Last night in my dreams, I lapdanced for Adrian Grenier.
In the typical surreality of dreams, I danced for him in the dry orange-dirt square of a dusty town, a space that looked not unlike the main street drag of Deadwood, only widened out and fast-forwarded a few decades. In my dream, I was one of a group of people dancing for a second group of people in that dusky, dusty square, all of us sinuously writhing all impromptu-like for reasons that were pure logic in the deep recesses of my unconscious.
In my dream, I danced for Adrian Grenier on a long park-type bench wedged behind another long park-type bench, so I had very little room to maneuver, a fact for which the dream Adrian Grenier showed no small appreciation. In my dream, there was rain dripping off the saloon’s roof overhang, rain that dripped not unpleasantly onto my face and into my hair, sticking my incongruously Hello Kitty! wifebeater to my breasts.
In my dream, I was wearing said Hello Kitty! wifebeater and a pair of cartoon hipster bikini bottoms, which my waking self does not own (I do, I confess, have a Hello Kitty! wifebeater).
The shoulder of the dreamy Adrian Grenier generously accommodated my head as I bent back, back, back, landing to dock my ear gently against his ear, my mouth parallel to his mouth, my breath hushed and hot as his, a dream-strange ungraphable geometry of desires. The hands of the dreamscape Adrian Grenier cupped my hips appreciatively. The mouth of the nocturnal Adrian Grenier pressed on the outer rim of the mallomar of my right nipple.
My unconscious was serving up a piping hott fantasy, there in that dusty swirling landscape of absurdly blended HBO original series. Dancing for the hallucinatory Adrian Grenier I felt seal-sinuous, wet and flexible as a synchronized swimmer. I could hold my breath for days, shaking my droplet wet ass in the delighted face of the dream Adrian Grenier.
Yesterday, chatting with a friend, he and I twisted words and minds, confabulating a clown fantasy.
“Write about the time you had to strip for a clown convention,” he said, “and they all wanted to fuck you with their big red noses.”
“They kept coming out of their little car. Coming and coming,” he suggested. “Tied you up with their stretchy suspenders.”
To the rigging of the big top, I thought.
“And all the honking, honking, always the honking,” he said.
And how they squirted me with seltzer, like a surreal wet tee-shirt contest, I said. And beat me with their rubber haddocks, raising haddock welts on my body.
“Covering your bruises with white pancake,” he suggested.
And then, I said, after they leave me heaving, there is nothing left but a rotating bow tie. With which they forced me to orgasm.
“I don’t even want to think about the exploding cigar,” he said.
This morning, lying in my bed, having recalcitrantly woken up from my Adrian Grenier deadwood dead sleep, I thought about the clowns. I imagined being under the big top, there alone in the center, the smell of the sawdust, the big blank blackness of the empty serried seats, the heat of the lights dropping like stars from the arches of the cathedral tent.
The sound of a little engine from far off coming closer, my quizzical reaction to the tiny car, the serendipitous glee at the number of bodies exiting the car. Mute but for squeaks and honks, loud in their polka-dotted clothes, efficient in their hurdy-gurdy bacchanal, they tie me up and wide-painted smiles split their faces, their antic dispositions belied by their choreographed not unpleasurable sadism.
Stripped, spanked and penetrated by phalluses real and plastic, I feel my compliance to these carnal clowns. Awake in my bed, giving profane license to my seedy imagination, I see my body festooned with the primary-colored streamers of clown bukkake. I feel like a child’s cupcake.
This sex drought might be fine feeding for my cross-carnie imagination. I think, though, I need to be fucked in real time.