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.