Unexpected Fantasies

George Bernard Shaw said, “There are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart’s desire. The other is to get it.” I wasn’t even aware of this quote when I titled my Senior Thesis project “The Disappointment of Sleeping with One’s Fantasy.” Borrowed from the novel I was focusing on, Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex, my title expresses Bernard’s same postmodern dilemma. Why do our real life experiences seldom live up to our fantasies? Are those with little or no imagination never disappointed? Is the only antidote to tragedy lowering our expectations to a point where even the simplest surprise is cause for celebration?

Birthdays, holidays, presents, trips to Grandmas, movies, toys, and picture books: so many things we instinctually enjoyed growing up begin to not only lose their luster as we age, but increasingly turn into sources of anxiety. We stress over what to buy, what we get, who to spend it with, who was there, what so and so thought, and if it was all worth our money, our time: which suddenly seems like the most precious commodity of all. The magic of Santa Claus is lost and we begin to direct our disappointment at real people. Our expectations of their contributions plague our ability to be appreciative.

As we move into adolescence, our expectations continue to fall on real people, but they take on a fantastic quality once again. Every teen movie depicts the nerd lusting after the head cheerleader, the awkward girl for the football player, and more often than not, they fall in love. Simple fantasies come to life, no different than the Disney movies that entertained us when we were young. We fall for teen heartthrobs and pinup models, kissing their posters in lieu of their presence. From afar, I fell for an author.

Most of us who end up in publishing and every English major in college, can tell you at the drop of a hat what their favorite authors and books are. These authors are rarely, if ever, objects of our sexual desires. If you even know what they look like authors are often awkward, nerdy, and usually old or dead. For a gay teen, the two categories seemed even less likely to overlap. But in one person they did. When I was 16 I discovered my favorite author in his first novel that described a high school experience quite different than mine, yet fraught with so many of the same underlying emotions I could barely breathe until it ended.

I followed the author to college. As I began to take control of my own sexuality, I mimicked the sensuality of his new character, navigating campus life and mastering Seduction 101. Before I became a bonafide ‘adult,’ my author revealed his personal struggle with vice in his third novel and I saw in the story the slippery slope abandonment of self-control could lead to, if I wasn’t careful as well.

To say it wasn’t a fantasy to meet this author would be a lie. To say I expected to seduce him would also be a lie. There was nothing calculated or smooth about the evening we first met. We played the parts we’d been assigned in reality. He was the author, I was the fan, he board member, me volunteer, he older, attractive, single, me younger and willing. Any other night it would have just been two guys who met and acted impulsively. But it wasn’t any other night, it was our first meeting in the six years I had known him, and the first moment he knew of my existence.

The next morning, I dressed quickly, and made my way down to the lobby via the two elevators it had taken to get to the top floor. I walked to the train as if it was any other morning, any other walk of shame, but it wasn’t. It was the morning after I had fantasy fulfilled, a fantasy I didn’t even know I had. Perhaps the very best kind of fantasy is one you never expected.

The next time we saw each other, we played the appropriate roles once again. He author, me acquaintance and fan of his work, we were friendly and casual, the way only two people who’ve never seen each naked but once can be. Before I could fantasize that the night would carry us any further, I headed quickly for the door. We now both had other stories to tell. I clutched a signed copy of his new book to my chest. I got exactly what I expected.

It’s funny that fantasies can leave us so dissatisfied and empty when they’re fulfilled. The excitement of intoxication is always dulled by our hangover. Falling in love for the first time, only to have it dissolve overnight is like waking up from a dream of a life we never thought belonged to us, yet miss more than anything.

I once heard that people afflicted with bi-polar disorder are more likely to commit suicide at the peak of their manic phase. They know how low they are about to emotionally sink. I think people who die of a broken heart do so not because their heart is broken, but because they fear it will never be whole again.

Our fantasies, our heart’s desire, our expectations and anticipation: they are so often ruined by reality. But without them, what would reality be? I suppose we can only hope it’s a series of unexpected fantasies, which may be postmodern, but definitely not tragic.