Preface: I met Evan Walsh back in university. Pretty sure he walked straight out of a Woody Allen movie. He was a very tasteful guy and an excellent photographer. He probably still is, but we fell out of touch a while back. Anyway, this is for you, Evan.
Last night, I dreamed that Andy Samberg, having absorbed all of Evan’s talent for photography and his infuriatingly dry and self-amused sense of humour in a Highlander-style duel*, had at some point convinced me to model for a photo shoot that eventually devolved into a raunchy-yet-artistic sex marathon. He and I had agreed that he would display only the un-erotic photos at an upcoming gallery opening.
On the day of the opening, or maybe a day or two after, I discovered that he had “accidentally” submitted the porno shots along with his other work, which would have been totally fine except that the gallery had scanned all the photos, uploaded them to Facebook and tagged me in every single one of them. I immediately took to untagging my face, hoping that no one had seen them.
Of course, everyone had seen them.
So, I set up a meeting with Andy Samberg. We met in a dark, kind of shitty café and I told him what had happened and that he needed to fix this. He said “OK, OK. I’ll call the gallery, they weren’t supposed to show those pieces anyway and I definitely didn’t give them permission to post them to Facebook. I’ll give you the negatives, but you have to come to my house to get them.”
I asked him where he lived.
"You know where I live."
I said that no, I really didn’t, and he perseverated on that “joke” for, like, a Family Guy anti-joke length of time. It was pretty groany. Anyway, finally, he gave me his address and left. I went to the bathroom where all the toilets were in cages (as usual) and then I went downstairs to the parking garage.
Prince was there with a small entourage. He gave me a hug that felt like Vicodin wrapped in rose petals and said “Oh. My. God. Woman, I saw your photos. They were AMAZING! You look phenomenal. How’ve you been?” We caught up briefly, and then I think I actually dreamed a fade out.
Fade back in on Andy Samberg’s house. He was in his indoor pool because, duh, indoor pool. And he smelled so. Good. I couldn’t keep my hands off him, and we were obviously instantly in bed indulging in all sorts of hilarious acrobatics that are now just a blur of skin and cowboy props. At one point, his penis was long enough that he was just sucking on it like a straw. Horrifying. Where would that even fit?
By the time I finally got hold of the negatives, everyone had seen the photos. And I mean everyone. I was all over national news. And, somehow, it was actually good press! People were talking about how artful and technically proficient the shots were and how they had already improved public discourse on sex and that this was the beginning of a cultural revolution. If you Googled my name you got stories about the girl who normalized rimming.
Knowing that it would be impossible to erase those photos from the internet, and after the awesome pep talk Prince gave me in the car park, I figured there were probably worse things in life than having improved the American zeitgeist. So I said fuck it, tossed the negatives and embraced my weird new notoriety.
I half-woke up in the middle of this dream not knowing whether it had really happened or not, and had a minor panic attack about having to hide the photos, the Facebook comments and my affair with Andy Samberg from Myk.
* I didn’t actually dream this part. I just assume that this is what happened.