I can picture myself having sex with almost any female star (and — on lonely days — John Travolta). I see them on the screen and immediately imagine a scenario that will get the blood flowing to all the right places. (Oh, look! Susan Sarandon and I are playing strip poker in a private room in Vegas. I hope my queen-high flush beats whatever she’s got, because that bra has got to come off.) There is one star, however, who has always eluded my twisted, vaguely erotic mind movies: Ellen DeGeneres. (There are some evangelists who may refer to her as Ellen Degenerate. I don’t remember the exact saying that relates to this, but I know it has something to do with a pot calling a kettle black or some such nonsense.) I know what you are saying. “Doug, Ellen’s a lesbian. She doesn’t like men. No wonder you can’t have a fantasy about her.” You, dear friend, are wrong.
I have plenty of fantasies about lesbians — including (but not limited to) Rosie O’Donnell. You don’t get lesbians more famous than her. In my perfectly acceptable — and I might add, reasonable — fantasy, Rosie and I are handcuffed together — naked — and are made to have sex at the whim of an angry Cuban rebel who just wants to “experience the wonders of capitalism first hand.” So don’t tell me that my inability to picture Ellen and I in a similar situation is because she likes vaginas more then penises. It has to be something else, and I tried to figure out why.
I had the same problem with Madonna for a few years, and then one day I had a dream about going down on her in the back of a limo. Like clockwork, I had the same dream once a year for a few years in a row. Now I’m able to picture us in any sexual situation, though I hesitate to do so because she’s seen more tongue action down there than the Blarney Stone. I’m very germaphobic. (That said, I would perform oral sex on her if forced to at gunpoint while wearing a nun’s habit. Hint, hint.)
The Ellen problem hasn’t been solved by any dreams, though. In fact, I’ve never had a dream about Ellen — not even when her sitcom was hot. What gives? To find out, I had to do an experiment.
I sent my wife and daughter out of the home a few nights ago, telling them that I had to do research for an “Excess Hollywood” column. Usually this means I have to download porn, but I was telling the truth this time.
“What kind of research?” my wife asked, strapping my child in her car seat.
“I have to figure out why I can’t picture Ellen DeGeneres having sex with me.”
My wife must have had some place to go, because she left the apartment fairly quickly, which left me to my own devices.
In my closet I have various celebrity disguises I use when I want to pull off a prank or some sort of crime. My favorite is my Cuba Gooding, Jr. get-up from “Radio.” I’ll often dress as him (complete with Billy Bob teeth and blackface), hop in a shopping cart and zoom down a hill while throwing eggs at white children playing in their well-manicured yards. I’ve never been stopped by the police while doing this. Middle class white people are afraid of black people and feel sorry for the mentally retarded. It’s a win-win for me.
The disguise I was after, though, was one I used when purchasing items at the Bayshore Mall with stolen credit cards. That’s right, I was going to dress like Anne Heche. I figured that if she couldn’t make the fantasy work, nobody could.
The second part of this plot involved Elle. Elle is the fancy name for what is really EL. That stands for Emergency Lay, and is an inflatable woman that I save for desperate situations. I pumped her full of air, wrote “ELleN” across her ample bosom, and then put us in a variety of exotic poses while I tried to maintain an erection. Our limbs flailed like a newborn baby’s, but that was about it. I still wasn’t able to come up with an acceptable fantasy. So I tried some porn. That usually works with hookers, so why not Ellen? Apparently her tastes are more mature, so I scrapped that idea after four volumes from the “Filthy F*****s” series. And then I knew what went wrong.
Ellen is like any other woman — lesbian or not. They just want to hear a few well-mannered lies about their hair and butt size, and they’re yours. Putty in the proverbial pants.
I tossed my blonde hair out of my eyes (the wig went a little south during our attempts at love making) and said, “Ellen, you’ve got a beautiful a*s, and your hair looks like you got the good chick at Supercuts. What do you say we get it on?”
It worked, folks. It worked. Suddenly I was able to picture us doing all kinds of wonderful things. Nothing was off limits. All ports were stormed (including my own). And, as opportunity would have it, my wife came home at that moment.
It was awkward at first, but after I explained what I was doing, my wife seemed very interested in helping me in my new plan to convince Ellen to live out my fantasies for real. (I needed to know if I was on the right track here.) I told my wife to grab the Polaroid for some pictures of me and Elle, and she muttered something about getting “all the evidence” she needed and “full custody” before running off to collect the camera.
(As an aside, of all the visual mediums, Polaroids make everything seem dirtier. DVDs are too clean, and black and white photos in regional swingers mags with titles like “Connexxions” and “Tri-State Swing Dates” just seem sleazy. Polaroids have that basement/tomorrow’s regrets kind of feel all over them, and that’s why I use them when taking nudie pictures to send to the stars.)
I’m going to send Ellen the photos along with some condoms, duct tape, my cell phone number and a letter promising her the time of her life. If I worked this hard to be able to fantasize about her during credit card commercials, the least she can do is see if we have chemistry in real life.
So, readers, keep your fingers crossed. If there’s a god in this world, by the time you read this I’ll be enjoying the filling in Ellen’s sex pie. And if there’s not, I just may be in jail. Either way, someone’s getting their fantasy fulfilled.
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