A Deep Dive Into Fictosexuality, Because Yes, I’ve Had Hagrid Fantasies

I’ve always had a hard time fantasizing about people I actually know.

I tend to turn to fiction.

For example:

I’m with Hagrid, in his hut.

His mulled wine has loosened his tongue. He’s talking shit about the Hogwarts staff.

He tells me that his colleagues look down on him, which says a lot (I mean, he is huge!).

I interrupt his complaining with a little positive reinforcement:

“Hagrid, there’s really no such thing as a skilless job. I think Keeper of Keys is a noble occupation.”

“I know, but…” He looks sorrowfully out the window. “When am I going to find my lock?”

He turns to me.

I can see the fire burning in the hearth reflected in his eye, and I see a new flame appear on its surface: that of desire.

“What do you mean, your lock?” I say innocently, even though I understand the symbolism very well.

(Hint: the lock is my anus.)

***

ALL THAT TO SAY: I don’t dare fantasize about people I know in real life.

Even when these people stir my desire.

Why? Good question. Maybe it’s prudishness.

Or the unreasonable fear that it would eventually come to light.

As if my conscience would emit broadcasting waves proclaiming: YESTERDAY, I THOUGHT OF YOU IN A NAUGHTY WAY.

People from my immediate reality are therefore banned from my fantasies.

This thing goes deep. To give you an idea, Claude Legault is dismissed from my carnal dreams because I once bumped into him at Loblaws.

***

I have plenty of erotic skits with fictional characters.

They come to life in the evening, the moment I lay my head on my pillow.

I close my eyes and I become a naughty Serge Denoncourt.

An entire rehearsal room comes to life behind my eyes.

I give the actors instructions. I adjust the dialogue. I refine the scene until it seems complete to me…

…then, I stop retouching it.

Because I’m too busy touching myself.

Over the years, I have built an impressive internal Jumbo Video, exclusively X-rated.

Sometimes I make a new film. Other times, I browse the shelves and settle on a safe bet.

This is how I fall asleep: by replaying my fantasies.

Why count sheep when I can have sex with Ovila Pronovost?

In my version, we are what the horses are looking at.

***

Ultimately, perhaps we need to look to the stars to understand my penchant for fiction.

Pisces are known to have fertile imaginations.

A rich inner life, as they say.

Look at me, sitting quietly in my usual spot during happy hour.

A timid little angel. Professional looking.

Innocently nursing my Pét-nat.

No one would suspect that, yesterday, Ovila slammed my face into the hay before frosting my a-hole like a Pillsbury turnover.

Oddly enough, even though I tend to keep to myself, people confide in me.

As soon as they have so much as one drink in their system, my colleagues open up.

One by one, they come to me with confessions as juicy as the cocktail weenies provided by the social committee.

Janie can’t stand Maryse.

Maryse has a crush on Simon.

Simon tells me on the sly that he’s in an open relationship.

An open relationship! His confession surprises me.

Honestly, I didn’t even know Simon was in a relationship.

We rarely speak to each other, even though, as far as I know, we’re the only two gay guys in the whole place.

All I know about Simon is that he completely changed his clothing style during the pandemic.

For real, he went from Pierre-Yves McSween to Bad Bunny. It seems that he spent the lockdown confined in a SSENSE warehouse.

So, Simon tells me about his open relationship and the challenges that it entails.

I barely listen to anything he’s saying: in one ear, out the other.

I watch Simon’s lips. They’re at the same level as mine.

I wonder what he fantasizes about.

I wonder what his personal Cinéma L’Amour program looks like.

Or maybe he doesn’t have one.

Maybe his relationship keeps him busy.

Maybe reality is enough for him.

***

Around 8 p.m., the janitor starts flashing the lights in the common area.

The message is clear: it’s time for us to get out.

Simon asks me if I want to go get a drink somewhere.

He’s forward. I like it.

At the bar, we order two sour raspberry beers.

The subdued lighting encourages us to confide some more.

I admit to Simon that I dream of opening a breakfast restaurant called Oeuf-oria, inspired by the neon-trash aesthetic of the HBO series.

Simon admits to me that he wants to fuck me.

I tell him it’s mutual.

We get up from our table, tipsy with desire and sour beer.

In the washroom, he pins me against an Espace Go poster.

Julie Le Breton’s blue eyes give us their blessing, and without further ado, our tongues collide.

***

It’s after 10 p.m. when I get back to my apartment.

Alone.

Making out was fun, but given that Simon needs to get up early, we both agreed to go to our respective homes.

When we left the bar, we promised each other to spend a night together soon.

I lie down on my memory foam mattress, my head filled with tonight’s flirting.

Simon and I are going to sleep together by the end of autumn. I am firmly convinced.

I can even imagine the scene down to the smallest detail.

But I don’t have time.

Hagrid is waiting for me.