[Full disclosure: I might be dating this bisexual dude, hence my trepidation about entering the bedroom and finding a slithering wet vagina awaiting me for a threesome.]
So last night, I fucked a woman. A forty-year-old virgin.
She had discolored skin, blue plugs of it drooping from her chin and bubbled scars a la Seal. Clearly, this poor woman had been parched in the biggest five-alarm blaze since Ron Howard's Backdraft.
"I like it hard and slow," she told me, even though she never had 'it' in her forty years. She reminded me very much of Ms. Crabtree on South Park, the constantly bedraggled ragamuffin bus driver who says things such as "my cooch hasn't been paid this much attention since I was a ripe flower."
I remember saying to myself, "just picture it as your potential boyfriend's ass...just picture it as your potential boyfriend's sphinx."
In a later dream segment, I started gettin' hot and heavy with the openly gay indie-rocker from Nashville who shall remain nameless.
In real life, I've been crushin' hardcore on this Roxy Music-era guitar slinger, sending him steamy text messages that could make Sue Johanson blush.
But last night in the dream...man. Let's just say that when my cell phone alarm clock blared, I cursed Cingular Wireless president Kathleen L. Dowling's mother.