To my surprise and amazement, I had a sex dream starring Harvey Keitel last night. You’re all wondering “How?”, “WHY?”, “How was the Bad Lieutenant in bed?”
He appeared pretty much as you would expect: grizzled, short but not squat (height-wise, dirty bird, height-wise!), yet seemed strangely vulnerable… as though his Hollywood swansong had played without him.
One would think that a recent viewing of one of his masterpieces would have dredged him up from my subconscious so he could do a little dance, make a little love when I got down in to bed last night.
But no. I haven’t seen a Harvey Keitel flick since The Piano, which was made in 1993. Clearly, his full-frontal scene in that film made quite an impression on ten-year old me, since his ween has been on my mind for sixteen years.
The scenario played out thusly: I am a secret agent undercover (in more ways than one… Har. These jokes write themselves). Harvey is a Russian mobster who takes me, an outsider, under his wing even as his empire begins crumbling around him. Little does he know that I am the culprit of his undoing… of his pants.
Well, actually, he does know that I’m undoing his pants (if he didn’t then he’d be a leper or Stephen Hawking-like strapped to a mechanized wheelchair), but he doesn’t suspect that I am the mole. Blinded, he is, by his attraction to a mysterious female.
Pondering this strange little dream my brain burped up, I’ve come to the conclusion that my own yearnings pander to typical male fear that all women are out to pull down the castles of men’s empire building with one come-hither glance, aka succubae. Not that I mind having the power, but where would we live if the castle’s crumbled?