Jessica Marks

I want to fuck David Bowie. I have a recurring dream in which I take Jennifer Connelly's place in Labyrinth. During the ballroom scene, instead of dancing, we end up fucking on the floor. The masquerade dancers crowd around us to watch. Of course, then Labyrinth becomes a voyeuristic porno. When I wake up, whether or not I have the dream, I stare at my Ziggy Stardust poster and masturbate. It's a great pick-me-up in the morning. I feel refreshed. No real man could ever live up to such a satisfying standard.

My obsession with Bowie started in junior high. While everyone else had posters of Johnny Depp or Ethan Hawke, I saved my allowance to buy vintage photos of Bowie in concert. The morning ritual came later, in high school. The downside was that I still lived at home, and since both my parents were up, I had to orgasm quietly. Just once, I wanted to let out an arched-back moan. That all changed once I moved into my own place. Now I can be loud, and I am. My landlady must think I'm a slut. I'm sure her husband wants to fuck me. But her husband is not David Bowie.

Celibate is the wrong word for me. I am not abstaining from sex for religious reasons, even though David Bowie is a god. Sex is just disappointing. I'd much rather make out with someone and go down on him in a bathroom stall (that was last Friday) then fuck. It's boring, awkward, and annoying. The guy always gets nervous afterwards, asking, "Was it good? Was I good?" over and over. Fuck that. When I give someone a blow job, they're happy and I get complimented on my skill. I like going down on a guy. It's my nature to give, but the next time I have real sex, it will be with David Bowie.

I almost broke my non-celibate vow once, but really, it wasn't even close. My friend Amanda and I were in a bar; tonic water for me, gin and tonic for her. She had long ago disappeared into a booth to suck face with a guy, Pete or Paul or somebody. I was still sitting at the bar, since I make it a point never to walk across the room to speak to anyone. I crossed my leather-clad legs and flipped my hair over my shoulder, which masked my quick glance around the room. A guy was drinking a beer by the juke box, staring at me. I'm used to stares. Men are amazed when they smell a woman's confidence across the room, and they can't help but stare. The hair flip, for those who need such a hint, entices anyone who's looking to approach you. This guy was no different. As he sat down beside me, I took a sip from my glass and looked at him. I nearly spat back the water into my cup.

He had David Bowie eyes. Most people would call that creepy, since one of Bowie's pupils is permanently enlarged due to a school-yard fight years ago. I think it is possibly his most sexy quality, which is saying a lot.

Bowie Junior bought me a Tequila Sunrise, and we talked. Funny thing, he looked at my face, not my legs or my tits. I tried to draw his attention somewhere else, but he was really intent on looking in my eyes. Eventually, I gave up, and simply stared back. Not exactly David Bowie eyes. Bowie's left pupil is dilated, and Bowie Junior's right eye expressed the same phenomenon.

At this point, I felt my cheeks flush, like I was drunk, although the tequila was my first drink of the night. I wanted to leave the bar, go somewhere quiet, and just talk to him, not shove him into the backseat of his car and pull off his pants. But I couldn't talk to him. I had nothing to say. I put my hand on his leg instead.

He smiled, "Now I know you've had too much to drink tonight." He held my hand for a second. When he grazed his thumb over mine, I nearly fell off my barstool. I got a shiver down my spine, just as if he had flicked his tongue on my clit. He let go of my hand, and I quickly finished my drink.

I stood up. "It was nice talking to you."

"Likewise," he said. "Maybe I'll see you around sometime."

"Sure." No fucking way. I practically ran out the door, leaving Amanda to find a ride home with Paul or Patrick or whoever. I didn't feel like taking a cab, and walked the two miles back to my apartment instead, which was stupid. It was fall, and I only had on a thin sweater. Once I got back to my apartment, it took me forever to stop shivering.

The next morning, I woke up and watched Ziggy. Mouth agape, mid-song, highlighting the microphone stand's phallic glory. Bowie's eyes were open in the photo, and for the first time, it bothered me. I wanted his eyes closed. I shut my eyes instead and started masturbating. Five minutes with Bowie and my vibrator is always plenty of time for me, but after my heartfelt attempt, the new batteries died. Not one damn orgasm.

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Jessica Marks lives in Boulder, Colorado, where she is persuing an M.F.A in Writing and Poetics from Naropa University. She is currently at work on a collection of short stories.