Nerdboner

I've been having the secret hots for a character for quite some time. I dream of seducing him, slapping this red ponytail against his wrinkly forehead, vibrate the hammers in that big piano of his. Ugh wet dreams (my boyfriend knows about), right on! It's perfectly new&astonishing to me - I never ever had fantasies (which I shudder to even think of, the thought itself is embarassing) with imaginary people. It's guilty, it's sickening, it almost makes me feel angry about myself. And I'm very aware that I'm not attracted to Mr. Laurie himself, but to his television persona, the foul-legged, cynical, superhumanly intelligent misantrophe who invalidates everyone and they agree with him. He, this outerwordly sadist, is just so sexy that my mind needs to fuck him. There you have it, another example of the classical female 'I don't care what he does/ looks like/not even whether he is real or not as long as he makes me laugh and gives it to me hard (in my mind, like Eddie Izzard said)' syndrome.

On a deeper and more sexually appeased analysis, I observe some common traits between him and another fictional man I'm hugely attracted to - yes it's Sherlock Holmes. So it looks like I'm desperately fascinated with unreal intelligence and self-denial (mostly of feelings of compassion towards human kind, although I've always found Heathcliff a complete brute, so there's the exception). I like these men because, had they been real, I'd chicken out and faint in their presence. If they would touch the back of my neck with a fingernail, I'd hyperventilate instantly. I would just not dare TALK to them. I'd rather engage in submissive sexual dramatization. I would mute myself, ready to please them quietly. Ah, the allegory. I'm so glad I'm convinced no one like this actually exists. (Do they?)

This is psychologically crooked, it's bewilderingly stupid but it is a replacement for the first thrills of past dates. Just like I rejoyce in my friends' new romances, I emulate passion on what I know is safe territory. Because as unhealthy as it might sound, it is still both safe and sound. Like honey, overthinking stuff or the internet.

And then I go and spoil it all by reading something about the character development, just to tease myself a bit more. A great big part of Dr. Greg House is based on Holmes indeed, but his other side, his dark, occluded side is based on the detective from Touch of Evil - you know, the obese Orson Welles. The fascinating fat man with a walking cane, who nails an old Marlene Dietrich and commits illegal hybris. I'd fuck him too, with my intellects. But only a part of him. It's so great that I can specifically choose which one. (I'd mostly concentrate on his gaze and open lips.)

I'd also fuck Stephen Fry's voice, Attenborough's brain and Michio Kaku's body, but not that little Jew who wrote the character portrayed by Hugh Laurie. I wouldn't even go near the screenwriter, because as brilliant as he might be, he is real. And real is not exciting at all to a comitted woman.

I'm such a hypocrite, I despise all the other 70 million House fans just because they are so many. Actually I have a problem with my own self-esteem, since I expect me to choose more wisely, not fall for someone who is so annoyingly popular. So what really annoys me is my own gullible self. Thing is, my boyfriend has this primetime nerdboner too, in his own, manly way. Every Tuesday evening we long for him like Pavlov's dogs (I'm pretty sure he had more than one). And as much as I'd hate myself for allowing this, I really, now not secretely anymore, like it.

(And really despise it at the same time.)