On Vehicular Manslaughter, Sitting and My Red Sticky Wet Ass

It’s going to be a bad day.

This day, which I am already dreading, began for me somewhere in the wee hours of the morning. I was ripped from sleep by a truly disturbing dream.

I was standing by the side of a busy highway. A few feet from me, I group of young boys threw a ball into the middle of the road. Cars easily moved to avoid the obstruction and the boys just laughed. For reasons I can not imagine, one boy suddenly stepped onto the road and began to walk backward across the highway. It was as if he were in a trance. Cars swerved to avoid him. They hit their breaks and came to screeching stops. I watched this all with a growing sense of dread. All the while the boy continued his walk across the highway. He was almost to the other side when a truck raced around a turn. The truck never slowed down. It simply ran over the boy. I saw his blond hair disappear beneath the truck. His body was whipped out of sight. Vomit rose in my throat.

And then I was awake. I was in my bed. There was no highway. There was no boy. And yet, I still felt sick. I could still see him being crushed by the truck. I was alone in my room but I still felt the panic of the dream.

I fell back to sleep only to have the dream again. That little boy and his blonde head plagued me for most of the night. My sleep was constantly interrupted by his brutal death. When my alarm finally went off I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally.

I showered and dressed as I usually do. I checked Facebook to see how many more people from my high school are now happily married and dreaming of bunnies and butterflies. I then headed out to make my way to work.

Everything was going well until I switched from the brown line train to the red line train. I piled in with the rest of the commuters and sat down in the nearest seat. I’m not usually anxious to sit, but this morning I was trying to make a dent in my latest book club book, and it’s just easier to read while seated. So I sat.

I was seated for roughly a minute before I noticed that the seat was colder than it should have been. A few seconds later I noticed that my ass felt a little wet. It only took another second for me to realize I’d sat right down in a puddle of something wet and disgusting.

I hopped off the train at the next stop. Sure enough, I’d been sitting on a wet seat. And not only was it a wet seat, but it was a red sticky wet seat. And now I was wearing red sticky wet pants that were adhering themselves to my red sticky wet ass.

And so I returned home in order to shower (again) and change (again). Subsequently I was late for work (again). And I am sure I was the butt of many a joke (again).

Yes, it’s going to be a bad day.

On Romance, Terror and Missing the Dream

It was the most romantic night of my life.

It was the most terrifying night of my life.

I was at my sister’s soccer game, sitting aside from the rest of the crowd. When the game was over an attractive man took to the stage and performed with his band. The music was bluesy and funky, a decent pairing for the spring weather. When he was done singing, the man moved through the crowd with a bouquet of roses in his hands. I paid him little attention until it was obvious that he was moving toward me. He handed me the roses and leaned over to kiss me. They entire crowd watched us. He explained that he had seen me on the Greyhound bus during my trip to Atlantic City and that he’d been in love with me ever since. He’d finally found a way to show me. We instantly fell in love and hopped in his car. The plan was to visit his best friend and then travel the world together. When we got to his best friend’s place, however, we found a horrific scene. His friend had been murdered in his bed. Alongside him was the body of a woman. We tried calling the police, but neither of us had cell phone reception in the house. He crawled into a bed in the other room, completely shattered by the scene of his dead friends. I left the house to call the police. No matter how many times I dialed, however, I kept getting a wrong number. I could get a hold of no one who could help us. I went back into the house to check on him and he was sitting on the bed crying. He’d found three dead infants in the bed. And yet, we were still in love. Even when it became apparent that whoever had killed his friends was also after him, we were still in love. Nothing was going to stop that. No amount of pain or terror could change it. We were in love.

I woke up from the dream this morning and found that I was relieved to be free of the house full of dead people. I was safe in my own bed. Yet even though it was just a dream, I still felt love for him. I remember how he looked walking toward me with those flowers, and I longed for that moment to be real.

I miss him.

On War, Poverty and The Most Frightening Nightmare

I’ve been having horrible nightmares lately. They are the kind of nightmares that seem all too real in the moment and take a good while to shake off once you’ve awaken. The last couple of mornings I have lain in bed trying to convince myself that what I just experienced is not real.

The first dream involved war. I was riding in a cab across town and all around me people were filling the streets, shooting at one another. I was terrified for my life, ducking away from the windows to avoid being shot. When I reached my destination, I fled the cab and barricaded myself in my aunt’s house. Most of my family was there, but my uncle was missing. He had been killed. As we mourned him, gunshots rang out in the street. People screamed. People died. I sat amongst my grieving family. I was numb.

The second dream involved money. I went to use my debit card only to discover I had no money. My checking account had been depleted. My savings was gone. There was absolutely no explanation for my situation and there was also no solution. All of a sudden I was destitute. I had nothing. I called my parents, but the same thing had happened to them. Everywhere I looked, people were without basic necessities. The world had been flung into universal poverty. People were sick. People were dying. I sat in the curb not knowing what to do. I was numb.

When I am not asleep, I hear about the economic crisis facing the United States. I think about wars that are being waged across the globe, wars that we no longer speak of. I am bombarded with political propaganda from candidates who are vying for a spot in the White House. I wonder if either one of them can really turn around this runaway train.

The most frightening nightmare is the one in which November comes and goes and we are worse off then we are now.

On Lust, Need and Losing Myself in His Naked Embrace

Don’t ask me for his name because, frankly, I don’t know it. Names weren’t important. Lust was the driving force.

I wanted him in ways that I can’t even begin to describe. His curly blond hair and dancing eyes. His lean, muscled frame. His smooth, creamy skin. There was not one inch of him that I did not want to devour and make my own.

And devour him I did.

He startled me at first, walking in on a private moment between me and my unrequited sexual drive. My back was to the door. My eyes were closed. My attention was somewhere south of my belly button. But even preoccupied as I was, I sensed him. I knew I was not alone.

As I turned, he reached out and replaced my hand with his. The feel of his flesh on my mine caused me to gasp. As my mouth fell open, he leaned in and covered my lips with his. His warm tongue found mine. I lost all sense of myself and fell into his naked embrace.

My hands slowly explored every contour of his frame with an urgent sensuality I have never known. I needed to feel him and smell him and taste him. I needed him. I needed.

He softly lowered himself to the floor, taking me with him. It was there, tangled in his arms and legs and hungry gaze, that all of my needs were met. He was both soft and hard, salty and sweet. His body opened itself up to me until we were one. As I sunk deeper inside of him, any sense of my self became lost forever.

The end was near. I could feel it building from the deepest parts of my being. And yet, there was no urgency. There was no quickening. There was only flesh and sweat and lust. There was him and there was me and we were one.

And then, like a hammer crashing down on my skull, there was my mother. Disgusted, she pushed us apart and screamed, “How could you have sex with a hooker in my house?!”

A boy can’t even have a good sex dream these days without it being ruined.

On Fantasies, Whisking and The Daddies of My Dreams

International Mr. Leather rolled into town over the weekend. As I perused the aisles at the Leather Market, I realized that as erotic as the whole leather scene is, it’s really not for me. Sure, the parade of peach-fuzzed posteriors in chaps was rather titillating, but all in all I think I may just be a little too vanilla for the likes of the men strapped to the bondage tables or being flogged in public.

I came to this not-so-surprising realization as I was looking at some rather amazing jewelry for the family jewels. I’m all for accessorizing, but this was a bit much. I avoided any eye contact with the vendor and moved on.

And that is when I saw them.

I turned from the Steelwerks Extreme vendor to find myself face-to-face with a table of porn stars. And these were not your typically waxed and vapid porn stars. Nor were they the uncut Eastern European variety. These were firm-bellied, hairy-chested, beefy pieces of prime man meat. These were the daddies of my dreams. Before I knew what I was doing, I loudly blurted out, “Now that is what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”

The four sexual fantasies in front of me all laughed a little at my expense and I felt a little foolish. But then one of them addressed me and I felt a lot better. “Then why don’t you come over here?”

I did as I was told. “Having a good weekend?” I asked, unsure of how to properly speak to a porn star.

“I’m a bit hung over.”

[Cut to fantasy sequence.]

“I have a cure for that,” I offered as I reached out and took hold of the weighty jockstrap hanging between his legs.

“I see you do.” He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me to him. When our lips and tongues met, I forgot that I was surrounded by hundreds of other people. All that mattered was his mouth on mine.

“I feel better already,” he said as he pulled away. He gave my ass a hard grab. “And I know exactly how you can make me feel even better.”

He told his fellow erection-inducing pals that he would be back, gave me another deep kiss for the benefit of jealous onlookers and then led me to the elevators. I was able to wave a quick goodbye to my comrades before the doors shut and I was whisked up to his room for an evening that was sure to leave me sore for a week.

[Cut back to reality.]

“I’m a bit hung over.”

“Yeah. I bet that’s a common problem today.” He smiled politely at my lame excuse at conversation and I, knowing full well a guy like me was never going to get whisked anywhere by a guy like him, walked away. There would be no strong hands on my body any time soon.

I finished off the market in a haze, unable to get him out of my head. I just kept thinking about his arms and his legs and his chest and whatever he was hiding in that tiny black jockstrap. I drove myself crazy.

But I was never to find out if the reality of him is as good as the fantasy of him. I left the market without seeing him again and headed home to my empty apartment. I listened to my neighbors having loud rhythmic sex and then I fell asleep.

Sometimes it sucks to be me.