For some reason of late I’ve been having weird – and weirdly vivid – dreams. Odd, since I’ve been sleeping little (or maybe not so odd, maybe that’s why I’m dreaming this way).
In no particular order, since I can’t recall when I dreamed these:
There was a woman I knew named Laurel, from my tower days. Laurel was the sexy older lady at the time; she knew Lindsay Buckingham, she sun-bathed naked, she danced like a stripper. I realize now that she was in her early thirties, a woman I’d think of as a sexy young thing now; but I was 22 and she was tan, exotic, and incredibly sexy.
I never did fuck her, for all the times I thought I might; all the times we played grab and tickle, all the times it seemed like I’d have wound up in bed with her, it never did happen.
In my dream, we are riding on a bus, or some sort of large, slow-moving vehicle, and talking about how we never did, and how we should have, but now it’s too late since the people who should have aren’t here anymore.
I am having a conversation over drinks with Buck. But for some strange reason, Buck has hair. In real life he has none, of course, but in the dreamy unreal reality, it is known to be him.
When I say hair, I don’t just mean a few days without shaving. His head is crowned with some elaborately tall, almost sculptural thing, a pompadour, a golden whipped topping of hair, high and blond and framed with mighty side-burns.
I’ve no idea what we talk about. It is important, though.
I wake with her beside me – some girl from memory or sub-conscious. Her sweat on me. I can smell myself on her.
I kiss her bare shoulder, stroke from hip to belly, fingers parting her thighs and feeling the wetness of her bald pussy.
I roll her over, kiss her, and straddle her, kneeling between her things. She’s still slick and wet; we’ve already fucked once. Her pussy smells like her come and mine.
I wrap my hand around the base of my cock, working it fully hard. I rub the head against her slit, working her open.
I push into her, wet and welcoming. She whispers my name. I can feel the inside of her; she moans softly, and I begin to growl.
I’m at a planetarium, or a museum. I don’t know what, or where. Maybe los angeles. Maybe not.
Travis Barker is, first figuratively, and then literally, crying on my shoulder.
He weeps, laments; how could she do this to him, when he loves her.
She’s a bitch, he says, how can she do it? He’ll never love anyone else.
He’s drunk, slurring his words. I attempt to comfort him, but he seems on the edge of crazy drunk, like he’ll turn violent of I say the wrong thing. So I speak softly to him, agree with what he says.
The setting gradually morphs to someplace with a bed, and he’s passing out, still fully clothed, including boots, which are filthy.
I tuck him in and leave.
When I wake, I have the name ‘Shanna Moakler’ in my head, and for a moment can’t figure out why.