Now I know a talk a big game about s*x and all that, but really, when it comes right down to it, I’m a romantic. Yeah, lately I’ve been obsessed with giant c**ks, but that’s only cause I’m not getting any (in the Clintonian sense, that is.) Or rather, the boys who wanna give it to me won’t commit so they’re not getting any. Ha.



But I digress.



Tonight, I let myself have fantasies of a kind that I haven’t had in a long, long time. And not about giant c**ks. These were wedding fantasies. Oh-my-God-you’re-such-a-beautiful-bride fantasies. Kid fantasies (two brunette daughters). Fancy-house-on-Lake- Washington-with-hardwood-floor fantasies. Honeymoon -in-paradise-fantasies. Happily-ever-after-fantasies.



There was absolutely no justification except, perhaps, boredom. It was a long car ride home from the mountains after our family holiday trip. (All went well except I called my mother a bit*h on Christmas Eve, which is not bad considering five years ago on Christmas Eve, I threw a spoon that hit her in the face. That was after she had called me "sl*t." This time she had only called me a “pain in the neck.” We’re all a little mellower now).



Maybe it’s because for the last two years I thought I was going to marry Loser, yet I could never bring myself to fantasize about our wedding. I got as far as my hairdo (French twist), the guest list (50 on my side, 2 on his), potential locales (Orcas Island, Port Townsend) the music (karaoke) and then bam – I hit a wall. I couldn’t picture the saying-vows part, much less the happily ever after part. And for good reason, I guess. Because he was a lying, cheating SOB!



But I digress.



Maybe I'm just tired of being so cynical about relationships lately. So clenched with fear, and so certain that things will end badly, no matter who I'm with. I think a good wedding fantasy might be like a good cry; you just need to have one once in a while. And so I did.



For a good hour, I fantasized all about you-know-who (and if you don’t I’m not going to tell you because you'll just be disappointed in me), and really, it’s my mother’s fault because all weekend she was asking me questions about him, encouraging me to pursue him despite every red flag known TO MAN.



And not once in that hour did I think about s*x or the size of his c*ck (which of course I haven’t seen, so can only imagine how big it might be). No, it was all about love and kisses and white dresses and bliss, with absolutely no realism—much less cynicism—whatsoever. And all I have to say about it was this:



It rocked.