Each
night and day I, and millions of others, are having sex with beautiful people.
Yes, I confess to putting my hands on thousands of breasts, to pleasuring
countless women, and to violating any number of laws, commitments, and ethical
norms as I satisfy my base desires.
Well,
a person can fantasize, can’t he?
Most
of us do. Some of us write of these
dreams. But can writing of – or reading such stories inspire one to live out
such an idea?
I
was reading a review about a revived play in an off-Broadway theater, written
in 1933, about a struggling writer whose wife of eight years encourages him to
sleep with their attractive friend. The
notion of an open marriage is explored.
Sometimes
we write about such things, to compensate for the circumstances that don’t
permit us to explore them firsthand. We
write them out of jealousy, out of a real desire to envision what it would be
like to experience the ecstasy of consuming a forbidden other. Other times we write of such things to
inspire others to follow their desires and curiosities, to allow them to
entertain what could really make them happy.
In this case, it was a confessional by the writer. His play reflected his actual lifestyle.
There
are many things I think about doing but don’t do for any number of
reasons. Probably the most common
obsession for all of us – and my most frequently occurring one – is to partake
in an unconventional sexual free-for-all.
But what stops me is not just all the practical, ethical, even legal
reasons, but rather it is that once I get to experience one of my fantasies, it
will no longer get to be a fantasy. Some
things are more pleasurable when they are denied to us.
If
I’ve lived what I dream about, what’s left? I
suppose a new fantasy would take its place.
But then it becomes like an addiction.
Getting drunk or high is not enough.
Now I need to be blitzed higher and for longer. Soon I’ll go on long binges and the joy,
excitement and newness of it will turn into something ugly and
destructive. You want to eat some candy,
but not the whole bag, and yet once you have a taste of the forbidden fruit you
consume more and more, uncontrollably and recklessly.
I
might see the play. It’s another way to live
my fantasy, to be with others who also desire the same thing. To see it acted out may be as close as I get
to living it, but I suspect witnessing it up close could bring me a step closer
to realizing the fantasy. Maybe I should
take my wife and have her feel awakened to the idea. For all I know, perhaps she wants to ask me
to the play.
Writers
have affairs of the mind and for now, not only is that the safer place, it may
also be the best place to be.
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