The Pass List

Katie took it upon herself to plan their seventh anniversary, hoping it might help elevate her out of the funk she’d been experiencing. She suspected that her husband Robert, a prime catch from every traditional matrimonial metric, couldn’t comprehend the desires that had recently overcome her. While she embraced their upscale suburban life, she craved a fluttering stomach; the wonderful unease of naughty. On Sunday afternoons, while Robert was sweating off a few sets of tennis across town, she’d fantasize about a different kind of mate; hollow-headed and brutish, her fantasy rooted in a monochromatic world where Ryan Gosling took her on the kitchen counter, car lights flickering twenty stories below. In reality, she knew bad boys were 90% heartbreak, while men like her husband, steady Eddies, promised a lifetime of security and love. But she felt driven to infuse a little fantasy into their lives. So to celebrate their wedding she emailed a suggestive invitation to Robert to join her at a tony hotel suite. When he arrived she was delighted that, per her instructions, he’d donned the Armani tuxedo she’d bought him for last year’s Christmas party. Her Pilates-perfected body draped in layers of Agent Provocateur to be slowly stripped away, Katie led him to the couch. Thirty minutes later, the Veuve Clicquot and oysters half-consumed, she proposed the game. “As your gift I’m giving you a pass list,” she announced, tracing a toe up the inside of his thigh.

“A pass list?”

“Pamela told me about it,” she said. “We each pick three people. People you don’t know. Famous, like movie or rock stars. And if either of us ever gets the opportunity to have sex with them it’s approved. We get a pass.”

“You mean my dream of hooking up with Hillary Clinton might actually come true?” Robert joked.

“C’mon,” she said, “be serious. Who are the three famous women you lust after?”

“I only have eyes for you.”

“Nope. Play the game. What kind of woman turns you on?  This is your big chance. You run into Scarlett Johansson in an elevator, and if it goes well I’ll give you a pass.”

“OK.  I’ll play, but you first.” Robert said.

Katie had spent hours considering her choices. “Hmmm, of course I’m turned on by guys that look like you,” she said with false sincerity, “so I’ll take Channing Tatum.” 

“Right. If only I was taller, younger, and very buffed,” Robert laughed.

“It’s his eyes. Kind. Like yours.”

“Thanks.” Robert kissed her. 

“Next?”

“Your namesake. Robert Downey Jr. He seems fun,” she said.

“Ironman. Good one. And the final lucky man?”

“Ryan Gosling,” Katie said with undisguised longing.  “Hot. Not as hot as my husband, but…”

“Yeah.  I get that a lot. When women find out I’m married, Ryan’s their fall back.” Robert laughed.

“OK, your turn.”

“Let’s see,” he said, nodding his head in thought. “Maybe Charlize Theron.”

“Nicely played.” Katie agreed.

“And a crazy girl. Angelina Jolie.”

“Wow, surprising, considering your vanilla Midwestern tastes.” Katie playfully poked him.

“I’m a man of mystery,” Robert said. “More exciting than you give me credit for. I might be a mild-mannered tax attorney, but I have some pretty good game. You’re forgetting what a charmer I was when we met.”

Katie peered closely at her husband, trying to see through the fog that intimacy often produces. She had faint memories of their courtship, the lovely ache of new love bookended with frenzied sex. But now they lived on different planes. “Robert, you’re handsome and charming, but after twelve years I know you better than you know yourself, and Angelina would tear you apart. Don’t forget, she’s the girl who wears her lover’s blood in a vial around her neck. Like a vampire. But it’s your list. So number three?”

“I’d go international. Penelope Cruz.”

“Not bad.” Katie said, removing a layer of her outfit.

“So you’re serious?”  Robert smiled.  “Anyone on our pass list is fair game? Because I warn you, we tax geeks are well-connected. For some strange reason women find us irresistible. Maybe it’s the way we make the IRS code sound dirty,” he joked.  “In fact, one of my clients is related to a big-time Hollywood agent, his brother or uncle.  He might be willing to set me up.”

“Sure honey,” she laughed. “You have my permission to date a famous movie star.”

Five weeks later Katie and her friend Pamela were burrowed into a big couch in front of the television, slurping Pinot Gris while waiting for the Golden Globes to begin, their yearly girl’s ritual. Robert always traveled to a legal convention this time of year. A cartoonish Melissa Rivers was hovering near the Red Carpet, harassing stars as they made their way into the building. Katie was filling her glass when Pamela shrieked.

“Katie, look! That guy with Penelope Cruz. He looks just like Robert. My God, it’s….Katie, is that him? Is that Robert?”

Katie watched as her husband, one hand planted on the spot where Penelope’s tiny waist blossomed into curvy ass, stopped to converse with Rivers.

“Goooorgeous gown, Penelope. Just incredible,” Melissa gushed.  “God, I’d kill my firstborn for your body. Who are you wearing?”

“Stella McCartney,” Penelope answered shyly.

“And your handsome date?” Rivers turned to Katie’s husband.

“Robert,” Penelope announced, wrapping her arm into his, and pushing her internationally acclaimed cleavage into his chest.

“Basic Armani,” Robert smiled, hands spread wide to present the tuxedo Katie so clearly recognized.

“Gawd, what a gorgeous couple you two make,” Rivers shrieked. “Get out of here and go make some babies. The world needs more good looking people.”

Katie watched Robert and Penelope Cruz turn and head into the theatre, suddenly realizing she didn’t know her husband as well as she thought, and regretting she hadn’t opted for a new watch as his anniversary gift.  

(Our many thanks to fiction author Tim O’Leary. Now go out and buy one of his books already)