The Guinea Hen Incursion and Ploop Fiction (EXXXPLICIT poop dreams)

 

I don't really like it when the guinea hens fly up to my roof and scratch around in the morning. The other night, though, during the storm of the century, I dreamed that they'd made their way down my chimney vent and into my living room. They were upsetting the cats with their screeching and running about. Not cool.

Also not cool, were a couple of dreams I've had recently when my ladyfriend has been in bed next to me. The first one was alright; we were both dressed in our undies and were about to engage in some recreational bedroom activities. Excitement was mounting, and all was going well. 

That is, until I had to poop. 

Plink. Plunk. Ploop.

Little balls of poop were popping out of my butt and onto the hardwood floor like gumdrops out of a 5 cent vending machine. The pooping pretty much killed the vibe, and that dream ended with the final plop.

The next dream was such another level of incursion that it made the guinea hens seem tolerable. I should say up front that I am open-minded and tolerant, and I don't mind a little carefree experimentation -- but when my ladyfriend strapped on a giant purple dildo and began ramming me in the ass like that scene in Pulp Fiction, I had a similar reaction to Ving Rhames:

"Aww--Hell, no!"

The reason I didn't enjoy the experience wasn't that I'm a prude or phobic about such things. The reason I didn't enjoy it was because all that ramming dislodged a giant torrent of turds, which came streaming out of my rear end like a fire hose full of chili. Messy, unappealing and also another dream killer. I awoke to find my ladyfriend sleeping peacefully, blissfully ignorant of the pathological poop dreams I'd been having just inches away. 

**Editor's note: this post has been back dated to the date of the first occasion of the fecal themed dreams. I hate having something like this hanging out there as my latest post, the first thing someone sees when they stumble upon my blog. Yeah, I might have a little self-conscious vanity, not much, but it's there. I'm more ashamed of being ashamed than I am actually ashamed, if that makes any sense.

Say, while we're on the subject of Ploop and explicit sexual deviance, I have to relate a memory that I have from the early days of my adolescence. Hmm. Sounds ominous. Ready to dig in?

Ok, so as a young male pre-teen, of course I'd sneaked into dad's office and borrowed a few of his Playboys. I had a secret stash of them under the front stairs, where I had my first little man cave. I mostly played with Hot Wheels in the dirt, and with little Corgi cars, plastic dinosaurs or army men, you know the usual. But the Playboys became front and center, and my interest in female anatomy piqued, with the surge of youthful male hormones.

Somewhere down the line, of course, I was found out, and I had to return my father's porn to its rightful owner. I got the talk about borrowing without asking, as well as an unwelcome talk about masturbation. There is a quote from that talk that I'm struggling desperately to remember. It is like an SAT question I don't know the answer to: 

" _______ is to ______, as masturbation is to sex with a real woman." It's one of those algebraic metaphor questions where you have to solve for too many variables.

Anyway, after having returned the girly mags to Dad, I was jonesing for some smut. Living in LA, there was literally smut on every corner in those little newspaper machines. You know, the kind where you put a quarter or two in, and the machine opens up, giving you honor system access to the whole stack of LA Singles or The Star. 

Certain of these machines didn't require you to put a quarter in at all, if you had the right technique. A well placed blow with the bottom of your fist to the top of the machine while pulling up on the handle would result in the latch being popped and, voila, freedom of the press. One had to be stealthy or the proprietor of the liquor store or adult bookstore would come out and chase you, but little kids can usually outrun those middle aged cigar smoking vice merchant types.

Back at home, in the safety of my dirt cave, I'd read stories about the sexual exploits of adults and browse personal ads placed by perpetually horny deviants. One such story was about a fellow who called himself "Ploop, the sensitive asshole." He discovered that he had a fetish for his gal sticking her finger up his bum during the moment of climax. It was pretty taboo back then, or at least it seemed that way to my virgin sensibilities. Nowadays, pretty much anything goes.

One of the personal ads was placed by a couple in Marysville, CA. They were looking for couples or singles to come join them for liberated sexual adventures. Anyone was welcome. I didn't even know where that was back then, but living under the oppressive tyranny of my dad, I thought I'd like to run away from home and find out. I actually penned a response, and I may have even mailed it. But, as I'd explained in my letter, I was only twelve, so I didn't expect them to answer back. 

Well, that was an unnecessarily long background for a couple of rather filthy minor dream sequences. I tried to look up the names of the newspapers or find pictures of those old vending machines, but the internet has been scrubbed of images from those analog days. Mandela Effect or no, I know what's real, because I lived it. And now you know.

Some other time, I will relate the sordid details of my clumsy attempts at preliminary first contact with the opposite sex. I don't know how I'm going to come off as anything but a devilish imp, so perhaps I won't even try. I was pretty much of an evil little snot back then, and there's no apologizing for it now, just ownership and moving on. But cautionary tales are the best, so I will try not to whitewash anything. Promise. 

Advertisement in 70s era LA smut newspaper