I don’t have sexual dreams often. Normally I consider them a sort of rare treat.
Not this time.
Some twisted neural filament of traitorous, snickering neurons decided to cast the one ex I have whom I would happily beat to death with a barbed wire bat. When I woke up- possibly out of self preservation- I literally cried:
“Awwwwwwww IIIWWW!” as if in the dark of night, reaching for a lightswitch, I’d just stuck my hand in a bucketful of slugs.
I still feel unclean, like I should hunt down the throbbing brain cancer responsible for such a thing and correct it’s errant ways with a melon baller and a soldering iron, cleaning up the ruined scoop crater with alcohol and a zippo.
I know my subconcious has no particular sense of appropriateness, taste, aesthetics or essential decency… but this was not right.
Next time, a nice nightmare will do fine, thank you. Bring on the flayed dancers and the tattered gray man in the closet. Bring back the tumor that whispers. Bring ’em all back. That would be fine, thank you.
But this was just uncalled for. I mean, really.