Tag: sex

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Dream Journal

Borrowed Lambo, Twin Mistake, Prime Distraction

My wife is on the phone. While I happen to be listening in, I hear a family member on the other side say very specifically “hey, your dad has lost his life”. I have an instantaneous reaction of FUCK, followed by (embarrassingly) a feeling that at least now things are closed. Maybe we can inherit something now, even. I bolt awake at 3:21 am.

I park a borrowed Lamborghini on the street outside a hotel on the waterfront of the bay. Perhaps I used to work there. It’s fancy and expensive, but the neighborhood next to it isn’t. I spend a good long time exploring inside during the uncrowded early morning golden hour — traversing interior suspended walkways, decorating for Christmas, and discovering a second-floor gender-neutral bathroom labeled “Theirs”. One curiosity I come across in this mall-like atrium-like space is a very amusing bird sculpture/toy, finding one cleverly hidden mechanism after another to press with my fingers.

In the back row of a wedding, in an upstairs conference room overlooking the bay, I run into my friend Meredith. I show her the nifty bird sculpture (now transformed into an owl) and offer it to her. I also mention that someone trusted me with the Lamborghini out front. But when I go outside again it’s not there. I orient with the nearby landmarks and the saved location on my phone, inspect around and find a note in hard-to-read scrawl — something about average monthly insurance for it being $1200, about “only 12 inches of cocaine” — the obvious implication being that the car will be returned if I pay them what they erroneously believe I actually pay.

Walking up an indeterminate slope, behind my college girlfriend Jenna & my actual wife, others, but for a moment I can’t remember who it was I married. Finally I do remember, and am thankful. I lay down next to my sleeping wife (now more like a long-ago redhead classmate of mine Lauren Wycoff, or the cartoon redhead hottie Jessica Rabbit) and as fond surprise snuggle behind her in bed, and we have sex. The dream actually proceeds through the whole experience: I lube up, it’s quiet and intimate, I finish inside. But for some reason my wife has never told me before that she has a twin! This is very embarrassing (for all of us) yet no one seems upset. Just a never-talk-about-it thing I suppose, although the twin seems… less upset than you’d expect. Perhaps a happy mistake.

A former British prime minister (like Theresa May), exchanging questions with a circle of Americans about things we’ve done. Tangential to her question — something she almost certainly didn’t bargain for — I tell a bizarre rambling story both fascinating and true (within the dream) of a town I visited in Oregon. Not finding our way in despite detailed instructions; driving past a graveyard to get in; discovering the winding dirt roadway between two other roads along a grassy and forested flat area. Picturesque clouds, children’s book sun, mountains in the distance; a rustic cabin near a pixie-haunted broadleaf tree; the wilderness beyond like a dewy lawn.

The next day I text the Prime Minister, having remembered the name of the place: Rasp, Oregon. While it does bear some resemblance to the town of Sisters, Oregon (which I visited this summer), I’m almost sure this was a place I’ve been before. It all may have come from another dream another night, one unwritten, remembered only in other dreams.

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Dream Journal

That Hot Pokémon Girl

A stone bird submerged just below the surface of a pond. Jumping on the stone and seeing the profile. Meant to be a cue for a longer dream, now forgotten.

Last day of school. The ebullient kids from Mrs. Plescia’s 5th grade, with the boxy confined aesthetic of middle school. After hours of games and getting up/sitting down from a desk, we have quiet time at end. My childhood friend Robby T. and I are part of the group who cleans up during it, stuff from microwaves to chipped commemorative mugs. I peek over the wooden-post fence to the road beyond, as in another dream set in a mountain prison where I planted mushrooms in a garden bed. I see boxes a boxes of supplies I’ve brought during the year, all of which I need to bring home. There is, in fact, what Robbie (it’s spelled Robbie for some reason) points out what he calls a mushroom tray, but which looks to me like a colonized mushroom tray.

An art event sponsored by Cameo W., a darkened central room with grand, open rooms branching from it. Avoidant of typical San Francisco tech themes, despite that she made most of her money from cashing out in tech. There’s a girl I don’t know, Erin Collins, who gives out loads of her self-made business cards to everyone at the event. I’m not interested in calling her on account of seeming desperate for… whatever it is she wants.

Later, though, I’m back within the setting of the last day of class. There’s a jumping contest to leap from the last railing of a stairway leading to the beach. I make impressive distance, but realize I may have not followed the rules by stepping further beyond my sandy landing imprints. The girl, Erin, makes a similar impressive showing and I realize she’s a Pokémon (!). And she looks, very, very good naked. We make out and then begin to fuck. Her vulva does this weird thing where it bulges forward, almost as if her vagina was just below her skin. When I’m fully inside, a small bump appears at her pubis. I realize that although it’s amazing to fuck someone this pretty (and a Pokémon!) I won’t be getting off as she’s missing something, somehow. She’s not getting as much pleasure as she’s giving and we can’t fix it for now. We gaze at a sick battleship docked nearby, being eroded by the waves.

Riding my motorcycle, turning onto a street like Mission in SF. Behind a group of riders on what look like scooter versions of my motorcycle, the Honda CTX. I pull off and park near Willows, labelled on the awning as “A CTX Bar”. I remember thinking how I have to be on my best behavior so as to give a good impression to the young ones.

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Dream Journal

Summer Camp School Reunion

School reunion at a place like a summer camp. I run into my friend Robby T. and gloss into an explanation of everything I’ve done since high school. I look down and realize at some point I put on the white-and-blue shirt with my high school logo, split down the middle like a button-up.

I’m myself but shrunk to the size of a mouse. Maybe I am a mouse. I’m on an artificial high cliffside ledge, maybe steep stadium seating.

I wake up and go back to sleep and dream about having written some notes in my dream journal. I open the app in my dream and there’s a short mathematical formula. I know that I wrote it and it’s meaningful, but I defer trying to figure it out.

In a room killing time. Waiting to occasionally sexually service Dara. She’s leaning on a table with a knit shawl or lace draped over her backside, playing on her phone. Every once in a while she gestures over and I go at it from behind.

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Dream Journal

Picket Chicken, Professor Sleeve-Torn, Old Tiki Motor-Inn

Chicken John, holding a picket sign, demonstrates how perfectly covering a loudspeaker with it can effectively block all the sound produced.

Licking the back end of a very attractive girl — on behalf of a professor. In a moment, Soviet-type police start giving the professor trouble for not having permits. They tear off his jacket sleeve trying to escort him down a wide stairway. Because he well-understands jacket engineering (and the actual social hierarchy dynamic at play) he tears off one of theirs right back, starting with the coattails.

Old X-shaped motor-inn motel has been thoughtfully converted into big Asian restaurant with Tiki styling. While inspecting the layout, peeking over internal balconies on the second floor, I look through their vintage 1950s-70s tea brewing machines. Japanese-made, some have delicate tea room scenes built inside them. The last one turns out to be in current use, I’m startled to discover while peering closely, when a waiter comes over to use it.

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Dream Journal

Volcanic Old Crush Sex

My third grade crush sits right on my face! See her hips move slowly down without seeing her face. Hairless. She’s rewarding me for something, my expertise and skilled performance. We’re glad to see each other again after so many years. I don’t think she has kids in this lifetime.

Two Danish tourists are swingers. Not important to the story, but they were there. I have an appointment to keep and need to climb the lines of a long diagonal tramway upwards to meet our Atlas Obscura tour boat. I get there with just a bit of time to spare, overlooking a small dainty Greek island I’ve been to before. So small, almost a carved model.

The volcano explodes, but I know what to do. It’s the first time in my life I’ve been close enough to feel the shockwave.

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Dream Journal

Stairway Stab Girl

Taking a ride to the airport, the doors to the bus open twice. I get out on an empty platform, embarrassed as the train speeds away. End up having to walk a long way to baggage claim, a tiny beige room in a spare building.

Girl on the landing between two stairways giving a blowjob. She has the guy stab her butt, then fuck the stab.

She then loads my dishwasher with dozens of blue glass jug vessels, careful they don’t rattle.

On the couch and there’s an orange cat in my lap. Reminds me of Flop! Rat cage is open though. It turns into two black cats, like Aloysius unfortunately. I call Lynae to come help.

My brother Patrick has his Mac break. He has to buy a new PC and is humorously says and condescending about it.

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Dream Journal

Hidden Temple Stays Hidden

My father-in-law lives in a large aristocratic manor, in one wing he’s built a grand indoor railroad landscape. Parts are clearly medieval with tiny knights and exquisite sailboats behind glass cases. He presents gifts to his daughter, my wife, while they lounge in front of one such display case. His pricey gifts are even on theme.

The house is tall enough that when I come down from an upper floor, walking down a long stone spiral staircase, I can’t tell at all if I’ve reached my floor (counting in a dream is hard too, I suppose). Eventually I emerge in a massive overstocked kitchen abuzz with people moving about, then finally reach the ground floor. Outside in the gravel drive is a squat yet spacious school bus waiting to return students who came to see Beauty and the Beast.

While driving my car out in the country, I stumble upon a pristine pagan temple — a circle of upright stones embedded in lush, thick ground cover. Hidden, disused, but obviously well-kempt, possibly built by Loreon Vigne of Isis Oasis. I forgot my suitcase for this trip so return home, and when I try to find the temple again the location on my maps app is wrong. It leads instead to a graffitied-over stage at some dilapidated Renaissance Fair summer camp along a disused, cracked, conifer-lined highway. Someone has been clever enough to keep it hidden — I wish I’d written it down.

Returning my colorful Mayan hammock because the net body has split from the hook loop. Surprised to discover I still have 11 days to return it. However, it seems Amazon mostly carries a plain white version, and this was a problem before. In fact, on reflection, the white hammock resembles a cheap nylon-and-plastic one I bought at an Army surplus store, the one which once dropped me straight down from a height of six feet.

Testing forensic evidence by having sex — sex with two women, to see how the female body processes semen. I wasn’t going to leave this in, it seems extraneous and explicit, but I reckon I should err on the side of completionism.

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Dream Journal

Men Are Dogs (title taken from next day’s dream)

Welp… no getting around this one being weird: I was presented with a humorously-intended blowjob voucher from my old crush, while sitting in my own living room. In front of my wife no less. Not exactly a bad dream. Let’s just say I won’t be surprised if nothing comes of it though.

My Uncle Robert and Aunt Carol have a long, sloping, grassy field through the forests. A Pacific Northwest vibe. The grass is so tall (and wet) in places a full-grown man can hide in it. Taking a narrow tree-lined canyon path off from it, Lynae (to a small group) sketches out on a whiteboard her idea of a baseball score-keeping concept. Columns of Team A / Team B, a simple but useful discursion.

A bartender at a restaurant, perhaps a company cafeteria, gives me my change as flecks of gold suspended in a glass of water. I try to transport it outside by holding it in my mouth without much success. Coming back to my motorbike, I see that I’ve left my phone on it in plain view, on top of my jacket no less.

The store I was planning to go to has closed while I was inside the restaurant. Soon I do some super-high jumps on my scooter, front flips even, but the bike will still be fucked when I land.

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Dream Journal

Vixen Hunting, Submarine Escape

Out in a wintry, grey, spread-out urban environment. Spot three vixens (female foxes) of gigantic size, perhaps 6 feet tall. My companion — a woman who’s not quite my partner, but certainly a good friend — takes aim with her hunting rifle and makes a clean shot at the lead fox. It’s then I realize the other two are a detailed mural, trompe l’oeil. Writing this now, I realize it could’ve been painted there as a decoy for exactly this purpose.

Afterwards, my wife’s grandmother shows up and folds herself neatly into a bag for transport.

Aboard a submarine, the captain from Seaquest (Nathan Bridger) and the young tech guy (Lucas Wolenczak) are together in a gym shower having sex. Within the dream I find this surprisingly boring, though I’m not sure who/what my dream persona is. A bit later the submarine is evading capture through rough water and can be seen darting in between the peaks of two waves. This image is particularly memorable as, in a later dream inside a classroom with Mickey and Robby T., I actually take care to draw it in pen.

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Dream Journal

Lucid Sex Close to Real Life

In classroom, sitting on chair with one leg shorter. Moving around different desks. Went on a bus field trip to a dark sinkhole. Coming back, I was dropped off in front of the Fartpartment while I hung off the back of the trailer we were all riding off. By the front door was one of my green Adidas shoes. I was markedly lucid on the walk upstairs. It was dark, nighttime. As I entered the door Lynae was on the couch and I warned her “I’m dreaming”. In the bedroom, there were two large bottles of lube. It was difficult to concentrate on assembling the lube bottle, but I managed to stick the spigot into the spout. Lynae’s butt was extra round and maybe smaller than in real life. She was wearing red or black fishnets over it, and it was daytime outside.

Fucking her felt quite natural compared to sex I’ve experienced in dreams before. I was very consciously aware that I was turning off signals from my sleeping body. I also had an awareness that I was interacting on another plane, just as legitimate as the physical one. I was grounded in my experience.

After some time, I walked through the apartment. Flop ran ahead of me and I considered trying to give him 7 tails. Walking down the back stairs, I gave up the pretense of trying to stay safe and act like this might not be a dream. I flew straight, over the neighbors garden. I couldn’t modify the flight path so I passed through.