Trophy Wife Fantasies

Written by Rigby Celeste
Art by Vlada Karpovich


He is coming home soon, back to the dorms where I am now, in the near vacant west wing. We are all freshmen, and free time is new to us. We’ve become friends because we live together, so we are always together. But right now, I am alone. They are out, enjoying the cold–laughing and twirling on ice. The school is sponsoring a holiday skate rink for the night. I was supposed to be there, eager to be included. I’ve never skated before. We were both invited, in fact, but Cameron has convinced me not to. He jumped when his roommate walked in to grab a book during our screening of Futurama.. He didn’t want to go, and he told me I shouldn’t go. It can’t be that much fun. He doesn’t like anyone, anyway. Cameron prefers we hang out alone, instead. I tell myself that means he has a thing for me.

I stayed behind because he did too. I needed to tackle the chores in my room. Alone in the dorm, my knees on pine, I place and replace objects of sentiment. I dust down my corner of the room. I even check out a vacuum and mop from the student center. I’ve never been good at cleaning, but it’s important to me tonight because I’ve made a game of it. The rules of the game are: everything must be perfect before he arrives. If everything is perfect, then when he comes back, he will announce himself and kiss my cheek. He will declare this space a home.

I throw all my love into the composition of my bedroom. I deconstruct columns of books and paperwork. I leave the middle of the desk clear; I hang my clothes, once habitants of my desk chair, in the closet. He is coming back soon, to my room, to our beautiful home.

When I am done, I have enough time to do something for myself. I unfurl my thick purple yoga mat on the sparkling floor. I pull my body so that I can uncork my head. I twist into myself and I see all the hot yellow hope for tonight. I unroll my body, trying to stretch far enough I can reach him, wherever he is at right now. 

I hear steps down the hall. He comes inside, standing tall with his bass trombone in hand. I am seated on the ground. I am planted in the dirt. I don’t tell him to take off his shoes. He steps on my purple mat. He suggests maybe can we go to his room instead?

This guy is unbelievable in the very best way. He’s tall, smooth, and built tight, like a whippet. His interest in me begins and ends with my virginity; this will be my first time with a boy. I’ve had experience, no doubt, but I felt like I wanted a relationship before I went all the way. I managed to avoid it at the dorms and even when I started living alone. By now, though, it’s been long enough. I don’t mind that he doesn’t want to date, because I don’t want to date. I just want to try something new. 

We don’t even get 10 minutes into the movie before he gets on his knees and pulls down his sweatpants. I am happy to go with his flow. We kiss, we touch, and eventually, he tells me to get on top. I wrap around his body with my head buried in his shoulders. I only perceive the orange and blood space between two bodies. I feel welcome in this warm vacation, the wavy paradise that only exists in the heat of two strangers. 

I know only his name and his Instagram handle. When we finish, he makes a joke along the lines of: You’re so small you remind me of a child and that is so hot. When we finish, I roll my eyes and I roll out of the body and back into the head and think about things like “I want that dalmatian print sweater.” But when we finish he insists on staying in that warm vacation place. Sleepily, he pulls me back. 

Tonight, he is holding me like I’ve never been held before. I am locked between the tension of four limbs and brushed by soft kisses. He’s kisses are slow clouds passing over dandelions. This big, tall hunk who only ever saw me as a hole has not stopped kissing my cheek all night. All of what was once a hot, wet night has laced into vulnerability. Fast, hard, and out of control I think, “the kids will be in the next room over.” My brain in the aftermath of a speedway collision: “The kids are sleeping in the next room over and we’ll all wake up come sunrise and I will serve everyone smiley face pancakes.” 

I am older and wiser and hotter now. I am a good feminist. I don’t wait around for boys who don’t like language. I don’t eat the crumbs the tall boys leave to catch me in the woods. 

As a good feminist, I waited to fall in love with someone who is kind. My lovely someone takes good care of me. I feel loved, seen, understood. He is happy to share a home with me. And so am I, as long as he is happy. My home is built around him.

A perfect night:

I will be sitting when he arrives at the door. I will be curled and cozy with some dignified text in hand. Dug into shelves of words I have no attention span for, my brain will be pinned only on one thing: him. 

He will bust open the door and stand without direction, waiting for me. I affirm his inaction, and lift my body up from my tasks to wrap my plentitude around his form. I’d have taken a shower earlier so I can smell like roses. After his long walk home it is all he can take in. I am so squeaky clean that I am his soap and his sponge. I’ll hold my body against his long enough that the air of his lungs comes out floral. Under his hold, I keep myself small and my heartbeat slow so that his breath can follow the tempo. 

He will be so tired, so weary and tired that I can take from my fullness and feed him. I want to have food on the stove. I want to scoop him a plate. I want to be the cushion of his seat. I want to kiss him everywhere as he devours the meal, the fruit of my labor.