Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens

Our car radio broke down on our trip to Finland (obviously the French cars can’t take the Finnish winter) so on the way back I had to entertain my husband. To avoid any conversation (what the hell can we talk about for 8 hours?) I suggested that I sing, but after I sang the same Patricia Kaas song 23 times, my husband finally agreed to answer my stupid 4.th grade questions; “What is your favourite film, comedy, book, actor, actress, song, country, city etc.”

He answered all my questions until I asked him about his sexual fantasy. This he just wouldn’t tell, he said he hadn’t any. Come on, as soon as my husband sees Tina Fey on television he starts slobbering incomprehensibly and if he sees Diane Ducret presenting coronary diseases from 16th century France on “Histoire”, his tongue falls between his legs.

What’s the big deal telling about sexual fantasies if it doesn’t include your neighbour or a colleague? I have lots of sexual fantasies, besides the lesbian one with Juliette Binoche. Amongst others, I dream of sex with Hemingway, this is very safe as he is dead. Even I am in love with Orhan Pamuk, he is still alive so I try to exclude him. What if he is a really bad lover? Would all his books lose the magic knowing that he only can perform for 15 seconds? I can’t take that risk, he might really be the love of my life and one day I will meet him. Then it is best not to have any expectations. There are a lot of men who can disappoint me but by doing that not taking anything with them, like George C. Yes, George is always a good choice.

I would also like to experience a male orgasm, just once before I die. Of pure curiosity.