I think the only way I’d ever meet Taylor Swift would be if aliens kidnapped her thinking she was the Earth’s queen, and kidnapped me thinking we were a different species and that she might like a pet.
Which isn’t saying I’m some hideous creep with his eyes at strange angles and overlapping teeth. I’m average, I think, but Taylor Swift looks like Taylor Swift. She looks like someone gave the way that having a powerful secret feels a human form and taught it to sing.
So we’d end up on this starship orbiting the Earth, the aliens keeping her there to negotiate humanity’s surrender and me to keep her company. They’d give her this incredible suite—even though we’re prisoners, these aliens are really civil—with a great view of the solar system and a machine by the bed that lets you pre-select the dream you want while you’re sleeping and another machine that teleports waste out of your bowels so you don’t have to physically expel it, and they’d keep me in a box in the corner with nothing but a diamond studded dog collar around my neck, no clothes.
The first day would be weird. I imagine the aliens would probably take us in our sleep, so Swift and I would both wake up in this strange room at the same time, she in a gown adorned with jewels we don’t even have on Earth, me totally nude on the floor. Her first instinct—understandably—would be that I was somehow behind this. She’d probably attack me, and it’s not like I’d have any idea what was happening either–
Actually, if I woke up naked but for a dog collar and Taylor Swift kicking me, I think “alien abduction” would be the first thing that came to mind.
I’d have to defend myself against her, of course, which would be complicated due to my nudity. It’s hard to fight a woman in a way that doesn’t come off as sexually aggressive when you’re naked. Like, I’d want to pin her down, probably, but how could I pin her down without my penis mashing up against her, which would only make things worse. What’s the least suggestive part of a woman to mash your penis against? Probably the knee? But then any direct line between her knee and my dick is exactly what I’d be trying to prevent…
My best bet would be if the aliens entered the scene quickly after we woke up and explained the deal, that they believed Swift to be Earth’s supreme leader and me something like a dog. They’d tell us that and then leave so we could chew this over, and she’d apologize for attacking me and also say that she felt bad they didn’t think we were the same species, which I’d think was very classy and cool of her, because if it was the other way around, if they thought I was the Earth’s king? I’d probably ask her to grab me a glass of water while I sat with my feet up feeling good about myself.
Once the aliens left, Taylor and I would decide that for the time being it might be best to keep up the ruse, until we figured out an escape plan. Some people might find an erotic possibility here—trapped in space with Taylor Swift, forced to pretend to play the role of her submissive pet—but I don’t think that’s how things would play out. I don’t think Taylor Swift has ever seen a man with as much body hair as I have, or an uncircumcised penis. I think she’d be pretty grossed out. I’d end up wearing one of the fancy space gowns our captors had provided for her, which would look ridiculous, and on top of that I don’t think we’d get along all that well—she’d ask me if I thought she should sing a song for the aliens, and I’d say that she should, and she’d ask what song of hers should she sing, and all I’d be able to suggest would be “Bad Blood.”
“That’s a little aggressive for the situation,” she’d say.
“Okay,” I’d say. “How about ‘Shake it Off?’”
She wouldn’t like that idea, either. She’d suggest some song of hers I don’t know, and I’d try to play it off, but she’d know. She’d say, “I can’t believe you only know two songs of mine,” and I’d say, “Well, I’m not exactly your demographic,” and she’d say, “Demographics be damned, knowing more than two of my songs is just being culturally literate.”
She’d have a point, but it would sting anyway, and I’d come back with something like, “I think singing for them is a bad move, come to think of it. Makes you seem desperate.”
She’d say, “I think it would be a nice gesture.” And I’d say that singing for them might seem a little too subservient and then start talking about Machiavelli or something, and she’d roll her eyes and say, “I get that you’re an adjunct instructor at a community college, but I’m one of the most successful pop stars of all time, I’ve expertly cultivated my public persona and am widely regarded as the voice of my generation, so maybe it’s possible I know a little something about influencing people.”
“Wait,” I’d say. “How did you know I was an adjunct instructor at a community college?”
A strange look would come over Swift’s face. She’d try to play it off like I told her already, but I’d know I hadn’t because I never tell anyone about working at the community college if I can help it.
Finally Swift would shrug and yell, “He’s on to us,” and the lights would change and a bunch of producers—human producers—would come into the room and explain that I was actually, unwittingly, in the pilot episode of a new television series Swift was starring in. They’d describe it as a prank show with political overtones, and that the idea was to see how long it took for me to suggest that Swift and I have sex to illustrate some point about misogyny.
“That sounds less like a prank and more like some crazy entrapment scheme,” I’d say. “And just so you know, I would never have suggested we have sex, not if we were trapped together for the rest of our lives.”
“Sure,” Swift would say. “Tell that to your boner.”
“This boner isn’t for you,” I’d say. “It’s because of the adrenaline.”
And the segment would never air, of course, and the pilot might not ever even get picked up to air, but a year later Swift would have a new single called “(He Blamed It On) The Adrenaline” and that would be pretty cool, even though no one would believe it was based on me.