Free pass

Oddly, I’ve read a few times this week, in various places, about what is often called a “free pass” amongst couples. In case you’ve lived in a cave and just today followed the light to the wide world of freedom and the first thing you did was discover the internet and somehow stumbled upon this blog of all things, the “free pass” basically means that each member of a couple is allowed to select one celebrity (for you cave-dwellers, those are people that we pay millions of dollars to live luxurious lives so that we can ogle and hate them) with whom, if the fate’s allow, they can have sex, sans guilt or repercussions. Chances of these encounters ever happening are virtually non-existent, so mostly it’s just a silly way for couples to fantasize about adultery without really committing it.

I will never meet a celebrity, even from the D-list, in real life. And even if I did, the idea that they’d be interested in having sex with me is absurd. So I guess I should feel pretty safe joking about the “free pass” with Brad. But the truth is, I feel a little disgusting about it. It doesn’t really have anything to do with feeling filthy about adulterous fantasies; we both know that part is all in fun. It has more to do with not wanting to feed into celebrity egos.

I think that no matter how famous or hot someone is, they don’t get to have sex with me just because they’re famous or hot. I’m not an ego feeder. Even though I would love to lick chocolate off of John Stamos’ eyelids, I’d like to think that I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction even if he begged.

With that said, Brad and I decided to play the game anyway. Mostly because we know it’ll never happen and because we feel an insatiable desire to always fit in with the main stream. The main stream plays the “free pass” game and so shall we. Obviously, I’ve selected John Stamos:

Even as Uncle Jesse with a mullet, I found him desirable. I was so happy when he came back to tv and started showing up in People and Us Weekly again. His eyes pierce my heart and render me useless. drool…

Brad’s pick, after some contemplation (neither of us really gets that involved in celebrity crushes), is Selma Hayek:

Which I am completely okay with because girl’s got curves! I like that my man likes curves because boy have I got some.

Of course, both of these selections are subjet to change at any time. Even at the last minute, because you never know when either one of us might run into Johnny Depp on the street.

(Upon rereading this post, I couldn’t figure out what the point was. Why had I decided to write about this? I can’t seem to remember now, but oh oops, I just hit Publish.)

Edit: The Internet really needs to decide if they want her to spell her name Salma or Selma. I got thousands of results for both, but I’m now thinking it’s Salma Hayek. Whatever.