Imaginary Fucking with Megan Lent – Part 1 of 4
by Megan Lent
I think everyone has at least one fictional or deceased person who they’d absolutely love to bang. I have many. Someone once referred to Voltaire as “Megan Lent’s Justin Beiber.” I don’t know if the kids still dig the Beibs (or if anyone ever actually called him “the Beibs”), but I do know that I get a total word-boner every time I talk about Candide, so it’s entirely possible that Justin Beiber was just everybody else’s Voltaire.
I know that this is weird concept. I also know that I like it. It’s like vaginas; they look like little aliens, but I still like having one. Of course, for breakfast this morning, I dipped powdered sugar donuts in a Go Girl. Just because I like something, doesn’t make it normal.
Bradley Whitford haunted my childhood as the smarmy, evil WASP who terrorized Adam Sandler in the modern horror epic Billy Madison. And then I started watching The West Wing, and my entire view of male sexiness did a 180. I mean, Josh has a receding Jewfro and dresses the way you’d think the deputy chief of staff would dress. But he’s brilliant and sarcastic and brutal and, like the rest of the supremely awesome Bartlet administration, at once idealistic and completely aware of the limitations of government. I just want to play with his hair and listen to him talk about financial policy forever and ever and ever (and maybe bring in Rob Lowe for some political sexual innuendos, wink wink.)
It is important to note that this is the only TV character I chose to include on my list of imaginary orgasm-donors, and that fact does not in any way represent how I feel about television. I love television. If I was to write a series of articles entitled “20th Century Inventions I Would Have Sex With,” television would be near the top of the list, just below the Internet, and just above the push-lamp. It’s just that I’d totally fuck Josh Lyman, but I’d never fuck Bradley Whitford. The man was on a buddy cop show with Colin Hanks, for chrissakes – and if you didn’t notice the innate douchebaggery of that premise, please reread that statement with emphasis on the phrases BUDDY COP SHOW and COLIN GODDAMN HANKS. Jesse Pinkman is basically every guy I liked in high school, Michael Bluth is a bona fide DILF, Charlie Kelly is like a walking shot of spray paint to the brain; likewise, Aaron Paul, Jason Bateman, and Charlie Day are exactly the kind of men I “accidentally run into” at the Starbucks in Studio City (never mind that I live a good thirty minutes from Studio City, or that I occasionally plan my caffeine fixes around various menfolk’s Twitter updates.) Not Whitford. Never.
But I would hide secretary Donna Moss in some White House closet just to work (or be) under Josh Lyman for ten minutes.