EVERYONE wonders. But actually finding out your boyfriend has a very specific fantasy involving Emily Atack and a pair of Marigolds is never, ever worth finding out:
You might be related to her
Men are famously bad at reading cues. Instead of saying ‘Charlize Theron, because she reminds me of you’ he might tell the truth, and it might be ‘your sister.’ Immediately you’ll unfairly blame her and spend every moment of family occasions watchful and resentful of that double-dealing Jezebel who has no idea what she’s done.
You can’t help but compare yourself
Even if he blamelessly says ‘Carmen Electra’ you won’t let it rest there. In which film? In which outfit? That one specifically? Well she looks nothing like me there. Not the hair or anything? So if that’s what you fancy what are you doing with me? It ends at 2am with you screaming ‘I’m not getting a boob job’ into his uncomprehending face.
You might never have heard of her
Even worse, it could be a stranger from two worlds you’re deeply suspicious of: all the women he’s met who you haven’t met, or porn. An exotic name points to the latter category and you’ve got to Google it, haven’t you? And now you’ve compiled a short list of all the things you won’t be doing in bed and why he should be ashamed.
It could just be deeply weird
This is the person you’ve sworn to love no matter what, to support in times in sorrow and in joy, and he’s telling you he milks the eel to a specific episode of Sooty and Sweep? To a particularly erotic section of Art Attack he found on YouTube? Konnie Huq-era Blue Peter is understandable.
It could ruin popular culture
Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman? Logical. Susanna Hoffs at any age? Lovely. Joan Sims in the Carry On films? What the f**king f**k? You’re lying awake staring at the ceiling wondering how he’d feel about coming home tomorrow to find you and all your stuff gone, and deciding you don’t care.
It could be you
Either a pathetic attempt to seem devoted or worse, the truth. He’s there in his head performing all kinds of filthy perversions on your innocent, imagined body. And now you’ve got to say ‘And I wank about you, darling,’ and pretend you’re not six years deep in a fantasy about Harry Styles in decorators’ overalls.