Socks on the floor, beer kisses and morning breaths

The other night I sat down on J bed and examined the bags with smelly laundry on the floor. And dirty socks.

-I was actually planning on sleeping with you tonight, but with that view I’m not that sure anymore…

Teenage fantasies about holding hands, imagining French kisses in the moonlight. About how romantic it will be to loose your virginity to the love of your life. How perfect your future sex life will be.

Those personal daydream movies were perfect comparing with reality. The first kisses – when you have no idea what to do and neither does the boy. And most of the first scoring second and third base – when he has no idea about girl’s anatomy and you’re too shy to say anything.

I remember going over and over my perfect vision of deflowering a boy I was in love with in middle school. The fantasy, the whole process from flirting at a party, inviting him to mine, with my parents magically absent, holding hands on the stairs to my room, taking off every piece of clothing. And I got stuck with the socks on him. Because, there is no pretty, sexy or even no not a funny way to take them off. And that was the only flaw that came up in all those year of dreaming.

Reality on the other hand has a number of those: beer kisses aren’t the pepper mint ones you wished to get, hands get sweaty on summer festivals, the condom break between foreplay and the race for the orgasm. And let’s be frank – people don’t really smell nice all the time, especially after a drinking night out.

How much charm are we ready to devote in order to fulfill our fantasies? It hurts sometimes to see masterpiece picture painted by your mind destroyed by that soulless monster called reality.

But, what’s the point of just replaying the situation in your head, when you can live it’s not that spotless, but materialized version?