From Alana Noel Voth, a message despatched by pigeon post to Lust Bite Island, and brought to you via the wonders of science:
I was in my mid-twenties when I got hooked on a TV show called The X Files. I used to stay home Friday nights to watch it. Before The X Files was hip and commercial, when it was still underground and cultish, I watched it. No one knew what I was talking about.
The general assumption was I meant porn.
My version of porn. After all, I remember lying on the couch with The X Files flickering in front of me, silver light and shadows, then suddenly I'd left the room and was on my knees sucking Fox Mulder's cock, or Fox Mulder had his mouth on my cunt.
It wasn't unusual for me to masturbate during commercial breaks either.
It also wasn't unusual for me to fantasize Fox Mulder fucking me from behind, fucking me on my side, fucking me missionary style. Fucking me. Or me fucking him in his small dismal apartment in Washington DC, straddling him on a ratty couch near a window marked with an X.
The X-Files was a little show on the Fox Channel about two FBI agents, Dana Scully and Fox Mulder, who pursued the mysterious. The wacky and wicked. Frightful and freaky. Dangerous and perverse. The show was both spooky and slapstick. So was Fox Mulder.
Spooky Mulder they called him in college. Intelligent. Intense. Geeky. Articulate. Kinky. Lonely. Driven. Less than perfect.
Exhibit A: The big nose. His square jaw. Set of small bright eyes. Thin upper lip, pouty chapped bottom. Fox Mulder has the kind of face an artist conjures when she seeks perfection in flaws. I love flaws.
On the show, sexual tension brewed between the partners, Mulder and Scully. I used to write for Playgirl Magazine, and the first story I sold to them was my version of the Scully/Mulder screw. Mattress in an abandoned building, stained by a bit of blood, foul play. Damp darkness and white heat. Their limbs tied together like rope, lips bruised by kisses.
I coveted Fox Mulder for years. Still covet him now. Fox Mulder. Not David Duchovny. Not the actor. The character, Special Agent Fox Mulder. The only man on Earth I'd marry.
Why? Well I'd love to get into that. Here's a short but solid list, anyway.
1. Fox Mulder is never home. Surly I jest? Nah. A Special Agent spends eighty percent of his life chasing the truth that's out there, investigating mysteries and solving cases, which means this wife (me) gets to spend fifty percent of my time (I have a kid, remember) writing.
2. Fox Mulder is college educated and has written and published his dissertation. Call me pretentious, but I'm impressed. Know how many can't punctuate correctly let alone compose an entire thesis? For Mulder also reads. Travels the world. Has first hand experience with aliens and werewolves. Imagine all those intense conversations in bed after we've fucked.
3. He's amply employed. Always good in prospective husband material. After all, I'm a writer who made $150.00 last year writing.
4. He wears a long black trench coat. Nuff said. But leads to my next reason to marry Fox Mulder.
5. He's kinky. Watch enough episodes of The X-Files and it's evident Fox Mulder is not only a prime kinkster but hard up too, a mystery all in itself. Fox Mulder enjoys the services of phone sex operators; he frequents porn shops; and he'd probably hang out with me in a strip club too. Baby, lets tip the ladies.
6. He has a hot partner. Yeah, I'm talking about Dana Scully. The red head in quaint tailored suits. Imagine dinners with just the three of us. The conversation, the dessert.
Fox Mulder, only man on Earth I'd marry. Might explain why I'm still single. But in the meantime, who's your man, ladies, ldeal Husband Fantasy Fuck?