What Was Your Weirdest Celebrity Sex Dream?
You can’t really control what you dream about. And of course, you can’t control who you have dream sex with, either. If I could, then my dreams would feature nothing but Michael Fassbender and Ryan Gosling, together. Yes. But the subconscious has its own ways, and sometimes the most random person will pop into our dreams for an intimate encounter. We asked these people to share the sordid details of their weirdest celebrity sex dream with us.
I don’t know how “embarrassing” this registers as, but I did recently have a sex dream about Angelina Jolie. And it was one of those dreams where you’re actually somehow aware that you’re dreaming and you kind of make judgments about it while it occurs. (This happens to other people too, right?) Anyway, I remember being very ashamed of myself in the dream, like, “Really? This is who you’re having a sex dream about? The most famous actress in the world? Who you’re not even particularly attracted to? And while Krysten Ritter exists?” As for the sex itself it was pretty unmemorable, although I’m sure that’s my fault and in no way a reflection on the abilities of Ms. Jolie.
I mean, for me, celebrities are fine for the occasional sexual daydream. But for the hardcore sex dream? My subconscious doesn’t work that way. I have sex dreams usually about people at work, people who work at coffee shops. Poets. Librarians. ATF agents. Great, very satisfying not-at-all-embarrassing sex dreams. What makes for an embarrassing sex dream? I dreamt I had sex in the middle of the pitcher’s mound at the old Shea Stadium. Or on a floating, melting polar icecap. I can’t think of anything embarrassing. Embarrassing sex acts? Or that my performance wasn’t so great? Hey, in dreams I will knock your socks off, believe me. Even though I keep my socks on. I have sex dreams about Ann Coulter. She’s sexy and funny. She’s not really a Republican, she’s a comedian. It’s her gig. Is that what you mean? I should be embarrassed by the celebrity? Or the situation? All I remember was that it was hot, she was so gentle and so giving, and I would dream about her again, snobs. It used to be that Socialists and Republicans would fuck the shit out of each other in this country and that’s what made us stronger. Steamy, slap-your-sweaty-hand-on-the-car-door Stronger. For America. Now all we do is fuck people who agree with us all the time and then fall asleep in the middle then break up.
After 9/11 I didn’t jack off for like two weeks, mostly out of guilt. I was 14. I’m not sure why, but it felt fucked up to masturbate in the wake of horror, like it was inappropriate, or disrespectful, or would generate bad karma from the people who died. The only things on TV were death and explosion replays, and I only had dial-up internet. But then one afternoon I fell asleep on the couch and had a sex dream about Britney Spears — I don’t remember much about it at all, but when I woke up I knew it was OK again.
Before I met A$AP Rocky I didn’t think I would like him, but that was a really dumb thing to think. To call him swag seems disparaging. His vibes are on a magical level that has permeated my subconsciousness. I had a dream that we saw each other at an after-party to my college reunion, even though that’s an unlikely scenario since I went to an all-women’s college. A$AP Rocky & I were talking and things were going well and I was thinking maybe we could go back to my hotel room, but then I remembered that earlier that day I had met the Kardashian sisters and they needed a place to stay during the reunion, and even though they were kind of annoying and I didn’t have anything in common with them because they are total lamestreamers, they were still nice and I wanted to be nice too so I told them they should stay with me. Stupid Kardashians ruined everything. The end.
All of my dreams about celebs are nonsexual. The closest I came was, I had a dream that I was driving Britney Spears around New York at night in a Volkswagon Bug with her on a swingset mounted to the roof, swinging back and forth and chatting with me as we drove up Park Avenue. It was a beautiful warm night and I don’t remember a thing she said, but it was like I was in one of her videos.
That is probably a metaphor for sex, but a deeply buried one, in which we are inaccessible to each other.
I still remember it very clearly.
I am not typically embarrassed by my celebrity sex dreams, but I probably should be. Mine are not heroic dreams. You will not be turned on during following. Herr Sandman ist kinky.
First of all, I rarely get past second base, and I’m usually not the instigator. I should say, then, that celebrities rarely get past second base with me. Only they’re not really celebrities. They’re c-list celebrities, and they’re definitely not the ones being spied on with telephoto lenses by page-two paparazzi.
In dreams, I’ve been french-kissed by sardonic newswoman Linda Ellerbee, been felt up by Jill Clayburgh and Stockard Channing (working together) and been invited to watch Linda Ronstadt “love [her]self as a woman” (Mexican-folk-music-era Ronstadt, not satin-jacket-and-rollerskates-era Ronstadt).
I don’t know what this all means. A part of me just wants to go back to old trusty Lynda Carter/Wonder Woman and Julie Newmarr/Catwoman dreams before I wind up in a threeway with Florence Henderson and F. Murray Abraham.
Ugh, totally. It was James Gandolfini, during the run of “The Sopranos,” and I thought he was really sexy, and I dreamt that he (as Tony, I think?) propositioned me in that office (was it at a car place?) and I said no, because I had a boyfriend. So, obviously, when I woke up I was really mad all day, because I could have had dream-sex with Tony Soprano instead of being dream-faithful to some guy I probably couldn’t pick out of a police lineup now. No! I remember, I was dating this guy, [redacted], and he was a lot of fun. Still, should have dream-cheated with Tony Soprano, though. It was before he killed Adriana.
Last month I dreamed I was in a long-term relationship with Deepak Chopra. We had a fight, one of those stupid fights you can’t even remember what started it, and then we made up and apologized, and then had sex. It was your standard base-running sequence, nothing too advanced. He was a very mindful lover. I actually woke up feeling pretty great about life. The next night, I had essentially the same dream but with the demon guy from that movie Legend. It was a less tender experience, but it got the job done.
I’ve only had one real celebrity sex dream (the closest to having a second one involved me settling a fight with “Real Housewives of New York” cast member Bethenny Frankel by shouting, “Yeah, well, I’ve fucked Jon Hamm!” despite not actually having sex with Jon Hamm in the dream). It happened in junior year of high school, I think, and all I remember about it was that I was having sex with Pierce Brosnan in a hot tub. Except that he had a vagina. This is a pretty cut-and-dry case of my sexual confusion in my high-school years, but it’s particularly confusing because I have never cared much for Pierce Brosnan.
Tough one. The dreams I remember are chock full of celebrities real (1997: Ric Ocasek and I fight an alien invasion of Earth in a flying car) and imagined (roughly half of the NY Media Scene have appeared in a dream or two, none of whom have I met IRL), and I certainly have dreams in which I am having sex, but rarely am I having sex with the celebrity. (I say rarely because who can count the number of dreams I’ve forgotten, and I’d like to say that a number of those had Very Special Guest Stars, if you know what I mean.) The one that does come to mind was from about the same time as Ocasek and I saved the planet, and it involved Brooke Shields. Not child celebrity Brooke Shields, but contemporaneously-aged Brooke Shields, the one on “Suddenly Susan.” I’ve never had a crush on Brooke Shields, by the way, but in dreams you don’t get to pick. So in this dream, Brooke and I were just matter-of-fact seeing each other, in that way of dreams where the context gets zapped into your head and mutates throughout without you noticing. We had a residence that resembled a clubhouse (frequent dream feature) that you had to had to climb through a passageway and squeeze through a nearly-too-small tunnel to get into (another frequent feature, and, yeah, I know). And there was a whole bunch of stuff going on that I don’t remember — other characters, a storyline — but Brooke and I Did It, in a bed of some sort, and when we were done Doing It the bed transmogrified into an open drawer of a chest-of-drawers. Weird! Sorry that I can’t remember the more sordid details, but generally my dream-trysts are foreplay heavy followed by a jump-cut — my subconscious is a prude.
Do people really dream about having sex with celebrities? I’m sure it is a very common thing! But it is a thing I’ve yet to experience. This is probably no surprise to anyone who knows me, but my dreams tend to be PG — maybe PG-13. When I do dream about famous people, it’s usually under non-romantic circumstances, for example, I have a reoccurring dream where I solve mysteries with Madeleine Albright. Those dreams were so vivid that I spent a weekend coming up with a children series called Madeleine Albright, Girl Detective. I am not kidding, though I probably should be.
I did have a dream in which George Burns lived in my closet and wore my shoes and also doled out an array of advice and helped me pick out the day’s outfits, so that’s… maybe… a kind of a sex dream, at least, if Freud were to interpret it?
The one that sticks out in my brain for the sheer oddness of it is a dream featuring the rapper Everlast from House of Pain (or, if you remember, the solo song “What It’s Like,” by Everlast). It felt like the boys of my youth were haunting me — I went to a Catholic high school south of Boston, where you get in the habit of saying everybody’s full name because there were eight Erins, five Mikes, and three Siobhans in your class. Four of them had the name Erin O’Connor and two of them were named Mike Kelly. I spent my time crushing on worldlier men, obviously: Adam Horovitz from the Beastie Boys. So when, years after leaving these Irish-y boys behind who never even liked me in the first place, for the guy from the white rap band that had a video for their one song that had a quick shot of Gaelic on the side of a a church from Southie (in 2012 Boston, this church is now a condo) to pop up in my subconscious, it was very weird. Anyways. Everlast was a great kisser and tenderly held me in his giant, Popeye-post-spinach arms. That is all that I remember.
More recently, I had a dream where a mumblecore director was promising me a big role in his movie if I’d take my top off, and I was genuinely torn about this proposition, but my subconscious replaced him with Emmy-winning Damian Lewis, so I was almost about to say yes. Then I woke up.
The most embarrassing thing about my celebrity sex dreams is that I don’t have them. My sex dreams involve people I know personally — so if I’m dreaming about a celebrity, we’re certainly not having sex. We’re best friends. After seeing Easy A, Emma Stone was my dream best friend for a number of weeks. We’d see movies together. Get drinks and gossip. I remember one dream where we just texted. She resurfaced as my best friend last fall after I saw The Help. An actual friend of mine once told me a story about meeting Andrew Garfield’s best friend, which meant Andrew Garfield and I were dream best friends for the following few nights. Again, there was texting. I ate with him. I drank with him. I showed him off to my friends at a party that we were probably the life of. Recently I had a dream that Adele called me crying over something while I was out with my actual friends. I was like, “Sorry guys, Adele’s upset,” and left the table to console her, as if it were some normal thing. (Which it totally would be if I were best friends with Adele.)
I had many amazing sex dreams with Galen Tyrol (especially the bearded/revolutionary version), which was embarrassing when I learned that he was a CYLON. (I got over it, though.)
Unfortunately I have never had a celebrity sex dream. I did have a dream where Hugh Jackman and I had to work together to violently murder George W. Bush, but that isn’t really related to what you asked at all. (Later it turned out that an X-Men movie billboard over the BQE was visible from my bedroom window. The subconscious works in totally opaque and unmysterious ways).
At some point in 2010 I had a sex dream about Nick Denton. Nick, for those who do not already know, is the proprietor and self described “gossip merchant” behind Gawker Media. He was once my boss. He is also gay.
Nick’s sexuality is, of course, irrelevant, except for the fact that my sex dreams usually star heterosexual men. (Related: My subconscious has the really annoying habit of pulling the plug on nocturnal nookie before penetration occurs.) ANYWAY: Here’s what I remember. Nick was throwing a party in his fancy Spring Street loft. At some point, the party turned into an orgy, and I realized that I was one of the few (maybe only) females in the room. There were dozens of naked, tumescent men. On couches. On rugs. On paneled floors. On the kitchen counter, where the champagne flutes usually go. It was a sort of frenzy! (Not to mention decadent and ominous. Think Fritz Lang meets Ayn Rand meets Stanley Kubrick.) I mean, it was a fucking horror show.
Speaking of fucking: Somehow, I found myself having sex with Nick. (I realize that the phrase “found myself having sex” suggests that I lacked agency or purpose, and that is both true and untrue. You know how dreams are.) Words were not exchanged; glances not given. (Foreplay? Forget it.) One second Nick Denton was naked in front of me and the next, Nick Denton was naked inside of me.
Not only did I not wake up, I enjoyed it… as much as one can enjoy the missionary position with an emotionally unavailable, vagina-averse boss, that is. Then it ended. I don’t recall whether or not he climaxed. I’m pretty sure I didn’t. And no, I don’t remember how big his penis was or what it looked like. Just that it worked. That’s enough, right?
Years ago I dreamed I was having sex with a beautiful woman who turned into John Waters. I have no idea how it happened — he just sort of materialized where the woman had been — but I do remember that it startled me far less than it probably should have considering that 1. I’m not gay, and 2. I don’t think I’d want to have sex with John Waters were I gay. Years later I read in a dream interpretation book that straight people who have dreams of gay sex should maybe see a therapist, but that seemed like some sex-negative, alarmist bullshit to me. I’ve never again dreamed of having sex with John Waters or any other man.
To preface: I rarely have sex dreams. The dreams I remember, in general, are usually bizarre in the blandest way possible.
That said, a few years ago, I dreamed that I was making out and getting into some intense body contact with Gene Siskel. It was years after he died.
Also, as an extremely confused gay pubescent Jersey boy, I once dreamed that Jon Bon Jovi walked up to me in a trench coat, opened it to reveal a woman’s body (and extremely hairy bush) and sang, “Lay your hands on me!” a few times. My mom’s friend had a similar haircut and I think I was conflating them in my head (in the way that you’ll have a dream where one person is meant to be another person and even though it makes no sense, you get the symbolism). I got the feeling that her bush was really hairy, too.
Jason Alexander. In a hot tub. I don’t want to talk about this any further. I’m hoping this was actually a dream about pretzels, considering he was the Rold Gold spokesperson at the time.
I don’t like to kiss and tell, and I’m not saying things even got that hot and heavy, but let’s just say that I once dreamt that Captain Picard and I had a very intense evening where we drank some Château Margaux and ate foie gras and Brillat-Savarin via the replicator. We looked out at the stars of a new galaxy. And we read poetry to each other. (He is a big fan of Paul Celan.) And then Jean-Luc played his flute for me, and I played my viola for him…
Honestly, I don’t really tend to have sex dreams per se about celebrities, but I did have a dream recently that I was sitting on a picnic table bench with Amy Poehler, and I touched her leg and kissed her at one point. I think we were dating? It wasn’t entirely clear but there was definitely a more-than-friends intimacy in the air. It wasn’t erotic or anything; it just felt safe and comfortable and, y’know, affectionate. So that is a little strange, given my orientation. I’m pretty sure there was an honest-to-goodness Zac Efron sex dream at one point, where we’re at a party or something and suddenly hit it off and went upstairs to a bedroom. But that one is pretty fuzzy. What’s that thing about how we’re evolutionarily conditioned to hold on to painful memories more than to good ones? It’s probably the same with dreams. I remember lots of nightmares — having to escape my childhood home because of an intruder is a frequently recurring one — but very few pleasant dreams. I guess Amy and Zac were just that good.
So there was this girl and we hit it off huge, getting all our own jokes and talking for hours and stuff but it didn’t go anywhere. For her, anyway. Me, I was in deep. She went on with her life and I was stuck. I started dreaming about her. Not dirty, just prosaic moments, like we’d go to the grocery store and buy broccoli, or we’d be driving in a car someplace. Then my dream-brain got bored. We were in a fancy health club, a gym, with glass panels and chrome and me and my non-girlfriend were gonna work out. We were wearing gym clothes like the ’80s, Olivia Newton-John and Jane Fonda, argh, headbands, like that movie Perfect with John Travolta and Jamie Lee Curtis? I never even saw that movie. Then my friend who was a girl stopped being herself and she was Susan Anton. I don’t even know what she was famous for. Susan fucking Anton, jeez. Anyway, we were perspiring heavily from being in my health-club dream and she was wearing a headband and pulled down my pants and I pushed on up into Susan Anton, somehow — I don’t remember dealing with the shiny fuchsia spandex — and I was steady smearing her sweaty Susan Anton ass all over one of the windows to the exercise rooms where rows of people were doing aerobics and then I lost it, big time, while looking at Susan Anton’s giant teeth and forehead and as I was coming down I noticed there was this giant face of the actor Martin Landau and he/it had been watching us the whole time. And yeah, no more dreams after that one.
The most ridiculous celebrity that I ever had sex with in a dream was Madonna. Now, it didn’t start out as a sex dream. As a homosexual of a certain age and persuasion, I often have dreams that I’m hanging out with Madonna, just being her friend or starring in her latest tour as a dancer (there are always astounding outfits involved) so that didn’t seem weird. But then one day I dreamed that we were backstage and hanging out and she was getting all up in my grill and I was like, “Wow, Madonna thinks I’m her best friend.” And then she got even closer and then I was like, “Damn, Madonna wants to have sex with me.” Now, as a homosexual of a certain age and persuasion, I can not say no to anything Madonna demands, so I did it. It wasn’t half bad. Though she looked like “Express Yourself” Madonna, not the grizzled pterodactly-hand Madonna that we see now.
So it’s me and Bruce Springsteen, whose music I’ve never really listened to much and who I’ve never thought of in a sexual way, driving around New Jersey in an old red pickup truck — he says he’s showing me “(His) New Jersey.” Then, we go to a bed and breakfast, the architectural details of which I remember to a personally disturbing degree, and do it. I won’t get into it, but it’s whatever my dream brain thought was “tantric.”
After, as I lie on a quaint yellow-and-white quilt, Naked Bruce Springsteen picks up a convenient guitar from his sudden perch on a nearby wooden chair, strums a bit, and asks: “Any requests?”
And I say: “Ummm, er, oh!: ‘Well we’re living here in Allen-townnnn.’”
Bruce stops me with his falling face, which falls with a complete disappointment I’ve never wanted to see in life, much less a celebrity sex dream.
“That’s…the other guy! That’s not me! That’s THE OTHER GUY!” Bruce sputters.
Me: “”Oh yes! The other guy! B-b-b-b-b- there’s also an ‘L’!”
Bruce (a.k.a. my brain): “Billy. Joel. It’s Billy Joel.”
And then Bruce is gone, but there are tickets to his show under the door. And that’s how the dream ended: With VIP tickets under the door. I don’t remember going. I guess I woke up. What a jealous motherfucker!
I’ve only really had one celebrity sex dream in my whole life, and to talk about it at length invites way too much speculation into my sad and pitiful psychological makeup. But I was young, and probably on drugs. So yes in this dream I was picked up by the Secret Service and taken to a terrible dark basement, where I had a nice chat with Ronald Reagan and then a few minutes of terrific sex. And it wasn’t like, young Reagan either; it was present-day Reagan. Wow, this says horrible things about me. I remember waking up shouting “WHAT THE HELL?” at my brain. Anyway this dream was so (reasonably!) scarring that 1. I can still remember it 25 years later and also 2. I haven’t had a sex dream about a person that I don’t know since.
[Lizzie’s answer is from a poem in her book, Check-In]
You and Rick Ocasek
Rick agrees to pay Paulina $12,500 dollars to go to bed
with me. “That’s what I’m worth?” I joke, but I’m not offended.
Who knows what such an amount that signifies to them?
Apparently, they do this kind of thing often
In my dream, yes. I didn’t want to bore you before commencing
With my series of And Then, And Then, And Thens.
And then I am set to perform in a film. I am to be
Ethel Kennedy. Or is it Mary Jo Kopechne?
In black bombazine and starched white, a woman and nurse approach
With carriage. I have forgotten my costume. That’s JFK in the coach
And me in a bikini, onscreen, whirling a typewriter cartridge
Right and left before hurling it aside, as if over a bridge.
I had no idea I was so thin, I think. “I have no memory of this at all!”
I announce. “It isn’t you,” a woman in front hisses. To my left a tall
Girl smiles sheepishly — Paulina, at half-mast.
Rick takes my hand and we pass
You in the hall. You had already found me to say
You hadn’t called because you’d only arrived today
And then you had given me a letter of explanation
So long it curled like a scroll. It was done
In something like calligraphy, an oval
As beautiful as it was unreadable.
You must have fetched up in the food court
With our 500 varieties of molten potato, hurt,
Baffled, still at fault. I’m sure
You’ve never seen a food court in your
Life. “It’s our Agora,” I would have said.
I would have defended us until I was dead
But we’re passing you by. I grip Rick’s hand tightly.
“Who’s that guy?” he asks. “You and me
In a few years, with any luck,” I say. I turn and stop.
“What are we doing?” I say. Then I wake up.
I had a really involved, overly long, haggling-for-sex dream about Matt Damon that ended in me convincing the Oscar winner to be on the receiving end of half-hearted hand job. Then another time there was some butt stuff with a former child actor that I’m not emotionally prepared to discuss.
Nadia Chaudhury may or may not have had a dream about Ted Danson as his character George Christopher from “Bored to Death.” Photo of Nick Denton by Dave Winer; photo of Bruce Springsteen by Bill Ebbesen.