Raise your hand if you've ever had what I like to call (drum roll, please, Ringo....)
The Sex Dream.
I know there are people out there, friends of mine, who claim that they never remember their dreams. In fact, I've been involved in some friendly debates with some of them regarding dreams. Some people don't think we dream every night. Some people dream, but don't remember them. I pity the fool.
I love dreaming, I love my dreams. Sometimes, they're like real life on steroids. No worries, no stress. In some of my dreams I'm in perfect shape, raising perfect kids and living the perfect life. Sometimes they mirror real life, only instead of driving to the grocery store I'll fly there. I have pregnancy dreams to this day, hand to God I wake up and can still feel the baby kicking. There are dreams about the past, where I'm gabbing with my now-gone Grandpa or running around my childhood neighborhood, barefoot and carefree.
Don't get me wrong; dreams in JennyOpolis aren't always awesome. I have the occasional scary dream, even nightmares. In some of my bad dreams I'm being chased by a bear or a clown (the two things in this universe that scare the crap out of me), trying to hide under desks or in closets. Some of my bad dreams are those horrible, awful ones, the ones where something bad has happened to someone I love. I hate those.
And every once in a while, my subconscious treats me to a sex dream. If you've had them, you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you haven't had one? I'm so sorry.
Mine never start out naughty...they aren't like a porn filled with bleached out images of mustachioed studs, tawdry guitar music playing (bow chicka wow wow). No uncomfortable close ups, no loosely tied bathrobes. Nah.
Take, for example, the most recent sex dream I had. In this dream, I was having lunch at some nondescript, anonymous deli type restaurant. I was by myself, sitting at a booth with overstuffed red vinyl seating. I looked over and to my surprise, saw John McEnroe sitting at the booth next to mine. All alone.
One thing led to another, and before you could say match-point I was tangled up with Johnny Mac. I should clarify, too...this was 80's John McEnroe, with the fro/headband look. Where were we? A hotel room, my bed, under a table? I have no idea. These aren't the most detailed dreams. The funny thing about them, is that while they're happening, while Dream Jenny is making out with Dream McEnroe, there's no disbelief on my part. No shock. No overwhelming urge to text my friends "OMG I'm totally getting down with a quasi-celebrity". Like making oatmeal for breakfast, sex with McEnroe (or whoever is on tap that night) happens every day.
The funny thing about these dreams is how random they are. I don't remember reading or seeing anything about McEnroe recently. I'm waiting patiently for my Alec Baldwin sex dream to happen. It's only a matter of time.
I've had these naughty dreams for almost as long as I can remember. They started out as kissing dreams (the skateboarding one involving me and Leif Garrett? 5th grade. I remember waking up BLUSHING). Over the years I've had a plethora of partners, some famous, some just regular every day fellas. And one girl...there was that really raunchy one featuring Christina Aguilera. To this day I feel funny when I see her.
Dream Jenny has gotten busy with Will Ferrell (in his "more cowbell" get up, go figure), Christopher Walken, several Top Chef contestants, Paul Rudd has made a few appearances, Conan O'Brien, a guy I used to work with back in the early 90's, Joey from Friends (I know...why???), the tall Nordic vampire from True Blood, and many more.
Having a fun, intense sex dream is kind of like pulling out a coat from a past season and finding money in one of the pockets. An unexpected, pleasant surprise. In some ways, it's almost better than the real thing: no worries about morning breath, hairy legs or the fact that when naked, you resemble a white, wrinkled roman shade. No fretting about whether or not he'll respect you in the morning, whether or not he'll call. No wet spots, no awkward pillow talk, no fumbling around a dark room looking for your clothes.
Just slam, bam, wake up ma'am. And sometimes, that's all a girl needs.
Sweet dreams, my friends.