When I’m happier, I tend to fantasize more. When less happy, to act more.
My actions might be truly maladaptive – smoking, drinking, acting out sexually. Or they might be healthier – writing, working, cleaning. But there’s a big difference between action and fantasy, and the latter is, in me, a definite indicator of good things.
In the last 24 hours, I have had the following rush of fantasies:
- Tearing the sheitel off a sexy observant Jewish woman I know, instructing her to kneel before me, and fucking her face.
- Stealing the temptress away from her husband – only for an hour – and returning her, well used.
- Reenacting the Sharon Stone/Basic Instinct scene with a professional acquaintance with whom it simply couldn’t be less appropriate.
- Writing a book based on interviews with sex workers. For which I pay, as a john.
- Being a fly on the wall for a therapy session of a beautiful, troubled woman I know just a little.
- Collecting the compliance of a beautiful, intriguing lawyer I met a few months ago, but on whom I politely ghosted due to the distractions of life.
In the next 24, I hope to have more.