Male Wedding Fantasies by Craig Spivek

I think about dating. It’s fun. It’s the normal thing to do. It definitely accomplishes the task of being and feeling normal.

It’s normal for women to picture their wedding day. That’s normal shit. It’s pretty widespread. Perhaps that’s why there is all of those bridezilla reality shows and magazine covers. My favorite image so far is Hilary Duff on the cover of OK Magazine. In her wedding dress, smiling, the caption reads, “Her DREAM WEDDING.”

She’s alone on the cover.

The groom is non-existent.

Her cyborg-ish smile engineered by Honeywell appears to be ripping apart cheek muscles as whitened teeth are clearly made over prominent.


Mazel tov.

Why do women picture their wedding day? Especially when first meeting someone. I think it’s a necessary parameter of vision. If they can envision it, it can be achievable. A believable vision, set in stone, early in life, so as to foster hope and joy in a worldly endeavor. When a girl meets a guy (a real guy, not a booty call guy), she calibrates. Can I see being married to him? The more she sees, the better it looks. The more realistic and “Inception-esque” the fantasy, the better your chances. Can I see the day? Can I see the dress? The flowers, the catering, the band? The location. Whose in charge of flowers? Why is that person in every shot? Where’s the photographer…? Those hors d’oeuvres sucked ass! Why is my maid-of-honor acting like a total whore? You get the idea.

But I think guys are different. I know I am. I’ve tried to have the wedding fantasy. But it doesn’t take. Something about it is too pure for me. I think it is wrong to look upon such things in advance. It leads to manipulation.

Control makes me nervous. Guys use other visionary tactics to figure out if she’s the one. For myself I use a couple of scenarios. The first one is easy.

Can I picture her dead?

Boom, laying there, limp. Maybe in a casket.

Dead from a shootout with the cops.

One bank too many, baby…tears…I won’t let you die in vain…(We hear the click of the gun, I turn to face the Bolivian army, solo… morbid?! Not really.

I think about her dead and then I think to myself, can I handle it? Can I be without her? If my eyes well up, If I think about turning the gun on myself, she’s a keeper.

If I take a bite out of an imaginary corned beef sandwich and start thinking about where to eat dinner with such a heavy lunch in me as I stare down at her lifeless corpse then, guess what?

R.I.P. baby…

Can I see her at a podium? Looking strong and true? She’s accepting some award on my behalf. Being gracious and filled with poise, humility and strength. The wind blowing as she reads a prepared statement on my behalf. “My now-dead husband believed in starting this foundation so that children could get ahead. He believed in helping people, especially the youth of this world. The fact that he died while having some serious mind-blowing sex with me, his totally hot and insatiable wife, should not deter any of you from seeking out your dreams. This scholarship that he is creating is for all of you…truly.”

Can I see her kicking the crap out of some hoochie momma who is talking shit about me in a bar?

“Come on bitch! Outside, NOW! Nobody puts Cragi in a corner!!! I will cut you!”

Behind bars? Staring out of her holding cell, framed for wire fraud by a jealous ex-husband?

Can I see her plotting an interstate check kiting scam involving magazine subscriptions? A string of  minority-owned Check Cashing places in her wake. She floors the stolen Camaro across the state line, late for a hot date at the dog track with yours truly…

Yes, as a man, I try to envision her sexually, but in all honesty, there’s not a whole lot to it. I see her face, sweaty, in a level of ecstacy. Perhaps a body on top of her, or underneath her. Not even sure if it’s me. The point being is can I envision her being sexual? Doesn’t matter if it’s me or not. It just can’t be her with an Elf or a Hobbit or someone funnier then me. That shit will wear on me.

I see the love we make as a present to be unwrapped as we proceed. Can I envision her laughing? Crying? Showing human emotion?

She’s in.

Can I see her cutting people off in traffic?

Laughing at the retarded?

Being rude to a waiter?

Letting the plant I bought her die?

She’s out.

I try to envision as many of these things as possible in order to facilitate some type of reference point to see if it sticks. To see if they stick. That’s what I fantasize about. I’m a man. Here me roar. I think women are doing the same thing when they fantasize about their wedding day.

A wedding day fantasy?

Man, that’s creepy.

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