I was going to make this my new response to every friend who complains to me about their lackluster sex life. I was going to keep it as a mantra in my head since as you all know, given that I’ve spilled my aching guts here more than once, my own sex life is nothing to wax erotic over.
It’s too easy, though, to think the way a normal person thinks. To call upon the romantic ideals of the middle-class and see love and lust behind every thrust and moan. Sometimes a gyration is just a gyration, and a tongue is just a tongue. Sometimes people, including some pretty nice looking ones, put out for reasons that have nothing to do with the laws of attraction.
Fame, even one grainy speck of it, seems to act as an aphrodisiac. Somehow sleeping with a hairy, three-eyed hunchback is less repulsive if that hunchback has appeared in the National Enquirer, drunkenly pissed in a corner, or otherwise flaunted their fucked-upness in front of millions of people.
Others may ponder the perversity of humping a freakish celebrity little person and making a sex tape of the debacle, but I can’t help but see a broader, more positive issue here for us middle-class mensches.
I mean, c’mon people! If Verne Troyer can get laid. . .
Doesn’t this negate the whole meaning of impossible? Doesn’t it just turn the hollow thud of pipe dreams into a virtual waterslide of hope?
Maybe there really can be world peace. . .
Maybe there really will be a Democratic dream ticket.
Maybe Starbucks will bring back the Coconut Mocha Frappacino just for Tod,
and my friend Neil will live happily ever after with Sophia.
Maybe I really can make that paycheck stretch into next month. Maybe Trader Joe’s will open in my neighborhood. Hell, while I’m dreaming large. . .
Maybe there really will be a Mac Powerbook in my future. A small house by the beach, and a puppy that doesn’t hump his fleece toys at every opportunity. Maybe time will stop for about a year and let me finish at least 40 of the things I’ve started. Maybe I’ll learn the difference between sincerity and placation. Maybe chocolate really can be part of a balanced diet, and that cute girl at the bookstore won’t end up being an ex-cult member, reptile collector, or straight Republican!
And we don’t even have to be famous to realize our dreams! No, because in our little perverse world, there was no rational reason Verne Troyer got laid. If Vern were a leprechaun sitting on a pot of gold and boxes of Godiva, pulling a steady stream of pearls and diamonds out of his little ass, chances are 1001% that he would not get laid. The fact that he did only proves that the world makes no sense. And in a senseless world, no dream – no matter how unattainable our rational minds once thought they were – is off limits.
We, the everyday people, can skip fame, and all the paranoia and suspicion that goes with it. We’ll never have to worry, even at the heights of our dubious successes, if we are some vapid, attention-starved woman’s Verne Troyer. We’ll never have to feel dumb for mistaking that hand in our pocket for a romantic gesture. Best of all, we won’t have to suffer the humiliation of seeing our hard-wrought, sweating sex tapes in the dollar bin, where they’ll be sought after only by poverty stricken perverts and those looking for a gag gift.
Instead, when hope fails us and our dreams seem far away — when we’re reaching for the stars and ending up with palms full of pigeon shit — we only have to remember that Verne Troyer, drunken little person and sleepwalking pisser, got laid.
Now really, don’t your own dreams suddenly feel a little more obtainable?
