Can You Live This Fantasy Life?


I wanted to be Devin's bad girl so badly I could taste it.

by Julie Robinson

   They may not be the words every girl wishes to hear in her lifetime, but “I want you to be my bad girl” rings like bells in my ears the morning Devin texts that delightful little proposal to me.  Being exclusively bad with a man has been my secret little fantasy.  If I was going to give it all to my man why would I want to behave?

Dating experts err on the conservative side when it comes to women showing their wild side to a new love interest.  Kissing is fine, but anything involving removing undergarments or beyond is simply out of the question.  At this point in the game, Devin and I have made out for three solid hours in a local tavern’s leather booth on our second date.  So, while technically I am following the advice of the Wise Ones, I am also opening myself up for opening myself up.

“What is ur fantasy?” Devin sends this innocuous text the morning after our kissfest as I stroll downtown looking for a place where I can spread out and grade papers while also grabbing a bite to eat.  I know he is at work, so instead of thinking about how my fantasy might be taken by a man I barely know, I think about how fun it is going to be to get him groaning in his cubicle.

“This fantasy,” I type while munching on a hot dog from a street vendor, “is something I may not even want to do, but I sure do get hot thinking about it.”  From there I include my desires about location, the inclusion of strangers, letting go of all decision making powers, and what will go on in and out of hot bubbly water.  I edit, revise, cut, and clarify—hoping to work the same kind of magic on him as it does on me.  I look up from where I’m sitting legs crossed and blush a vivid red.  I am very specific. 

The last words I type are:  Now tell me, what’s your fantasy?

“I want to do it with your heels on.”  Gulp.  Where I am busy swapping partners, Devin is still in the land of swapping spit.  He isn’t even interested in trying on my underwear!  Who is this imposter and where is my I-want-you-to-go-nuts-on-me-now future partner in crime?  What am I supposed to do with this guy who wants me to keep my shoes on while I am busy orchestrating various role playing scenes involving blindfolds and handcuffs?  

Instead of thinking:  Clearly I don’t want this guy.  He’s way too mild for me. 

I think:  Yikes!  How am I going to repair this damage now that he knows what I’m really like?

Not only do I feel the stinging betrayal of being led into a trap, but I also instinctively know that being a super sexually charged woman leads men to polarize me into the second half of the “virgin/whore” dichotomy.  This in itself doesn’t particularly bother me, but I do find that they don’t know how to treat “whores” with respect.  The other (what I find more troubling) piece to this is that rather than simply scoff at his lame-ass attempts at revving my engines with “wear your heels, okay baby?”--I’m busy fretting about how he’s going to view me because of my creative proclivities. 

Seriously, what’s the point of fantasizing if you’re not going to stretch your sexual muscles—at least in your head?

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