A Road Between Two Somewheres and the Bearded Sexmonster of San Diego (explicit)

 

Dreams have been scarce lately. Only thin threads are left upon awakening, whose wisps evaporate like the mist on a summer lawn. I want to say, "I remember..." but even that sentence is a falsehood, since by the time I begin to type it, I simply don't remember. And yet I know there have been dreams. I can feel their weight, an extra blanket over my consciousness, receding like the tide, taking all of the life it contained back out to sea, or scurrying beneath the smooth, wet sand.  

Ah, one little sandcrab managed to re-emerge momentarily, and now I know where to dig. A little detail of some kind has left its calling card, a roiling air pocket in a tidepool betraying its attempt to conceal its escape. I'm onto you, little sandcrab.

I was on another journey. It began in the city and was begun too late in the day, which guaranteed that I wouldn't be returning before nightfall, if at all. I was on roller skates, and my neighbor Stan was on a motorcycle. I was able to keep up with him in the city, where the roads were smooth, and I could skip the restrictions of traffic lights by weaving in and out of traffic or jumping up on sidewalks, going through parking lots and taking shortcuts. 

Once outside the city, the journey got harder. I had to travel uphill, and the traffic was thinner, but more dangerous, as it was moving faster, and cars would come up on me and pass me on the narrow two lane road. I had to watch out for the little reflective road dots, which spoiled the otherwise smooth asphalt canvas upon which I glided back and forth in an uphill slalom. 

The terrain got more tricky when the road turned to gravel up in the higher elevations. My rate of travel slowed as my roller skates, slogging in the loose rocks, made me struggle like someone trying to run in chest high water. I kept going as long as I could, but eventually it became clear that I wouldn't be able to go any further. 

It was getting dark. We were trying to make it to some destination like a lake or mountain retreat. If we couldn't get there by nightfall, we would have to turn back, undoing all of our progress, and the journey would have to be repeated the next day. I thought perhaps that I could camp out somewhere, but there wasn't any place to do so. It was just a road connecting distant two places, with nothing in between. 

Back down the hill I went, through the gravel, back onto the two-lane and into the small town on the outskirts of the city. Stan's house was there, and I stopped briefly to move a sprinkler on his lawn. 

He'd left the sprinkler on because there was a fire somewhere nearby. I positioned it so that it would water a large tree in the middle of the lawn as well as some of the grass near his driveway. The overspray from where the sprinkler had previously resided was causing the grass to encroach on his gravel driveway, the green patch ruining its otherwise tidy appearance. 

The dream, which I am sure contained more than these few scant details, ended at this point. I'm now awake on a Saturday, stuck in my house because of the plume of smoke from the fire in Colfax being funneled through the foothills and into the valley below. I just happen be smack in the middle of this river of smoke, a purple band of hazardous air which indiscriminately chokes out all life in its path like a plague of death. 

Dit-dit-dit

This little nugget dislodged itself as I was washing some kale in preparation for my breakfast:

Prior to my dream of a journey between two somewheres, I was in a summer vacation setting, similar to the one I visited this June in San Diego. It was a little more seedy, though, and people were sleeping on couches and doubling up in beds, even if the person next to them was a total stranger. I was alone under the covers, in a mattress on the floor, when I felt the warmth of another body press up against my back. 

This might be OK, I thought, as the gentle pressure led to an arm around my shoulder. I turned to face my new companion, but it was relatively dark, so all I could see was the outline of her face. I thought maybe this was going to lead to a kiss, but of course, wouldn't ya know, the moment was spoiled when more people came tumbling into the room. The pitter-patter of little feet and the clomping of those of their parental units disrupted the sleeping or semi-sleeping residents of the crowded room. 

"SHH," one mother chided. "This room's all full up. We'll have to go back in the other room and make do."

Good, I thought. Maybe now I could get back to whatever it was that was about to happen with whoever it was it was about to happen with in the bed. It didn't, however. I must have conked out, because the next thing I knew, it was morning, and I was there alone in bed.

Later that next day, I was out on the town, standing outside some kind of bar or hole in the wall dining establishment in a less than bourgeois area of the small beach town. The paint on the wooden door had mostly eroded, exposing the porous planks, nailed together barn-style. Shabby chic, it would be called, but perhaps too shabby for even a yard sale. More like a shabby shack.

I was on the stairs of this cheap venue, when who do I encounter but the mystery girl from my bed the night before. She was dressed in jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket, you know, they type with the zipper on the side and a diagonal flap open and buttoned in an asymmetric lapel. Once again, she was silhouetted, so I couldn't see her face, but I recognized her voice right away.

"Do you want to kiss me?" she asked coyly. 

I felt like I did, but when I moved up closer to her, I could see that she had a full beard of coarse curly red hair. This was surely not the same girl, I thought. But it was. She just happened to have a beard that would make a pirate proud. I was kind of torn about the kiss thing, but I decided to just close my eyes and go for it. I felt a mixture of exhilaration and disgust, but I guess the exhilaration won out because we entered the bar together and headed to the back to make out a little more.

Now the next part gets a bit graphic, so you should probably tune out or avert the children's eyes from reading the text of what I am about to describe.

Things progressed rather rapidly from that point, and she began to grind on my leg, dry humping it in a most arousing fashion.  She, or he, or what, I don't know, began to climax in a vociferous and quite effusive fashion. When I say "effusive," I mean it in the literal sense. More than just gushing, there was a sea anemone-like squirting going on. "A squirter," to use the crass vernacular. 

The squirting was coming from an appendage which protruded from the open fly of her jeans. It looked suspiciously like what you might expect to protrude from that location: a penis. But it wasn't. Or it wasn't quite. It was a fully engorged "something" which had a blowhole on the top, from which the highly pressurized projectile emissions were sprayed. 

"It's a clitoris," she assured me. 

I looked again and wanted to convince myself that this was true, but it was surely like none that I'd ever seen, and I've seen a few. But I started to believe her when I noticed that her face, previously a crimson-bearded Brillo pad, was now as smooth as a Maybelline model. Either she'd surreptitiously shaved during the few moments between entering the bar and getting jiggy with it, or she was some kind of sexual chimera, a hermaphrodite werewolf, whose transformation back into a fully human female form required a release of bodily fluids. 

Whatever the case was, she was grateful, and I was somewhat relieved. The whole experience was pretty far over on the exotic side of the spectrum, so I was glad to have things return to whatever normal might be. 

We now return you to the Saturday breakfast program, already in progress...