Well kind of.
If you’re a long-time reader, you’ll remember Jesus Belt (JB) as my old editor for the magazine. I started off hating him, then developed some weird type of crush on him, then ended up getting some amazing oral sex from him during his “break” from a girlfriend.
That is all you need to know.
Occasionally, he will text me to see what I’m up to and how I’m doing—he still works at the magazine, but lives many states away…and still has that stupid girlfriend.
In late January, he texted me because he had had a dream about me. In it, he said, I was wearing a red, formal evening gown, and I was standing among the ashes of a burned building.
To his defense, he was on pain killers.
Yesterday morning, this conversation happened via text message:
JB: Oh, my, god. Every once in a while, you surface in a dream, and it’s just great. Don’t mean it to be creepy, but as a compliment (just woke up from it).
ME: Ha! Were you on pain killers this time?!
JB: Nope! I didn’t even drink last night.
ME: Wow! So what happened this time?
JB: I bet it’s because we only fooled around such a limited amount, and my poor brain is rebelling against the limitations of our experience…Lucky! It was rather graphic; not sure I could just text it all out…combo of the real first night, and then a bit more, a fabrication in-line with what I would’ve liked but never got.
ME: haha, you make me laugh.
JB: Laugh it up, Lucky. I should write it out as well. I can keep it for a bit. Maybe I’ll do that to get myself into the days’ writing.
ME: I’m really glad I make such an impression in your dreams!
JB: I’m glad, too.
ME: You should write it out and send it to me, anonymously.
JB: I’m only pretending to be sensitive. What! You’ll know it was me!
ME: Well yeah, but you’re so bashful about it.
JB: I can do that but I’m not sure I’m interested in a mere one-time exchange…
ME: You want to be pen pals?
JB: Jesus, how are you? I sure hope I didn’t cold text you in the middle of some kind of travesty, all excited about my randy dreams… I’m interested. Fair is fair, is all I’m saying.
ME: No travesty here! I am just sitting at my desk at my lame day job.
JB. Jesus! Well, then…surrounded by co-workers, I’m sure?
ME: No, I have my own office.
JB: Ohhkay! I need to shake off my weirdness and go to work, I suppose. But you ought to Facebook me your address, if you want to receive a note sometime.
ME: I will.
JB: Lets chat more soon; I should get up and get moving. Oh, thanks for the delicious intrusions, Lucky!
ME: You are welcome!
JB: I hope writing it out doesn’t remove it from whatever part of my brain keeps gifting me with it; much of it this morning was just crystal clear: the lightly beaded sweat on the inside of your thighs, your soft little moan, the insistent movements of your hips as you thrust yourself up against my tongue…
ME: Damn. I’ve heard dreams are just random thoughts in your brain…
JB: I don’t think they are ‘random.’ It’s your mind’s relief valve…doesn’t mean you’ll always get what you’d expect to have under pressure, but you’ll get something.
ME: That makes sense.
JB: I probably read your status update a week ago, looked at a few photos like a creep, and then this morning, right before I woke up…there you were.
ME: Oh yeah, I’m sure I looked really hot in my Justin Bieber t-shirt.
JB: Not sure I saw that one.
ME: Don’t look at it.
JB: I wrote a lot last night, wonder if that had some effect.
ME: Wrote about what?
JB: Ha! The healing characteristics of charcoal, and how to make it in the wilderness.
ME: That wasn’t it!
JB: Perhaps you don’t give full credit to the strangeness of the brain. I spent some of that time listening to an interview with Ernest Hemmingway in Spanish, and some part of that time in rage, castigating myself for abandoning so much that’s been important to me, regretful of these last years of editing over writing, management over art…it may be hard for you to see any doors whereby you could slink into my brain within those context, but I’m not surprised.
ME: Now it gets interesting.
JB: God only knows what I’ve assigned you, or even merely the feminine of you, the sweet-smelling distillate of Lucky…the one that got away? One I was too stupid to pursue? The possibilities are endless, as far as your subconscious.