Girls of My Dreams

"Brigitte Bardot is the dream woman of all middle-aged married men." When I read this, in an advertisement of her latest cinema striptease, I fell into deep thought. Sometimes I fall into shallow thought, but this time I went all the way down and have not been able to surface for several weeks.

One thing I thought about was the absurdity of saying that Brigitte Bardot is the dream woman of all middle-aged married men. What is absurd is not the all, unless there is some middle-aged married man on an island somewhere who has never heard of Brigitte Bardot and therefore could hardly be expected to dream about her. No, what is absurd is that the writer of the advertisement did not include rosy-cheeked young men and wrinkle-cheeked old men, along with those simply cheeky, not to say peachy, middle-aged men.

And what about unmarried men of all ages? Is there any reason to suppose that bachelors have anything better to dream about than Brigitte Bardot?

The advertising man was all right as far as he went, but he didn't go far enough. He excluded millions of deserving males and should have his knuckles rapped, in rapid succession, by Batten, Barton, Durstine and Osborn, followed by Young and Rubicam and Benton and Bowles. That will teach him never again to be content with half measures, such as 19-12-18.

All my life, regardless of my age, not to mention my marital status, which I wouldn't mention for the world, I have dreamed about the current love goddess. At the moment, of course, it is Brigitte Bardot. Before Brigitte came along, I had some wonderful dreams about Rita Hay-worth, Ingrid Bergman, Grace Kelly, Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, Sophia Loren, Mamie Van Doren, and even, after a dinner that included a crab-meat cocktail that had been left out in the sun a little too long, Imogene Coca. During a short nap one afternoon I had six separate and distinct dreams, all of them involving Ava Gardner, and was happily starting a seventh when the unexpected arrival of Frank Sinatra turned my dream into a nightmare and I awoke in a cold sweat.

Rita Hayworth, I remember, always wore the black lace nightgown that fitted her so tightly that her lungs were constricted and she had to breathe in short pants, which were also black and tight fitting. As for Ingrid, she was forever mumbling in her sleep, sometimes in Swedish and sometimes in Italian. Night after night I would lean over, all ears (or almost), with a Swedish-English dictionary in one hand and an Italian-English dictionary in the other, hoping to pick up some juicy morsel about her love life that was unknown to Hedda Hopper.

Grace Kelly I dreamed about both before and after her marriage to Prince Rainier, and I hope the Prince never hears of this. I also hope he never learns of the dream in which I broke the bank at Monaco, by kicking my foot through the wall. Then, before escaping with a fortune, I took on the Monacan Army single-handed, throwing one valiant soldier after another over the cliff into the sea, until I had destroyed all 25. On the whole, the Prince has been very decent about keeping out of my dreams of Grace, but I cannot say the same for Cary Grant, who is always sticking his dimpled chin into things. When Grace and I stroll hand in hand along the Grand Corniche, on our way to the little love nest we have rented, Cary is sure to draw alongside in a fancy sports car, with a fancy sport scarf around his neck, and ask my gorgeous girlfriend if she would like a ride. Invariably she says yes, and I wake up, mad as hell.

My dreams about Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield and Mamie Van Doren are oddly confused. Even when I am wide awake, I have trouble telling which is which. In the dream world they are just so many voluptuous blondes, and frequently I have started out a dream with Marilyn and wound up with Mamie or Jayne, which must annoy Marilyn no end. A fellow should be faithful and constant and all that, even in his dreams, but I think a girl has some responsibility not to look like some other girl, no matter how beautiful the other girl is. Of course Marilyn has that little mole or beauty spot or whatever it is on one cheek, but when she turns the other cheek, I'm lost. Sometimes I don't find myself for hours.

With reference to Sophia Loren, my dreams of her have been quite satisfactory. Her full lower lip fascinates me, and one of these nights I am going to find out what it is full of. I also like the way she can wear an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse, which she is always hitching up just in time, the way you hitch up a horse that is about to run off down the street. She is a great one for plunging necklines, and in my dreams of her I have that horrible sensation of falling ... falling. Only with Sophia it isn't so horrible, unless I wake up.

Some of my dreams, even before I started dreaming of Brigitte, have been so realistic that I am still not quite sure whether they were dreams or the real thing. I would be terribly embarrassed if I met Yvonne de Carlo on the street, not knowing whether to speak or not. Was that only a dream, or did we really spend a week together in Rio? On the other hand, I have had dreams so fantastic that they could have been nothing more than wild Freudian emanations from my subconscious. Such a dream, I recall, was the one which involved all three Gabor sisters and Mrs. Gabor, an incredible affair which makes no sense now that I try to reconstruct it in the harsh light of day. Insofar as I am able to control my dreams, I try to give my nocturnal attention to beautiful women who have no sisters and, so far as I am aware, no mothers. Whether they have husbands is of no concern to me, since they seem to be of no concern to them.

But lately I have been dreaming exclusively of Brigitte Bardot. Indeed I am so impatient for the next episode that I now go to bed as early as 8:30 or nine o'clock, missing some of my favorite TV programs. Friends have to tell me how things are going on What's My Line? and the Jack Paar show. At dinner parties I excuse myself right after dessert, saying I have an appointment, which in a sense I do. Sometimes I pass up dessert, and those who think this strange do not realize that my little French pastry is awaiting me.

My dreams of Brigitte always follow something of the same pattern. We are living in an atelier, whatever that is, on the Left Bank, amidst a clutter of empty absinthe bottles, which, unfortunately, are not returnable. We are happy, deliriously happy. In fact we are too happy for words, which is a good thing. I never could remember which French words are masculine and which are feminine, though I have no such trouble with French people. Anyhow, with our lips pressed tightly together, it is very hard to say anything intelligible or even to pronounce the French "r" correctly.

Brigitte and I seldom go out, except to pick up bread and cheese and wine at the nearest épicerie. Sometimes we vary our diet by picking up wine and cheese and bread, but since everything tastes like nectar and ambrosia when we are together, it makes little difference. It is lucky for us both, however, that we are so fond of nectar and ambrosia that this diet never becomes tiresome.

Fascinating as are the streets of Paris, we have little interest in la vie touriste, for we are everything to each other, which is quite á lot. Frankly, I am afraid we might run into some gay boulevardier, like Maurice Chevalier, who can sing better than I and might take her away from me. Why should we go out, anyhow? We are blissfully happy with l'amour, which is French but not exclusively.

I wear a beret and have grown a beard, or wear a beard and have grown a beret (dreams are never exact about details), partly as a disguise but mostly because I have, in truth, become an artist. All day, while the sun streams through the skylight, I paint portraits of Brigitte -- Brigitte standing, Brigitte sitting, Brigitte reclining, Brigitte hanging playfully from a rafter. She is a wonderful model, except when her passionate nature gets the better of her and she flings her arms around me and covers my face with her hot kisses. It is frightfully hard to get back to painting, my palette having been upset and my brush having rolled under the bed. The work goes slowly, and I have to reprove this impulsive creature, at the same time reminding myself that she is still a girl, mature though she is in certain respects.

I am curiously untroubled by finances, though I have no regular source of income and the five million francs we won in the national lottery won't last forever. But Brigitte's wants are few. No fancy Parisian gowns for her. All she needs is the bath towel she wore in her last movie. "How do you like my new dress?" she often asks me, pirouetting and pouting prettily. Of course it is the same old towel, but draped in a new way, and more fetching than ever. The bath towel, I should add, is her winter costume. For summer she has a hand towel and a couple of wash cloths.

But, despite my happiness with Brigitte, I feel a change coming on. The other night, at a friendly neighborhood drive-in I sometimes frequent when the spirit moves me, I saw a re-issue of South Pacific and had my first look at France Nuyen, the lovely French-Chinese girl who plays Liat and who, I understand, has captivated Broadway in The World of Suzie Wong. I hate to be unfaithful, and I feel like a cheat, but I have taken to sipping Chinese tea with one hand and café au lait with the other. This can only mean that one of these nights, as sure as anything, the girl of my dreams is going to be ruthlessly replaced again. Goodbye, Brigitte. Hello, France.