Finally a chance to write my erotic fiction! Do I have a Ph.D in dream analysis? No. Is that even something you can get a degree in? I have no idea. That doesn’t mean I am not well-versed in interpreting the hidden totems and symbols of sexual fantasies. Desire knows no bounds and wanting any flavor of boning (for the most part) is perfectly normal. Come, tell Dr. Esmeralda about your latest nocturnal sexual utopia and you might discover a thing or two about your deep seeded fear of spiders or love of whales.
You’re at a bar sipping a cosmopolitan in a body con dress with your legs crossed. You go to adjust the ankle strap of your red high heels, as you look up you see the man of your dreams. His face is neither here nor there, you can’t really make it out because this is a dream, but he is well-dressed in a perfectly tailored suit. You don’t say anything and neither does he, you don’t have to. Suddenly you’re in the back of your mom’s Prius and wearing your old high school uniform. You swat his hand off your boob and slap him in the face. The glare of a police officer’s flashlight beams into your eyes. You wake up next to your husband who is the same guy from the car and the same guy from bar. All of your teeth fall out. You have coitus in the missionary position. You wake up, for real this time, bae says, “What was that about?” You say, purring like a kitten, “Just thinkin’ bout you, hubby, meeeoooooooow.”
What this says about you: Investment banking is in your future . . . and past . . . and present.
You and your friends are sitting in a circle on the floor of a dorm room. Your crush is there. He is drinking a PBR with the grace of an angel and the fury of a Nordic God. Someone suggests you all play spin the bottle. You go first. It spins and spins and spins. You hear each tick and tock of the clock strike with a thunderous woosh and doosh. After 197 dream minutes the bottle finally lands on someone . . . not your crush but your best friend. You hadn’t really thought about it but she is kind of a qt. You lean in for a French kiss when suddenly the Kool Aid man storms through the wall. He pours his high fructose ale on your head, except it’s not Kool Aid—it’s acid!
What this says about you: Mean Girls is your favorite movie, you’ve got a “big lesbian crush” on someone and you’ve been seriously cutting down on your sugar intake.
Song To Bone To: “Feel It In My Bones,” by Tegan & Sara
16 Beyonces dressed like Roman gladiators swarm you. You look in a funhouse mirror, your reflection stares back at you . . . you’re Beyoncé but are you the real Beyoncé?
What this says about you: You’re Michelle Williams or a narcissist.
“Shall I put on some tuneage?” You say. He isn’t turned off by the fact that you used the word “tuneage” or that you still use a CD player instead of an iPod/Phone dock. You put on your favorite CD. “I love this song!” He says. “Sticks and stones may break my bones but chains and whips excite me,” Rihanna sings like the elusive chanteuse she was born to be. “Would you like to see my boobage?” He grins. He unbuttons the first button of your blouse made out of macaroni and cheese noodles. “Are we moving too fast?” He asks. You pour a packet of creamy velveeta cheese onto his head. “If this is too fast then I am at lightning speed, dudeage,” you say. You lick a drop of cheese from the corner of his eyelid. Life is good, you think, Life is goodage.
What this says about you: You fear taking charge in your relationships although you know they’d be better off if you would.
Song To Bone To: “S&M” by Rihanna
“The President won’t stand for this,” a White House aide says. “The President will do whatever she damn well pleases,” you swipe all of the items off your Oval Office desk including the world peace treaty you were supposed to sign. NBD. “Are you familiar with words like TREASON? SHONDA RHIMES? CUNNILINGUS?” You take off your blazer then rip off your dress shirt. “I didn’t know you watched Scandal, Madam President,” the White House aide says. “I watch everything, take off your clothes.” The aide undresses. Your secret service agents give you side eye. You push the aide onto the desk. “I did not have—I did not ha–have—sexual relations . . . with . . . ” your voice trails off into sweet ecstasy.
What this says about you: You have a God complex and watch TV shows even after they get really bad.
Song To Bone To: “National Anthem,” by Lana Del Rey
“Another Olive Garden breadstick, my dear?” Your boo is strapped into an armchair. You feed him breadsticks and spinach artichoke dip. Suddenly you’re sitting in front of your vanity, unfurling the rollers in your hair. You’re not a blond in real life but you are in this dream. “Another cigar, my dear?” You ask your boo. Suddenly your are vacationing in The Hamptons. “Shall we begin the ritual fellatio?” You ask. “It only happens once a year,” He says. You grab a butcher knife from the kitchen. It begins.
What this says about you: You are practical but adventurous.