Dream Fucking

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My first sex dream was long the best. In it I held a red-haired boy on my lap. I’d seen him early at a family trip to Burger King. Nothing more than held him. I’ve always had a mad fondness for dark red hair and though at the time I’d yet to do so was certain holding a boy in my lap would be mighty keen. (And it is.)

Dreaming of fucking David Bowie was no surprise. He had the right shade of red hair and looked wonderfully louche on the cover of Space Oddity. And way back then he seemed to define androgyny.

Dreaming of the same with Madonna was very surprising. I hardly knew or music or much more about her than that she was famous. Nor does she have the sort of looks that draw me. But who am I to argue with my subconscious?

Never before have I confess online that I dreamt of having sex with my sister. No dream baffles me more. I don’t have an incest taboo but don’t really think of my sister as a sexual being. She’s my little sister. I certainly don’t lust after her. I don’t know

I’ve always been chagrined that I don’t dream of sex very often. I do dream about former lovers. But it is mostly the untidiness and disharmony of failing love affairs. Not the fun stuff.

Yesterdays’ entry prompted last night’s dream. It was one of those coherent dreams in which if you make coffee you actually drink it.

Emmett Honeycutt was visiting. He took a shower. Still naked he came to me and we embraced. He gently spasmed as I lightly bit his neck and chest.

Then I woke up.

This was the best sex dream ever.

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Thanks,
Richard

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