Curse you, Donnie Wahlberg, Curse you
After weeks of meditation on the origin of fantasy, Betti Mustang discovers that the root of her evil mind can be traced to none other than New Kid on The Block, Donnie Wahlberg...
You know you wanna read it, it's like a literary train wreck.
Yeah, it's true.
I have a pretty good fantasy life. God blessed me with a fertile imagination, and I've been using it for evil ever since I was a little girl.
I'm turning 28 this year. Anyone remotely close to my age knows that this means only one thing... I am the perfect age to be a recovering NKOTB (that's New Kids on the Block for all you unfortunate souls that missed it) addict.
And like all good addicts, I know that admitting that I have a problem is the first step to recovery.
I may not have the NKOTB bed sheets, posters, lunch box, t-shirts, books and other random paraphernalia anymore, but I still have my Donnie Wahlberg fantasy. I guess I'm like the heroin addict that dumped her syringes fifteen years ago but still smokes a joint of weed on Christmas... or New Years, or her birthday, or Kwanzaa, or Boxing Day, or umm, every time her and her husband has a fight.
My fantasy world started as a kid and it usually involved beating up the little bitch that appeared with Donnie Wahlberg every time he was on stage singing "Cover Girl".
Oh Ye of my generation, don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. Admit it, you wanted to rub that stupid girl's face in the dirt too-- you know, the girl he gave the flower to on stage. Yeah, that one.
After beating the shit out of my eight year old competition, Donnie would see that I was the love of his life and we would travel the country together on the New Kids on the Block tour bus with Jordan, Jon, Danny, Joey and their bodyguard Biscuit... at least I think that's what the bodyguard's name was.
Considering I didn't really know how sex worked at this point in my life, the fantasies remained pretty mild. But then again, you can only watch "Hangin' Tough" with your girlfriends so many times before someone spills the beans as to what all the pelvic thrusting that Donnie Wahlberg does in those ripped up jeans is all about.
Ah, pelvic thrusting.
Anyway, as the years went on Donnie Wahlberg and I grew together, grew apart, broke up, reconciled, had kids that we would leave back home in Boston with good ol' Alma (his Mom, but you already knew that) so we could travel the world, or just bone furiously in the spare bedroom.
When I was thirteen, I swore of NKOTB for good. No more fantasies. No more stickers, posters or lunch boxes. I mean, I was thirteen and "real boys" took over his space in my mind for nighttime daydreams.
Then again, sometimes, out of no where Donnie would show up again and we'd have a tryst and I'd get sucked in again. How was I to resist the Boston accent, ripped jeans and man-stubble? Tell me, for the love of God, how was I to resist?
In the mid 90's, his younger brother Marky Mark tried to win my affections. Donnie cried, told me that I was the true love of his life and that he needed me for eternity. I fell for it even though Marky Mark did look way better in a pair of Calvin Klein underwear than poor Donnie. Not to mention, he ended up being the "successful" brother... Although after watching the movie "Four Brothers" I couldn't help but smirk that I had made the right decision to stay with his big bro.
Eventually, we broke up for good. For the past ten years Donnie has only showed up in my fantasies occasionally, and wouldn't ya know, we're still on that damn tour bus.
Nowadays, my fantasies are more sadistic, more real and they usually feature my husband, a prostitute, a whipping post and vibrator.
More on that another day.
If I had to admit to a current Donnie Wahlberg fantasy it would be that he's sitting at home getting drunk in his underwear... he's pudgy and balding, he's got six illegitimate kids running around and he decides to Google himself on the computer.
After multiple failed attempts at getting his dial-up to work, bingo-bango the search results are in. He sees this article and emails me to tell me that A) I am a sick fuck and B) Where have I been all his life. I reply that I no longer have time for childish crushes and after reading my blog and admiring the picture of my ass on it he proceeds to fantasize about me until he dies. We never meet.
So, Donnie Wahlberg, if you're reading this, email me... You know you want to.