Worst. Sex dream. Ever. (PG-13)

This post is rated PG-13 for purple prose, brief nudity, some sexual situations, excessive commas, and several instances of sentences starting with conjunctions.

Ok. To preface, I don’t have sex dreams. EVER. I had one dream as a teenager where I was kissing a girl in a camo bra (This was long before I’d actually kissed anyone in real life) and a couple of nightmares containing things that could be interpreted as sex, but I’ve never had a real sex dream.

So, anyway I was at a woman’s place. It was vague, the way settings in dreams are, maybe a house, maybe an apartment, it didn’t matter. Not anyone who actually exists, as far as I recall.

Red hair, pale skin, sharp cheekbones, nice smile lines around her eyes. Maybe early 40’s, a bit curvy. There was a toddler there, presumably hers, who she was going through the nightly rituals of putting to bed. I was patiently waiting, trying to help, but mostly getting in the way, which she tolerated.

There was the sure but unstated knowledge that, once kid was properly settled in, adult fun time would ensue, its onset was eagerly awaited by both parties. And had been a long, long time coming.

There was no dialog. Things were communicated and understood, but in a silent film kind of ‘pause and look’ way.

So, eventually, nightly chores were done, kid was safely settled in. Some more waiting, less patient now, as we both puttered around, adjusting things that didn’t need adjusting, waiting. Looking at each other.

Without quite staring.

Not touching.


And finally, we were standing, facing each other. Very close, but still not touching. Whatever silent deadline we’d been waiting for had just passed. Her eyes narrowed as she smiled a beautiful, dangerous smile. Expectant, pleased with herself, almost sinister in the best possible way.

Too serious. I pushed her back gently, and she offered no resistance, falling backwards into an impossibly plush couch that I’d somehow not noticed before, with a surprised little shriek of laughter. She giggled threw back her head and kicked up her bare feet playfully, causing her big blue skirt to flare up, just for a moment. Exposing pale, shapely skin, and the barest hint of scarlet.

I scooped up one of her feet and lifted it to my lap as I settled next to her, one hand cradling the soft skin of her calf. She smiled up at me again, no calculation now, all joy and expectation. I brought both hands to the sides of her foot and started to massage it . . .

And everything that was fluid and yielding was suddenly harsh and resistant. She looked at me, smile gone, in a way that very clearly, without words, demanded to know exactly what the hell I thought I was doing.

I responded, also without words, that I had been pleasuring her, as should have been apparent, and I was unclear as to what was wrong. My touch had become distasteful. She removed her leg and covered it with her skirt.

Another look. Colder. Apparently, I was meant to just jump on top of her and get directly to it. She had no interest in, or patience for, any effete strokings or other silly games.

I looked back. Surprised, and more than a little offended. That is not how I operate.

A flat, contemptuous stare. I was no longer welcome in her home. Or in her presence. She does not operate any other way, and my absurd actions disgusted her.

And then, of course, I woke up. Not aroused, but irritated, yet amused in spite of myself by the bizarre, art-movie twist at the end.

Worst. Sex dream. Ever.

I wish I could say this was a joke, but it’s not. Actual dream.

So, apparently, even my subconscious can’t stop cracking stupid jokes long enough to get laid. Not surprising, really . . .

You don’t want to hear about the last guy who who was rubbing her feet…for some reason that was all he wanted to do.

Better it be a dream than real life …

I think you are dreaming the most boring sex dream ever.

The worst would be more like the woman had teeth in her privates. Or was Sarah Palin in disguise, or Todd Palin in disguise. That would be really, really bad. At least for me.

Some of you may swing differently.


As a foot fetishist myself, I can tell you that in certain women it really does elicit instant and strongly negative reaction. And that such women are usually seriously hung up about their bodies, men or sex in general.

To clarify, this was not a foot-worship sort of massage, though those are good too. It was the start of a foot-bone-connected-to-the-leg-bone kind of massage, the type that proceeds upwards from there.

Intellectually, I understand that some people don’t like them, in the same way I intellectually understand that some people don’t like chocolate. I never expected to meet one. Especially not in my subconscious.

Your dream-lover turning out to be Todd Palin in disguise would be bad. But how much worse would it be if it was him the whole time, and your dream-self was TOTALLY INTO HIM?!

My wife confided in my that her sister, about a year ago, had an amazing sex dream (complete with orgasm in her sleep) and then realized she was having sex with a giant teddy bear.

Wanna trade dreams? Last night I dreamt that I was getting orally pleasured by Kathy Griffin while rapper T.I. was watching. One thing I remember from the dream is that I shouldn’t “finish” because it was only a dream and in reality I would have a mess to clean up in the morning.

Dear God, no.

For some reason, I’m not reading this as ‘dreaming about screwing a giant teddy bear’, but more of a ‘and then I woke up, and my pillow was gone’ situation…

Which is simultaneously hotter and funnier…

Foot massage? Not all are equal. ( ** Warning- strong language ahead ** )

Pulp Fiction written by Quentin Tarantino

Jules: Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa… stop right there. Eatin’ a bitch out, and givin’ a bitch a foot massage ain’t even the same fuckin’ thing.
Vincent: It’s not. It’s the same ballpark.
Jules: Ain’t no fuckin’ ballpark neither. Now look, maybe your method of massage differs from mine, but, you know, touchin’ his wife’s feet, and stickin’ your tongue in her Holiest of Holies, ain’t the same fuckin’ ballpark, it ain’t the same league, it ain’t even the same fuckin’ sport. Look, foot massages don’t mean shit.
Vincent: Have you ever given a foot massage?
Jules: [scoffs] Don’t be tellin’ me about foot massages. I’m the foot fuckin’ master.
Vincent: Given a lot of ‘em?
Jules: Shit yeah. I got my technique down and everything, I don’t be ticklin’ or nothin’.
Vincent: Would you give a guy a foot massage?
[Jules gives Vincent a long look, realizing he’s been set up]
Jules: Fuck you.
Vincent: You give them a lot?
Jules: Fuck you.
Vincent: You know, I’m getting kinda tired. I could use a foot massage myself.
Jules: Man, you best back off, I’m gittin’ a little pissed here.