Awestruck on the Train

I intended to write a lovely little transcript of a conversation with my nephew, but yet another strange conversation on the train with a relative stranger has captures my attention.

I sat next to an acquaintance who felt chatty. She began to rave about...

"Clay Walker."

"What about him?"

"He's so cute! He's my sexception!"

"You're what?!"

"My sexception - the one guy that if he was interested, I would sleep with no matter what was happening, who I was with, or what it would cost me."

"Oh." (I am such a wit.)

"Who's yours?"

I opened my mouth to let whatever celebrity name I could fall out of my mouth, but found myself in the midst of a true quandary. I had no idea who would be my sexception.

While my train companion rambled on about Clay's jeans, butt, hair, hat, etc., I pondered the sexception. I have admitted to my White Palace fantasy about James Spader, so he was a logical choice. But what if I was making out with James on a table when Sean Bean came out of the kitchen with high-end filet mignon? Could I have double sexception?

That seemed too debauched even for fantasy, so I tried to focus on more tame celebrities. There is Orlando Bloom, on whom I have crushed since first I saw him. But I am never able to speak around my crushes and I'm certainly not wasting a sexception on a silent night of me nodding dumbly until he realized he wasn't that interested anyway.

What about rockers? Icky. No. I'd have to be able to at least pretend I would leave the encounter free of disease.

Hugh Jackman? Happily married. Mel Gibson? Kinda scary. Patrick Stewart? Viagra concerns. Hugh Grant? Prostitute memories. Colin Firth? Too perfect. Brad Pitt? Not forgiven yet. Chad Michael Murray? Too young. Antonio Banderas? Purrrlicious, although Melanie Griffith's lips have smudged him a bit - well, a lot - lay off the collagen, Melanie.

Oh, what am I even saying? I would never be able to cheat on my beloved Eddie Atterton. Who needs a sexception when you can have the whole celebrity fantasy?