Imaginary F**king with Megan Lent – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Imaginary Fucking with Megan Lent – Part 2 of 4

See part 1 of this series.

I think everyone has at least one fictional or deceased person who they’d absolutely love to bang. I have many. 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.

fitzgeraldI was going to include Jay Gatsby on this list, but that just felt wrong. Because I don’t love Jay Gatsby; I love Scott Fitzy’s impossibly amazing brain. Yeah, he was an alcoholic and was married to a legitimately insane woman and, if Ernest Hemingway is to be believed, he didn’t have the biggest Eiffel Tower in the Parisian expat community, if you know what I mean (penis. I mean penis). But he wrote The Great fucking Gatsby. I honestly do not give a fuck he is responsible for the creation of Brad Pitt Ages Backwards Like A Less Dumb Forrest Gump. Saying that The Great Gatsby is not enough would be like saying that The Godfather is not enough: Francis Ford Coppola is an incredible director, and always will be considered an incredible director, even if his next film is Drive Angry 2: Yes, Nic Cage is My Nephew.  

A possible date with a reanimated S-Fitz would, I think, go something like this:

I descend the staircase of my shitty North Campus dorm and see him standing at the bottom, so Irish and golden that I want to touch myself harder than the Divinyls putting on suntan lotion with an oven mitt. “Why, Scott,” I say, “you caught me off-guard. I still have so much laundry to do.” He smiles and nods as my mistress (who coquettishly insists that she’s only my roommate, but if I don’t stop writing parenthetical romantic situations with Jazz Age authors, she’ll move out) walks by. We laugh about how funny it would be if she got in a car accident outside of her husband’s gas station underneath some sort of blatantly metaphoric billboard.

We then go to my room with a pint of Häagen Dazs – I’d wanted Ben & Jerry’s, but Scott said something about preferring brands that espoused racial purity – and I turn on Real Housewives of New Jersey (because he went to Princeton, get it?) As we watch Theresa and Jacqueline debate the proper size of silicone “bubbies” to purchase, I can’t help but feel like my existence could be nothing short of a symbol – no, the essence, the purest form – of the American dream, the blue future of jazz and impermanence and beauty. As I watch his flagpole rise to attention at my awe-inspiring display of the spirit of liberty, I tell him that I never really liked The Sun Also Rises, and he proposes on the spot.

About the Ranter:

Megan_Lent

 

Megan Lent

Megan Lent is a wonderfully unsuccessful blogger who likes to whine about literature at http://apostrophetothestars.blogspot.com/, and occasionally contributes to the steamy world of small-press fiction at Metazen and Housefire. She was the 62nd best speller in California in eighth grade, and used to run a brothel out of her parents’ house in Chicago. She lives in LA.

Imaginary F**king with Megan Lent – Josh Lyman

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.

josh lymanBradley 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.