Wild Orchid; my fantasies evolved and led to sex in public places, amateur attempts at bondage and ambushing my boyfriend with whipped cream and chocolate sauce or Jello parties in the bathtub.
That stuff stains by the way so for any of you first time Jello partiers, best choose your timing wisely.
“You just leave it all up to me… my love will be your food.”
And then…somewhere along the line, without me even noticing, my fantasies were hijacked.
I now lay in bed and pray that tonight I’ll get more than 4 or 5 hours of sleep.
I dream less and less about sex with strangers (I said less, I’m not dead) and more about moving to
California, to a house with a pool, where I will never have to shovel snow again.
I catch myself wondering how many years are left before the kids move out.
I fantasize more and more about front loading washing machines, maids and personal trainers… for my dog. Not so much about 4 foot drag queens on motorcycles with purple tears cascading down their blush stained cheeks…
“It’s such a shame our friendship had to end. Purple rain, Purple rain…”