DTPS, the wine glass mask and an endless hall of doors

I am not sure about the sequence of events, but it made sense -- kind of -- in the way that quantum physics makes sense to someone, somewhere, somehow.

In one section of the dream, perhaps the beginning, I was at home in a luxury high-rise. I was entertaining a group of friends, mostly ex-coworkers from the dealership. Although my accommodations were fancy, I was still my usual cheap-ass self. I drove the same 2007 Honda Fit, and I was very conscious about spending money on goods or services. 

For example, one of my guests was an up and coming PACT* student from the Honda training program. He was telling me about his excitement at doing his very first valve adjustment in his new job at YC Honda. I gave him a thumbs up and then pulled him aside and whispered in his ear:

"Say, sonny. I was once in your position, you know. And, well, as a privileged employee, you have certain access to things that would very helpful to certain persons--namely, me." 

"What are you getting at, sir?" he addressed me formally, but with suspicion.

"I'm getting at your DPTS** number," I spoke the words bluntly. "The access code to the library of technical information on the Honda website. See, sometimes people, ex-employees like myself, we find ourselves in need of a refresher in the proper repair procedures provided in the proprietary online database."

"Not for profit," I assured him. "Nothing like that. It's just so we can work on our own cars. I don't remember everything about an engine, see, and I would be extremely grateful if you could see your way to giving me the access code, so that I could just go in and check, to make sure I am doing things right. Those aftermarket repair manuals suck. Chilton's, Haynes--garbage. Just trash." 

He balked. "But that kind of thing is frowned upon. Dishonest. I could get in trouble."

I continued with my "poor me" routine, and it seemed to be working. A couple of my friends also chimed in, assuring him that I was a harmless old man, just looking for access to information to help me with needed repairs. He mumbled something ambiguous, and I glanced at him, then turned away, pretending not to hear at all.

"That's a fine show of gratitude," he said to my turned back. "I said, 'yes.' Yes, I will help you."

I whirled around and gave him a giant hug. "Thank you," I cried. "You won't regret it."

With that I scurried out the door and fairly ran to the dealership. I guess I was in search of a part or something needed for a repair. Instead of arriving at the dealership, though, I found myself in the apartment of a some young people. It was a minuscule, one room affair with appliances lining the walls and a bed in the middle, an arrangement that made sense when you considered the size of the apartment.

I was sitting on the bed and talking to a pretty redheaded girl in her 20s. She reminded me of the actress Molly C. Quinn. She had a lively, animated personality and a miniature poodle with a similarly outgoing temperament. She handed me an oddly shaped wine glass, while the dog licked my face excitedly.

I took a few sips of the wine and set the glass on my lap. Suddenly, I became aware of a strange sensation. The wine glass had affixed itself to my penis. I don't recall how this happened exactly, but it was like one of those Chinese finger traps. The more I tried to extricate it, the harder it became to remove, no pun intended.

Eventually, I employed some kind of mental technique and extricated my swollen appendage from the glass. It was then that I got a good look at this device. 

On the sipping end, it appeared to be a normal wine glass, only made of red colored glass. The other end, the stem, was a hollow tube, tapered to the exact fit of human genitalia. It also had a companion piece, a theater mask also made of red glass, which mated precisely with the wine glass exactly where the mouth would be. It was quite the clever piece of sexually gratuitous glassware. Fun at parties, I imagined.

I placed the wine glass penis trap into its face mask receptacle, thanked the girl for a lovely time and bolted out the door. I still had business to attend to at the dealership.

I made it to the dealership in time for lunch, and since no one was available to help me with the parts, I decided to go out with some of the other employees for a bite to eat. Somewhere between the dealership and the diner, I got separated from the group and became hopelessly lost. 

As night began to fall, I found myself walking through a series of progressively worse neighborhoods. I walked faster and faster, through alleys, between houses, trying to get back to a familiar area. I had the vague notion that I was being pursued, but no one was actually behind me. It was just a feeling of some nameless terror to be avoided.

At this point, I got stuck in an endless turnstile of doors that would open and close in rapid succession. As soon as I was through one, a new one would present itself. Open, enter, new door, repeat. I woke up soon thereafter, exhausted, as usual.

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*PACT -- Professional Automotive Career Training, a partnership between American Honda and affiliated community and technical colleges.

**DTPS -- Dealership Personal Training System, Honda's online training system for automotive technicians, parts and service personnel.