Welcome to our new feature, Celebrity Sex Dreams. It’s exactly what it sounds like: sex dreams we have had about famous people. To start things off, we tapped the subconsciousness of former Crushable deputy editor Drew Grant, who so totally wants to bone some weirdos.
I rarely have sex dreams. Which is weird, because even when I was a kid I had a concept of what sex was…or at least the queasy mechanics of it as taught by new-wave parents who believed that the conversation of sexuality started at The Rocky Horror Picture Show and ended when a child gets sent to the principal’s office for “inappropriate touching” during homeroom. (Although I’m still not sure how the touching was inappropriate, as both my hand and the crotch of my jeans were consenting partners.)
I’ve always been a very vivid dreamer, so you would think boning would have turned up there somewhere. But in my entire life, there have only been two instances that even came close to dream-sex: both times with a famous character, and both times really weird.
The first was when I was about 9, and I dreamt I was in a giant warehouse that was completely empty, save for a gold canopy bed. My friend Lauren had a canopy bed, and I always associated it with romantic notions of princesses and love. In my dream, I was lying on the bed with Smithers from The Simpsons. Even at that early age, I remember thinking how weird it was: not because a cartoon character was undressing me, but because he was a gay cartoon character. This must have been after the Malibu Stacy episode, where the sexuality of Mr. Burns’ assistant is not so subtly revealed when Smithers boots up his computer:
Not much happened with that scenario…even in my fantasy, Waylon Smithers was squeamish; refusing to take off his underwear. We probably dry-humped for a while, or did whatever a child’s dream interpretation of dry-humping was. I think it was influenced as much by Cool World as The Simpsons, but I woke up feeling vaguely disappointed that even in my dreams, (cartoon) (gay) men were repulsed by me.
My sexual subconscious manifested itself again about a year later in the form of a reoccurring dream. Bear with me here, because this one is even stranger: Once every couple of months, I would dream of a woman all dressed in black and wearing a dark veil over her face would appear in my room. She’d never speak, but would just point to the area under my bed, where I could climb between my floorboards and descend into another world, where the earth was on fire and the sky full of bright stars. Freddy Krueger would be waiting there to court me.
I’m talking “court me” in the medieval sense. He had a castle (on fire), and flying horses (not on fire), and could make himself look like Brad Pitt. Why Brad Pitt? I have no idea. I didn’t even really know who Brad Pitt was, except that he and Tom Cruise were supposed to be every little girl’s fantasy.
Freddy Krueger would always offer me the same deal: Stay with him in the dream world, and I would live as his queen. Anything I could imagine would be mine, and Freddy could change his appearance to look like whomever I wanted (which at that time happened to be Jeff Goldblum from Jurassic Park). The only condition was that every so often, we would have to go catch some teenagers in their dreams and then scare them to death. Kind of like how Geena Davis and Alec Baldwin tried to scare off Winona Rider‘s family in Beetlejuice.
It actually sounded kind of fun. In my dreams, Freddy and I got along great: we shared a hated teenagers (babysitters, mostly), had the same ironic sense of humor, and liked to scare the shit out of people. (In the real world, I had been known to lock my little sister in the basement after she had inadvertently seen Poltergeist on TV; an air vent leading from my room to right behind basement’s television made it very easy to convince a 6-year-old that her sister had been sucked into a ghostly dimension.) Freddy and I were a match made in hell, obviously.
But every time I had this dream I would demur his offer. God knows why: to this day I still think I would have made an awesome Mrs. Freddy Krueger. And Freddy, always the gentleman, would sadly lie me down on his nightmare chariot, and kiss me all over. (And by all over, I mainly mean my tummy.) Then he would gently pick me up with his hands — fun fact: Freddy only has knives for fingers when he is trying to kill you — and pull me back into the waking world, promising that he’d be back soon to ask to marry me again.
I had that dream consistently until I was around thirteen. Then the dreams stopped, and I haven’t had one since. It was a sad end to my childhood, like when Wendy got too old to fly to Never-Never Land. The really weird part though, was that it wasn’t until I was in college that I ever actually saw the movie A Nightmare on Elm Street.
I now own two copies of The Dream Warriors which is universally acknowledged to be the first of the Freddy films where Robert Englund starts coming up with funny little quips relating to characters’ deaths, usually ending in the word “bitch.”
Man, that never fails to make me chuckle. He showed Zsa Zsa what was up! I watch these scenes with the same kind of bittersweet wistfulness that is usually reserved for checking out your ex-boyfriend’s Facebook page.
So I guess the point of this story is that I had a really screwed-up psyche as a child. Or no, the real message of this story is for Freddy Krueger: if you happen to be listening…I’m ready now.