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I still hate my subconscious.
Feb. 5th, 2008 05:50 pmIn my dreams last night, my cousin Anthony knew Christian Kane through his band. Naturally I was doing my best to pretend that I had no idea who Christian Kane was or what his music was like.
Um. Which made it a little difficult to play down THE OVERWHELMING LUST I had for him. Although for some reason, in the dream he was all about getting some from James Van Der Beek, which I don't get at all.
But then, I also don't understand why my dream self was giving Ian Somerhalder the extreme brush-off. Because in real life? Even knowing that he'd screwed Paris fucking Hilton wouldn't stop me from doing the guy like a rabid weasel, given the opportunity.
I don't remember much about the dream. There was no real plot, just a series of disconnected scenes like skipping around in a movie. Football on TV, too many male bodies crammed on a couch, me squeezing in on the floor in front and leaning back against masculine knees and shins alternately bony and muscular. Later, the atmosphere of a party, liquor flowing freely, Ian drunk and unsophisticated, indiscriminate in his random lusts. The party's aftermath... bottles and ashtrays, sunlight sparking through colored glass, Christian soft and just awakening, alone on the couch.
Did he spend the night alone or is he only alone for now? Does it matter? If I rose up and straddled him, would he welcome me into his arms and his body, or push me away like I did to Ian last night? Is he even aware that he's the reason why I did so?
"Well, that, and because Ian's a slavering degenerate with the soul of a whore," Anthony adds on the tail of my thought, walking by with a beer in his hand and changing the scenery with a glance. Not that my actual cousin would ever string that many syllables together in a sentence, let alone the grammar construct.
Christian's even more beautiful in the golden sun.
Um. Which made it a little difficult to play down THE OVERWHELMING LUST I had for him. Although for some reason, in the dream he was all about getting some from James Van Der Beek, which I don't get at all.
But then, I also don't understand why my dream self was giving Ian Somerhalder the extreme brush-off. Because in real life? Even knowing that he'd screwed Paris fucking Hilton wouldn't stop me from doing the guy like a rabid weasel, given the opportunity.
I don't remember much about the dream. There was no real plot, just a series of disconnected scenes like skipping around in a movie. Football on TV, too many male bodies crammed on a couch, me squeezing in on the floor in front and leaning back against masculine knees and shins alternately bony and muscular. Later, the atmosphere of a party, liquor flowing freely, Ian drunk and unsophisticated, indiscriminate in his random lusts. The party's aftermath... bottles and ashtrays, sunlight sparking through colored glass, Christian soft and just awakening, alone on the couch.
Did he spend the night alone or is he only alone for now? Does it matter? If I rose up and straddled him, would he welcome me into his arms and his body, or push me away like I did to Ian last night? Is he even aware that he's the reason why I did so?
"Well, that, and because Ian's a slavering degenerate with the soul of a whore," Anthony adds on the tail of my thought, walking by with a beer in his hand and changing the scenery with a glance. Not that my actual cousin would ever string that many syllables together in a sentence, let alone the grammar construct.
Christian's even more beautiful in the golden sun.
