Even though Emile Hirsch dies at the end of “Into the Wild,” I found myself leaving the theater strangely enamored. Deciding to attribute this eroticism to Emile’s on-screen charisma and willingness to do full-frontal, instead of, say, a budding case of necrophilia, I confronted my boyfriend Jeff about the possibility of making “the list.”
“What’s the list?” Jeff asked when I brought it up the next day.
“Well, I get to make a list of three celebrities that I can sleep with, if given the cosmically unlikely option, and you can’t get mad.”
“That doesn’t seem fair, would I get to make a list too?”
Damn it. I hoped he’d overlook that detail.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “My psychologist told me if my boyfriend insisted on making a list too, he was significantly more likely to kill and eat his children later in life.”
“Kiera…” Jeff replied, sounding vaguely hungry.
“Fine, you can make a list too.”
“Well, who would be on your list?” he asked.
“Gee, I haven’t really thought about it,” I said, “but Emile Hirsch, Shane West and the guy who sits behind me in my ILS class, in that order.”
“He’s not a celebrity…”
“Well, he did get the highest score in the class on our midterm,” I said.
“I’m still not comfortable with it,” he said. “I think that we should just promise to only sleep with each other, isn’t that what a relationship is about?”
“Whatever,” I said, leaving the room to devise a plan.
Recalling that Jeff had once told me about a childhood crush on Natalie Portman, I decided she was key to my list making bliss.
First, I Photoshopped Natalie’s head onto naked Playboy models’ bodies. Unhappy with the idea of Jeff looking at other women in the buff, however, I decided to Photoshop her head onto my body instead. I hid them under his bed—and waited.
That night, when I “accidentally” dropped my pencil, I came across the photos.
“Jeff? What’s this?” I said, showing him the photos.
“I’ve never seen them before in my life, I swear,” he said. “But they do look vaguely familiar.”
“Oh don’t worry honey, I’m not mad,” I said. “I’m just hurt that you would hide these gorgeous photos from me. I mean look at that perfect neck and luscious body. I just can’t contain my excitement looking at her.”
“I guess you’re right,” Jeff said. “I’ll think about the list.”
He was starting to crack—one more ploy and I’d be making love to Emile Hirsch in no time.
I created a new Facebook account under the e-mail nataliejeff4ever@hotmail.com, and of course, under the pseudonym Natalie Portman. For interests I wrote: starring in a lot of movies and Jeff, and under status I wrote: Natalie is I’m in love with this guy Jeff. My Hollywood career is over until I sleep with him.
After sifting through friend requests from various Jeffs around the country, I messaged my boyfriend from Natalie’s account.
“Hey sexy, you may not know who I am, but if you’re curious you should rent ‘Closer’ or ‘V for Vendetta.’ Anyway, I’m in love with you and want to have sexual intercourse with you. Please write back, I love you, Natalie Portman
P.S. I know you have a girlfriend, but if you put me on your list, she won’t mind.”
I never received a message back, but a few days later Jeff showed up at my apartment with his list: Penelope Cruz, Adriana Lima and Jerri Blank.
“What happened to Natalie Portman?” I asked.
“I’m over her,” he said. “Turns out she’s kind of a creepy stalker type.”
“Really?” I asked coyly. “What did you do with all those naked photos of her?”
“Oh, I didn’t want them anymore, so I just Photoshopped your head on them and gave them to my roommates as a joke.”
If you want to get on Kiera’s list, e-mail her at wiatrak@wisc.edu.
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