That primal urge crept upon me on a Saturday, its heated breath at my loins, begging for release. So I went through the same old tired routine—turn on the tabletop fan to drown out the noise to come, seize the purple vibrating bullet from the second drawer and shove it into my jeans, turning the power up, but not too high—not high enough to drown out the sound of the fan. And connect to the Internet, the porn superhighway, looking for a quick fix. I don’t do this often. I’m practically a saint, I told myself.

The last time I looked, the video to do it for me was of a woman getting plowed by a BBC. She smiled the whole time, locking eyes with him, savoring every luscious inch. But this time, I scanned the main page, reading through filthy titles like “Stepson Fucked by MILF” and “Woman Fucked by Horny Mailman as Husband Watches,” nothing moved me. I should make my own video library, I thought to myself, though I’d never do it out of fear of being caught. But being able to see the same video twice and actually find it: that would be something. Because just like that old adage of not being able to step in the same river twice, finding the same video online that turned you on the first time would be like re-catching the same fish you let off the hook. Probably not going to happen.

And then I found one that would suffice: “European Woman Fucked Hard.” I settled in to watch, and soon enough, there he was, like some kind of sexy seraphim: the freak of my dreams. What I first noticed about him was that he made so much noise. He fucked a European woman in black heels who looked like Taylor Swift, blonde hair framing the sides of her face. A commenter asked in the box below, “Who is she?” But what I wanted to know was who he was.

He had a voice like Jean-Claude Van Damme, though I couldn’t pinpoint its country of origin. Some random porn actor. Everyone focusing on the woman in heels. Him, sitting there on a black couch, chiseled muscles and spiky black hair and passionate loudness. I vibrated along to his moaning until I climaxed.

***

Back to the real world: work, holidays, “Did you finish your Christmas shopping?” And trying to be polite and not to feed the fire, as a co-worker talks about maybe buying her mom a dildo. You could get fired for that in the blink of an eye—sexual harassment—though just who was being harassed wasn’t clear.

I got through another work day and even tried to get close to my work-crush, but it just wasn’t happening. I got blocked again, this time by a young woman who already had a boyfriend. All I was able to say to him directly was, “Do you want to go for a walk with us?” To which he said yes. And for a moment on the walk, he stood beside me. But she was there: her, with her long black hair, tight shirt, tight pants, boots. I don’t know what bits of my conversations he would have picked up, if he did.

I went back to my desk and worked obediently. I went home and had a moment alone, before my roommate would be back. Freak of my dreams, where are you? Reality sucks.

***

It’s about fantasy: the desire to escape reality and all its cold harshness. It’s about forgetting that your crush is being courted by someone else, who already has someone. No sex is like porn, even though if you try, you can get kinda close, sometimes. My roommate and I discussed the film The Matrix over whiskey the other night and how Cypher wasn’t wrong. He’s the guy who’d had enough of reality, and wanted to just go back into the Matrix and be a rich actor.

It’s why I go into my room and write about fantasy worlds and dragons and overcoming all odds. Wish fulfillment, one book called it. Because the real world stopped granting wishes a hell of a long time ago.

It’s why television shows are still so popular, why movies endure, and why books will never die.

***

I have about an hour. Besides, I’m practically a saint, after all. I walk over and turn the fan on again, seize the vibrator from the drawer. Type the words that make reality fade and suck me into a fantasy world on the screen, where the Freak of My Dreams lives. The guy on the black couch. Mmm.

Chocolate. Wine. Internet videos. I live in a world of distraction and desolation. I’ve sent out a few texts to people I care about. Probably won’t get a response. Brushed off like a pesky fly, I suppose. But I try. The Internet awaits, promising to give me some kind of fulfillment. I wonder about the guy on the black couch. Who makes these videos? Is there any way on Earth to find this guy???

I put on my headphones and manage to remember the title of the video from before, looking it up. There he is, giving it to her good, and this time I notice that the couch looks like it was covered in a black sheet. He pumps rhythmically as he rides her, slaps her ass again and again until it’s red and sore as they switch positions and she rides him, looking back at the camera. Dmitri: that’s what I’ll name him, my very own version of The Matrix’s Woman in the Red Dress.

I finish with tonight’s business and leave Dmitri, for now.

***

I had a friend in high school, and she was wild. Told everyone about her boyfriend, Andres, and sometimes he’d send her flowers that were dropped off when she was in class. I envied her relationship until I found out that it was made up of fluff and fairy dust, the stuff of dreams. “What I do when I like a guy,” she confided in me one day, “is that I’ll send myself flowers ‘from Andres’ and make him jealous.” Did it work? I don’t know. But she ended up with a husband and a baby years later, so something must have done the trick.

I’d not stoop to such silliness. At any rate, I have things to do. I check my email/Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/text messages and find nothing at all. “If you’re looking for absolution here,” says the Universe, “you’ve missed the bus. Take a seat.”

So I go to bed and let the tears fall from my eyes and the sad darkness envelop me. I fold my arms like one of the Egyptian Hyksos kings of old. And then I sleep.

***

I awaken to the sound of the alarm and rush off to work in the dark. I arrive, make some coffee, work for a while. Then ten o’clock rolls around, and it’s the time when we go for a walk as a group. I head over to the other side of the office to gather up people. But no one’s up for it this morning, even though it’s Friday.

I peek my head into the office of my work crush. “Do you want to go for a walk?” I ask, and he says no. I give him a thumbs-up. I’ll be alright. The work day goes by. When it’s over, Trish, who trained me, walks next to me as I leave. A dreary December sky hangs over us. “Wish I was in Vegas right now, where it’s warm,” I say conversationally. She rolls her eyes at me. I don’t get it. There are other places than here, people.

I drive over to a local burger place, park, enter, and three children are lined up at the register. One of them has set a large instrument case down; it looks like it carries a tuba. Further down is his backpack, like he disrobed on his way up to the front. The young woman at the register is well-meaning enough, but not paying attention. I swipe my card three times and it doesn’t work. “I think I’m gonna just leave,” I say, and do so. I try to stay positive, to keep hope alive in my heart.

But here we are, at the end of the day. These small daily doses of reality, doled out by the deranged Dr. Life, are what chase writers back to their keyboards, seeking solace, searching for a balm in Gilead.

I make it back home at last, where my computer is waiting for me, and as my poor heart needs a break, I start to write. The story comes to me easily, of its own accord. A young heroine is fed up with her own world and runs off, finding adventure and love and a prince who looks all too familiar, who never says no to an invitation for a stroll. He’s an absolute dream. I think I’ll name him Dmitri.