The List

By Ryan Clark


“Who’s on your list?”


– a seemingly

innocent question,

a question asked by

my wife while lying

in bed after an

evening of bliss.


“Who’s on your list?”


Of course – “The List.”

For ages, couples

everywhere have

scratched out ideas

on coffee-stained napkins,

or kept mental notes of the

subjects who would make

up The List – otherwise

known as your hottest,

most unimaginable,

most unattainable

sexual partners, ones

your partner would actually

let you have sex with if

given the opportunity,

ones you conveniently

rank from one to five.


“Who’s on your list?”


my wife asked, and it

seemed like an innocent

question – but it wasn’t.

It was a question fraught

with landmines, scattered,

staring, daring me to step

and lose a limb. How could

I answer? Too pretty a

woman could cause jealousy.

But not pretty enough?

That could cause suspicion.


“Who’s on your list?”


Did I know, could

I think of the names

that stand etched upon

my cursed list? Of course.

I’d lusted for my share

of fabulous women –

Charlize Theron, Penelope

Cruz. Athletic, busty, dark-

skinned or fair, blondes

and brunettes were also

there, with blue eyes, and

brown-eyed girls standing

hand-in-hand upon this list.


“Who’s on your list?”


A better question would be

who wasn’t on it

(Roseanne Barr, for instance,

and also Bea Arthur).

It started when I was six,

and it featured a raven-

haired Julie Newmar in a

skin-tight catsuit clawing

her way into my rankings

before I ever knew about

lists. Twenty years later a

new Catwoman made it in –

Halle Berry. Purrfect.


“Who’s on your list?”


Jennifer Love Hewitt

chasing slashers, or

Salma Hayek blasting

Desperados, each had an

appearance through the

years on this list. Yet it

seemed wrong to mention

those names to my wife.


But she asked, so I searched

my mind, devising the best


“Who’s on your list?”


she asked.


I paused.


“You,” I said.

“Only you.”


She smiled. She

squeezed my hand.


“Damn right,”

she said.