Content Warning: This post discusses sexual topics in a mature, thoughtful manner. While kept at a PG-13 level, reader discretion is advised.

As usual, this week’s question comes from Gregory Stock’s The Book of Questions: Do you have a favorite sexual fantasy? If so, what would you give to have it granted?

It involves a feather boa and the theme from A Summer Place. I don’t want to get into it…

Just kidding… Well, this is awkward.

Not because talking about sexual fantasies is inherently uncomfortable—though let’s be honest, it ranks somewhere between discussing your browser history and explaining your Spotify Wrapped to your grandmother on the scale of conversational ease. No, it’s awkward because asking someone about their favorite sexual fantasy assumes they have enough sexual experience to develop preferences, which is a bit like asking someone who’s never left their hometown about their favorite international cuisine.

Here’s the thing: I’m 45 and still a virgin. Yes, you read that correctly. I managed to beat Steve Carell’s character from The 40-Year-Old Virgin by a solid five years (and counting), which I suppose counts as some kind of achievement, albeit not one you typically put on a resume or bring up at cocktail parties. So when it comes to sexual fantasies, I’m operating entirely in the realm of imagination—which, depending on how you look at it, either makes me supremely qualified to discuss fantasy or completely unqualified to discuss anything involving actual sex.

The Virgin’s Guide to Sexual Fantasy

Being a 45-year-old virgin puts me in the peculiar position of having sexual fantasies that are, by definition, entirely theoretical. It’s like being a food critic who’s never tasted anything but read extensively about flavor profiles, or a travel writer who’s never left their living room but has consumed every documentary about exotic destinations.

In my teens and twenties, I’m sure I had all sorts of elaborate fantasies—specific scenarios involving specific people in specific situations that seemed both incredibly important and utterly achievable at the time. Now? I honestly can’t remember most of them, which is probably for the best. There’s something both merciful and mildly depressing about how our brains let certain unfulfilled desires fade into the background noise of memory.

These days, my sexual fantasies have evolved (or devolved, depending on your perspective) into something far more basic: the fantasy of actually having sex at all. It’s like asking someone who’s been stranded on a desert island about their favorite cuisine when their primary culinary fantasy involves any food that isn’t coconuts.

What would I give to have this fantasy granted? That’s complicated. All my dates have been first dates—a perfect record of romantic failure that hasn’t seen any additions since 2018. To say I’m not trying anymore would be an understatement; I’ve essentially retired from the dating game like a boxer who realized he’s better suited for chess. So what would I trade for sexual experience at this point? Honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe the comfortable resignation I’ve built up over the years? The peace that comes from not wondering what I’m missing?

The Imagination Advantage

Here’s where being a virgin might actually provide some unique insight into the nature of sexual fantasy: when you have no reality to compare it to, fantasy operates in its purest form. There’s no disappointment that real sex doesn’t match the Hollywood version, no awkward fumbling to reconcile expectation with anatomy, no post-coital realization that someone really should have mentioned that thing beforehand.

Sexual fantasy, for those of us operating entirely in the theoretical realm, becomes something like science fiction—internally consistent within its own universe, unbound by the messy realities of actual human bodies, scheduling conflicts, or the need for cleanup afterward. It’s fantasy without the corrupting influence of reality, which might be either the most pure form of imagination or the most detached from actual human experience, depending on how philosophical you want to get about it.

The Price of Fantasy

But let’s address the second part of Stock’s question: what would you give to have your favorite sexual fantasy granted? This is where things get interesting, because it assumes that fantasies are worth trading something for—that there’s a marketplace of desire where we can exchange real things for imaginary experiences.

The question reveals something fascinating about how we value our inner lives versus our outer ones. What would someone give up for a fantasy to become real? Money? Time? Other experiences? The fantasy itself? Because here’s the thing about fulfilled fantasies: once they’re real, they’re not fantasies anymore. They become memories, with all the messy complications that actual memories entail.

I think about all the people who have elaborate fantasies involving celebrities, fictional characters, or impossible scenarios. What would they actually give up to make those real? And more importantly, would the reality live up to the fantasy, or would fulfillment simply reveal the gap between imagination and experience?

The Democracy of Desire

One of the weird things about sexual fantasy is how democratic it is. Everyone gets to be the star of their own internal movie, regardless of what they look like, how much money they make, or whether they can successfully navigate a conversation without accidentally insulting someone’s life choices. In the realm of fantasy, we’re all attractive, confident, and somehow never have to worry about performance anxiety or whether we remembered to buy condoms.

This might be why sexual fantasy is so appealing—it’s one of the few areas of life where we have complete creative control. No casting directors, no budget constraints, no need to worry about whether the scenario makes logical sense or violates several laws of physics. It’s the ultimate vanity project, and everyone gets to be both the director and the star.

The Reality Check

Of course, there’s something both liberating and slightly tragic about living entirely in the world of sexual fantasy. On one hand, my imagination is unconstrained by reality—I can fantasize about scenarios that would be logistically impossible, financially ruinous, or require explaining to a therapist afterward. On the other hand, there’s probably something to be said for the grounding effect of actual experience.

People who have had sex often talk about how different the reality is from the fantasy—not necessarily worse, just different in ways that fantasy can’t capture. The weird noises, the unexpected logistics, the way real bodies don’t always cooperate with imaginary scenarios. Maybe there’s something valuable in that disconnect, in learning that reality has its own appeal that fantasy can’t replicate.

Then again, maybe I’m just telling myself that to feel better about missing out on one of humanity’s favorite pastimes. It’s hard to know whether my philosophical acceptance of virginity represents genuine wisdom or elaborate rationalization. Probably both.

The Social Politics of Fantasy Sharing

Stock’s question assumes not just that we have favorite sexual fantasies, but that we might be willing to discuss them, at least hypothetically. This opens up the whole complicated social territory of which fantasies are acceptable to acknowledge and which ones we pretend not to have.

There’s a whole spectrum of fantasy respectability, from the socially acceptable (“I fantasize about romantic getaways with attractive partners”) to the slightly embarrassing (“I have a thing for that one celebrity who’s probably old enough to be my parent”) to the definitely-not-sharing-this-one variety that most people keep locked away in the private corners of their imagination.

The social rules around sexual fantasy are fascinatingly arbitrary. We’ll discuss elaborate violent fantasies from movies and video games without blinking, but sexual fantasies remain largely taboo in polite conversation. Maybe because violence is something most people never actually experience, while sex is something most people do, making sexual fantasy feel more personal and potentially judgmental.

The Expiration Date Question

Here’s something I wonder about: do sexual fantasies have expiration dates? Do the elaborate scenarios that seemed so compelling at 20 still hold the same appeal at 40? At 60? Do they evolve with age and experience, or do they get locked in during our formative years like some kind of erotic time capsule?

My suspicion is that sexual fantasies are probably more flexible than we give them credit for—that they adapt to our changing circumstances, desires, and levels of realism about what’s actually possible. The fantasy about the college classmate probably morphs into something involving the attractive neighbor, which eventually becomes something more about emotional connection than specific physical scenarios.

Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking from someone who’s had plenty of time for his fantasies to evolve in the complete absence of reality-checking.

The Investment Question

So what would I actually give to have a sexual fantasy granted? After thinking about it, I’m not sure the question makes sense for someone in my position. My sexual fantasies at this point are less about specific scenarios and more about the general experience of human intimacy—physical, emotional, and everything in between.

What would I trade for that? It’s tempting to say “nothing,” to maintain that I’ve found peace with my situation and don’t need to trade anything for experiences I may never have. But that might not be entirely honest. Maybe I’d trade some of the comfortable resignation I’ve built up over the years. Maybe I’d give up the certainty of knowing exactly what to expect from my Saturday nights.

Or maybe the real answer is that I’d trade the fantasy itself. Because once a fantasy becomes reality, it stops being a fantasy and becomes something else entirely—a memory, an experience, a basis for new and different kinds of imagination. Maybe that transformation is worth more than whatever we think we’d give up to make it happen.

The Bottom Line

Do I have a favorite sexual fantasy? At this point, it’s probably the fantasy of having enough sexual experience to develop preferences. What would I give to have it granted? Honestly, I’m not sure—but I suspect that by the time you’re willing to give up something significant for a fantasy to become real, you’ve probably moved beyond fantasy into the territory of genuine desire for connection and experience.

And maybe that’s the real insight here: sexual fantasies aren’t just about sex. They’re about intimacy, connection, adventure, and the very human desire to experience things beyond our current reality. Whether those things are worth trading for depends not just on what we’d give up, but on what we hope to find on the other side of fulfilled desire.

Maybe the most honest answer is that some fantasies are more valuable as fantasies than they would be as realities—not because reality would necessarily disappoint, but because the act of imagining might be its own kind of fulfillment. Or maybe I’m just really good at convincing myself that what I can’t have isn’t worth wanting.

Probably both.

What about you? Do you have a favorite sexual fantasy, and what would you give to see it fulfilled? How do you balance the appeal of imagination with the messiness of reality? And is there something valuable about keeping some desires in the realm of fantasy, or is fulfillment always worth pursuing? Share your thoughts in the comments—because while I might be operating entirely in the theoretical realm, we’re all navigating the complicated territory between what we imagine and what we experience.