Lena Dunham. She was a graduate student at an Ivy League school that may or may not have been Columbia.
We met because I walked in on a meeting of girls on her dormitory hall. Most of the girls were Indian, Chinese and Korean. At one point, I muttered something completely inappropriate about how attractive they all were, and Lena Dunham walks over and sweetly chastises me. “You really can’t afford to be that pathetic,” she says. So I nod and follow her around like a puppy dog. Pathetically.
She leads me by the hand to a stretch limo. Inside are Lena, myself and two hot Indian gals in their 20s wearing the kinds of high-class dresses one would wear to an awards ceremony. Lena Dunham is wearing more casual clothing. A white blouse or something, and maybe a medium-length skirt; I can't recall exactly. And I’m finding myself irresistibly attracted to her, but I don’t know why, because I never really found her appealing in GIRLS. But she seems so cute, and surprisingly upbeat and happy.
The limo pulls to the curb, and Mark Wahlberg enters. He’s apparently going wherever we’re going. He’s wearing what looks to be a brown leather jacket with sportscoat-like lapels and a black turtleneck and black denim pants. Very Steve McQueenish, I think, and then get bitter because apparently Mark Wahlberg can pull off any look.
“Hey Dirk -- I mean Mark.” I say when we’re shaking hands, and it’s an honest mistake, and I feel instantly stupid.
Wahlberg’s eyes widen and he extends a palm-forward hand between us, creating a blockade of space. “You’re not gay, are you?”
“Not that I’m aware of, no. I’m pretty sure I’m straight.”
He relaxes a little bit, so I keep talking. “I saw you perform with the Funky Bunch in Panama City in 1992, but even you couldn’t get me laid*,” I joke, but I admit to him that I didn’t really like his music or his Funky Bunch and that I’m glad he got past the music crap because he’s made some kickass movies.
Apparently because I insult him in a nice way, he gets comfortable with me, and we’re suddenly pals.
Wahlberg and I then talk about Boogie Nights because I think it’s such a damned brilliant movie, and Mark explains that Dirk Diggler’s supersized dick is the film’s antagonist, and I insist he’s wrong. “Your dick isn’t the enemy,” I say, and even though it’s a dream, I’m so proud of the seeming depth of this clever line that I’m telling myself to write it down later.
Wahlberg says they loaded his prosthetic extended dick with concrete. “It weighed, like, seven pounds,” he says. “Because PT (Anderson) wanted me in every scene to feel the burden of this ginormous cock.”
“Yeah, but just 'cuz it's a burden doesn’t make your dick the bad guy.” I then tell him I thought “Boogie Nights” was similar to “Dazed & Confused” in that neither had a traditional antagonist, that the villains in both were non-corporeal, more of a societal pressure kind of thing. And we get into a fun discussion about it, because he loves “Dazed & Confused,” too.
Then I notice that Lena’s foot has been sliding further up and inside my thigh, and I look over at her, and there’s this really intense thing happening between us, and I’m wondering where this is gonna go, and then a car horn blares at us, and the car jolts to a halt.
It’s my alarm.
I gently tap my snooze button, hoping to go back, to see where it was all going, but to no avail. The Stargate had closed.
Questions I find myself grappling in the aftermath:
- Does this mean I am attracted to Lena Dunham and just won’t admit it?
- Did they really put concrete in Dirk Diggler’s fake dick? Why did my subconscious make this up?
- If I’m not attracted to Lena Dunham, why did I want to go back to a dream where naughty things were about to (maybe) happen?
- Is it an erotic dream if nothing expressly erotic happens?
- Is the foot massage some dream-like reference to Pulp Fiction?
- Why do I remember what Mark Wahlberg was wearing far better than I remember what the attractive women were wearing?