OK; no more Grenada. I promise.
Instead, I'm going to tell you a story.
It's a funny story.
At least I think it's funny, and it's my blog so, there you go...but, I should warn you first; it's a funny SEX story.
So be warned; there are things in here that are not wholesome for impressionable young children. Or naive adults. Or people who are shocked by people talking about carnal matters. Or anyone shocked by nudity, because there's some nudity, too.
Are we clear on all of this?
Kids all out of the room?
Aunt Sally safely immersed in that Golden Girls re-run?
First, let me say that I think I am a very lucky man.
I have a bride who I not only like as a person and cherish as a companion but desire as a woman.
I find her delightful and delight in her. For me she walks in beauty like the night; all that's best in dark and bright meets in her aspect and her eyes; thus mellowed to that tender light that Heaven to day denies.
One pleasant side-effect of this is that occasionally I have lovely dreams in which she and I are the principals.
Often these are merely diversions; we revisit places we visited in the light of day, or reenact things we did while waking.
Occasionally, these dreams are more...intimate.
But...and I hope nobody reading is disappointed when I confess this...they wouldn't make very good Penthouse-letter-reading.
(Which reminds me; has anyone even seen a "Penthouse" lately?Anyway...even in my erotic dreams I'm afraid I'm just hopelessly, boringly conventional.
Remember when those glossy stroke books were the ultimate in smut, the Nirvana of porn, the K2 of wankerdom? Remember going into...well, almost anywhere there were magazines and seeing them and Playboy and the other heavy-bond paper porno periodicals?
Seen them lately? Yeah, me neither.
Was there anything that the Internet killed deader than those glossy porno rags? If there is I can't think of it.
Sorry. Lost my thread there for a moment.)
They are usually nothing more daring than boringly wholesome hetero sorts of dreams, the Hallmark Channel of salacious imagination. Making love to my wife on a white sand beach, romantic trysts before a roaring fire, sex under the Christmas tree (without the annoying pine needles poking me in the ass)...you get the idea.
Nice. But...well, sorta vanilla, right?
No frantic kinks, no forbidden pleasures; no S&M, no sweaty pileups, no her dressing up like Mrs. Claus and swinging from the chandelier with four stalwart lechers pulling at her legs.
Nope. Just plain old boring romantic-ish married sex.
That's just jake with me, but it doesn't make for a thrilling blog post read, now, does it?
About a week ago I had a dream.
It started off fairly typically; the two of us lounging in a huge white bed in this enormous tropical-sort of room; long white bedcurtains, huge windows with venetian blinds screening out the blazing white sunlight.
On the silky sheets my bride's pale skin glowed with the sort of luminosity you only see in photographs or in dreams; her whole body seemed to radiate a sort of lush intensity, a warm and fecund sheen that promised all manner of lubricious delights, as did her slantendicular smile below her lowered lids.
In my mind she looked at me and ran her palms down her thighs in a gesture of pure invitation.
So far, so good - and so far, so standard.
So I was dream-shocked when my dream-bride rolled onto her side, loured at me, and murmured in her best throaty dream-voice:
"I want you to make love to my ass..."
Look. I understand myself as well as I hope I possibly can. And - understanding that - I understand that I will take whatever licentious liberties I am offered.
(We're like that, men, most of us, I'm afraid...)
Like most men, though, I won't take what is not offered.
And so far as my bride is concerned - my real bride, my waking-hours bride - that particular form of congress is most surely not offered.
No fooling around back there. That's a one-way street. No trespassing. Do not enter.
Mi novia finds nothing enticing about the notion of having someone poking about the distal end of her digestive tract.
And that has always applied to my dream-wife as well. We don't cavort inside my head in ways we don't in real life - including that way.
At least, until the other night's dream.
But...even in my dream I couldn't really buy this sudden wifely desire for the entry into the Forbidden Zone. Dream-me was suddenly as still as the bunny when the hawk passes overhead; every nerve-ending jangling with the sense of imminent danger.
"Are you sure about this..?" I asked, motionless.
In answer my dream-bride writhed in what can only be described as an utterly shameless fashion. "Oh, yessss..." she moaned, "I want it. I need it."
I just sat there staring.
"You're kidding me." I said, finally.
"You really want me to have anal sex with you. Butt sex. Up the ol' dirt road. Drive the Hershey Highway. Bloop you up the doody chute. You're one hundred percent dead solid no-kidding abso-lutely sure you want this?"
My dream-spouse responded by rolling onto her elbows and knees into a position that in the higher primates would be called "presenting".
The sane part of my dream-brain was shrieking like an air raid siren (Warning! Warning! Danger, Doctor Smith, danger! Warning!) but my little dream-head was doing most of the thinking by this time and that thinking was "Well, OK then...".
I got to my knees and shuffled across the sheets. "You're absolutely sure you want this?" I said as I reached for the delicious fundament waggling before me.
In return I received a lascivious moan and a tremor-inducing whole-body wriggle.
I leaned forward in anticipation, and...
"You were gonna fuck me up the butt, weren't you?!" snarled my dream-lover.
"And you know I don't go for that stuff, too."
And with that she wrapped the robe that appeared in her hands around her body, wagged her finger at me one last time and stalked away, her bare heels beating out a martial rhythm on the shining wood floor.
I lay there dreaming aimlessly a long, long time.
Until my night-wanderings transmuted into something about cleaning the kitchen counters and unloading the dishwasher.