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I had a weird dream the other night that had I shared it on Freud’s couch he would have had no choice but to call in his cleaning staff to sterilize not only his couch but his vas deferens. If revealed to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. as small talk on the civil rights march to Selma, Alabama he would have dropped his dream of blacks and whites holding up their hands together in a Gray Power solute, turned right back around, and started a Back To Africa campaign.

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Menage A Twat2According to the Draconian laws of today, having bad dreams and difficulty balancing your budget is enough for over 150,000 veterans to lose their 2nd Amendment right to carry a gun because, go figure, after seven tours of duty in Iraq where they watched friends and government-proclaimed enemies–and often themselves–killed, disfigured and/or disabled many have nightmares and struggle to keep their bank books accurate. Well, I suppose the dead soldiers don’t have nightmares. “I’m sorry, our account shows you have $323 in your bank account, not $322 as you have listed. Please leave your gun on the table before you are sent on your next government paid holiday to Afghanistan. You will also be receiving an audit from the IRS after Obama cuts them loose from his pet project of harassing Tea Party Non-Profits.”

My dream doesn’t necessarily make me any more of a risk for carrying a loaded weapon than these men, unless that weapon happens to be my cock…

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Menage A Twat7I am walking outdoors in a park with two women and it isclear that we are about to engage in a ménage. I am pretty psyched about the prospect of having my penis inside of one person’s vagina while the other one’s big toe is inside of my ass. But something has welled up in me that is beyond the basic human drive to fill orifices with digits. I feel a genuine caring for these two people and in my idealized dream world it seems like the magic and magnitude, the excitement and exhilaration of love and freedom and possibilities–multiplied by two!

We get to the edge of this area of the park where there is a grassy knoll but, unlike with JFK, there is no pesky assassin crouched here with a rifle. One of the two woman suddenly pulls away and decides she rather sit than swap spit, rest than caress. The other woman, like a Superwoman that doesn’t need a phone booth to change her suit from business to birthday, is suddenly naked. But instead of focusing on the buxom beauty in front of me, I reach my hand to the seated woman, to check in, to connect.

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“Are you alright?” I say.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she says but her excitement has clearly left the park.

I want her back in the game, not just for the proverbial toe in the ass but because I want her to come back to the dream of togetherness. Meanwhile, Superslut is bent over and faster that she could hump a small bedding or tie up a fetish with a single bind, she applies some slick to her rectum which looks like a Brokeback Mountain loogey-lube and tells me to fuck her ass. I stare at the albino eye implanted between two smooth John Merrick mounds which is asking me to blind it with my Equus shank and feel strangely devoid of the excitement I felt a minute ago as all three of us young lovers were walking to find this perfect spot for both an assassination and a ménage a twat.

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“One minute. I’d like to be in your pussy first,” I say with a mild attitude at being rushed in  seduction, noting that this is the first time I ever turned down an offer of ass. A new gameshow forms in my mind: Ass or Basic Human Needs? I play out this daydream within a sleep dream until ABHN, as it soon comes to be known, is the number one rated show in America. I then look over at the girl on the hill who minutes before was a part of the mirage of ménage and she is completely distant, not in meters but in mind, as if she were looking up from a barely boring book with a demeanor that said, “Just let me know when you guys are done.”

Suddenly there is a father with his little girl–like right there! I’m thinking, “Okay, banging this chick in front of this little girl is probably not appropriate and might lead to scarring her into not only a torpid attitude towards sex but also a morbid profession of employment.” But then my little head starts reasoning that this father and daughter shouldn’t really be there, that it’s public property, which means any form of lude behavior is acceptable as long as it is not occurring in the privacy of your own home, and c’est la vie and carpe diem and any other Latin phrase that will help convince me that getting laid is more important than tainting the purity of an innocent youth. As much as I want to argue with his logic, it seems pretty sound. So I decide to continue with this lovefull turned loveless lust.

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Before even burying my treasure in her cove, I am having a little difficulty staying hard and so I have to concentrate, telling the Superslut to shut up with her babble about where I should stick my dangling dingle so I could put my mind elsewhere–like on the handsome father of before–in order to coax blood down into my corpus colossus.

The dream pretty much ended there. I think I woke up and pretended I was still asleep so that when I have to stand before my maker–which are my parents–I can plead my continued humping and bumping down from murderbation to involuntary glanslaughter. But the overwhelming feeling with which I was left, besides blue balls, was that exquisiteness of togetherness and sense of the unlimited possibility of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness in the original conception of the American dream ménage while we were walking to Nookers Knoll of the park, which was apparently a stone throw away from Hookers Troll where one can not only receive a blowjob for three payments of $19.95 plus shipping and handling but when in season will also be given a nice tour of the azalea bushes and hibiscus flowers included with your purchase for no extra charge!

Now I could go to the bookstore, wait, bookstore?–online!–and find a book, I mean, webpage, on dream interpretation but I don’t need any Jungian to tell me what my dreams mean anymore than I need a priest to tell me how I should have sex with a woman (now when I need advice about sodomizing a young boy I certainly rely on the experience and expertise of a priest!) I will tell me what my dream means and, by through your eavesdropping, you my reader.

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“That’s right, my son, get used to my hand pushing your head down.”

The dream represented to me an old patterning of how I relate to sex that while still serving humanity, or rather huwomanity (yes, I know, my feminist readers just creamed their panties with another word to put women on an equal linguistic playing field with men; we’ll deal with the equal pay issue next decade so we can focus our attention on winning the war of words), is no longer really serving the little man inside of me trying to wake up from the dream–even the glorious dream of a ménage a twat.

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“Not only is my bicep bigger than yours, but so is my dick!”

I like to joke about sex as, I don’t know, I find the biological and/or psychological urge humans have to stick a penis or tongue into a woman’s vagina, anus or mouth or the desire to have aforementioned vagina, anus or mouth filled with such a cynical cylinder and everything a man or woman will do and put up with in order to achieve this goal quite amusing. I’ve even found myself on occasion asking a woman what she thinks and having to put up with her torturous telling, which makes waterboarding look like a silly squirt gun match, in an attempt to facilitate coitus.

As a result, often my first line of interaction with a new female prospect consists of my clever mind, whose power of wordplay is as developed as a zit-faced teenager’s skill in War of Warcraft, not to clarify what both of us are really seeking in a relationship and as spiritual beings living a physical existence, but instead to formulate some yarn that has to do with anal sex. In my defense, it is actually my second line of interaction; my first is usually “Hello.”

“Hello. That’s a big bag you have there. Probably a lot of things in there that you could just as easily store in your ass. Would you mind if I stored my ballbags in there as well? As I value clear communication in a relationship, let me clarify that I was referring to placing my testicles inside your ass.”

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I am considering that perhaps this is a mode of interaction that I have outgrown. Okay, just considered it…nope, I haven’t outgrown it. But as life is a dynamic and always moving, even in perceived stillness, maybe I am outgrowing this febrile fornicatory form of felicitous fromping. Maybe it is a way for me to hide behind the bravado of my words rather than broaching the beauty beyond being banal and alliterating assilly. Perhaps it is a way to keep people away–which, strangely, seems totally anathema to the goal of having anal sex with them.

The feeling I had when walking hand in hand with the two women was the magical feeling of true connection and because it was so far removed from my waking mind’s perception of what I would be feeling with two lovely young devotchkas that I was about to treat like the cum towel handily positioned at the side of my bed, it represents the Unknown glory of love that is possible beyond the imagination of one who focuses his creative energies, with all due respect to Dr. Seuss, on pee-pees and poopers and boobies and coochers. It is the God beyond names and form, the Truth beyond facts and figures, the Field that mystic and Persian poet Rumi talks about “beyond ideas of rightdoing and wrongdoing.”

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“Pee-pees and poopers and boobies and coochers
Dirty Sanchez and reverse cowgirls
Flirty banter and perverse trousers!
Cum one, cum two,
Jerk-off with Krazy Glue
Cum three, cum four
I’m going to treat this fish like a whore!”

The two girls represented the archetypes of the Seedy Whore and the Sweet Whore. The Seedy Whore is the libido, where you just want to fuck her and make sure you have a doctor’s appointment already scheduled for either a shot of penicillin or a prescription for a lifetime supply of AIDS cocktail. The Sweet Whore is the soul, where you put on the costume archetype of Hero who seeks to “save” the girl (or soul) just like a good Christian. You see the beauty beyond the bang, the being beyond the body, and you want to tell her that you truly see her and “It will all be alright.” And you hope once you take off your shining armor that she’ll still fuck you.

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“Is that a sword between your legs or are you just happy to see me?”
“Um, it’s a sword.”

More personally, I have always been a very sexual person. A perfect example of this is that in my short-lived romance with Jane Doe I actually wanted to have sex more than the once every two weeks that she had allotted for this extraneous activity. I didn’t realize until the emotional castration she gave me rendered my nether region as useless as an appendix, gall bladder, tonsils and any other body part the medical doctors who get paid to remove them declare vestigial, that engaging in such an act with someone you supposedly love more than once every two weeks is not an expression of love as I had mistaken it to be but frivolity.

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When I made a request to increase the amount of times we shared sacred union to more than once every two weeks, she said that by my mentioning this she felt a pressure and was therefore less inclined to engage in the aforementioned activity. “What a fool I am!” I declared internally, as I didn’t feel safe to share any of my feelings out loud with her anymore, “Now I’m going to be cut back to once every three weeks!” It wasn’t until I checked with my married friends that I found out that even sex once every three weeks was still considered beating the system.

Perhaps my drive has dwindled to where I am one step away from having my Sexual Driver’s License revoked because I am as old and droopy as the stretched and stained underwear of a geriatric and half my testosterone has been flushed down the toilet with a piss I took twenty years ago. This was painfully represented in my dream by the lack of rigor of my twigger.

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My saving face proposal is that I am moving past shallow sex but if it ever came down to defending this thesis, all someone would have to do is mention the tattoo on my left butt cheek that says:  IF THERE’S GRASS ON THE INFIELD–PLAY BALL! and I’m sunk worse than I was when the Brazilian became the norm of pubal grooming. “In lieu of the new facts presented, Your Honor, I’d like to change my plea from Not Guilty to Guilty With A Bad Explanation.”

I’ve also gone to one too many Tantric workshops involving eye gazing and overusing spiritual sex words like “yoni” and “lingam” and “rising kundalini” to really give a shit anymore; they jerked the intimacy right out of me and it didn’t feel even half as good as the happy ending I get at the Asian massage parlor from an 80-year old Korean woman with calloused hands and arthritis.

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“The usual, Swami?”
“Yeah, but this time do you mind jerking me off with steel wool? I think it may be a little softer than your hands.”

Or maybe it’s because I haven’t been with someone in a long time who was either deep enough for me in spirituality and in vaginal depth to swallow my massive, albeit floppy, donkey dong or didn’t have icicles growing on her vaginal lips and if I meet the right “one” I will be once again up for a dopplegangerbanger.

Whatever the reason, my relationship with sex is changing. I don’t know whether I want to divorce her or go on a second honeymoon but at the moment I’m leaning towards bringing in my dream father for a little fudge packing.

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I will illustrate the challenge with this changing of the chastity guards from one who protected the castle, to one that doesn’t give a shit and is only there for the paychecks and eunuchs, with an example from my over two decades involved with personal training. Let’s take one of my 40-year old clients who has a wife and a small zoo of children at home. His fitness goal of having the biggest chest and bi’s and to hell with the rest of his body when he was twenty and single and his apartment was filled with beer cans and porn might have been achieved through a certain Malcolm X weight-training routine of getting the bar up “By any means necessary.”

Menage A Twat21Now that he is 40+ and his house in the suburbs is cluttered with nags and whining and concerns about little Betsy’s braces and big Bob’s baseball game–and the only release from all the madness is the once a month sex that his wife graces him with as she lies there like a corpse, the whole time complaining that his bumps and grinds are making it difficult for her to do her nails–his old “hard and heavy” workout routine that he learned in high school today might put him in the grave! The problem is: that’s all he knows…until he met me, of course, and I could clarify for him what he is really seeking and help show him a new way to best achieve this almost always very different health goal.

Similarly, when a man is used to approaching a woman with the predominant idea on his mind, “Okay, how long before she spreads her legs and I can allow my ‘lingam’ to rest in the Holy of Holies in the inner chamber of her ‘yoni’s’ temple?” whether he feels aroused or not he will follow the same fast route to the bedroom. It’s all he knows.

I am proud to report that I have advanced beyond my sexual technique from high school where before the shaft of my “lingam” had fully even penetrated my partner’s “yoni” for the first time, I had already expelled the white pearly “prana” through my central “sushumna” channel. If only I had maintained my Quick Shot McGraw sexual prowess I wouldn’t need Jane Doe to allot much time from her busy schedule to satisfy her man; just one minute spread over a few weeks would have accounted for about 60 “kundalini” risings!

Menage A Twat23But in the same way that many little girls are conditioned by Bride magazine to fantasize in the future about their own weddings (unlike a Muslim girl who has already died giving birth to her 53-year old husband’s child by age 9), my mind still sees women as something to fuck and to extort in labor with less pay. While the feminist will only focus on what she sees as exploitation of women, as if a woman really needs equal pay–or in Africa her clitoris–what she is missing by seeing anyone with a penis as the enemy is that the man is a victim in this horror as well. In example, I heard that when cutting out children’s clitorises in what is referred to as “female circumcision,” which is oh so much more joyous sounding than “criminal torture,” some men actually get blood not only on the rusty blade they use but on their hands as well.Menage A Twat25

But, blatant savagery aside, a man trapped by his libido is a slave and last I heard, at least in this country, slavery is illegal. The plantation owner is man’s own ignorance of another possibility and the training and experience to help him embody this new understanding. While governmental laws imprisoning a drug user is nothing more than politicians legislating punishment for someone with a problem who desperately needs help, while supporting their corporate cronies who are making money by locking away more citizens than in any other country in the world, yelling at men for being clueless is like laughing at Slow Willy for not knowing the difference between a blogger and a bugger.

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I haven’t had sex in so long that I think I should want it. But what I think I really want is the intimacy of someone truly seeing and accepting me without trying to change me. If I can have a yoni/lingam dance social at the same time, all the better. Come to think of it…maybe I am actually the Sweet Prostitute of my dream! Had I read any books on dream interpretation I might consider that each character in your dreams, and in your waking life, represents an aspect of your own daytime character that you mistake for Who You Are.

I’m thinking if I was ever really offered a ménage a twat and, unlike my dream both women were actually into it, I might find the logistics so confusing that I would say, “You know what, you two have a field day–I’m just going to sit on one of your big toes and watch South Park.”

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“The Human Centipede” episode. For the record, I wouldn’t recommend you try this at home–unless you’re the front man!

 

The next night I had a dream:

It was 20 years later and I was a corpse on the coroner’s table, watching from a bird’s eye view. The little girl who was with her father from the previous night’s dream was the medical examiner,  which proved my theory that witnessing me copulate at age 5 would lead her to an ghoulish employment career. Now she was 25-years old, strawberry blonde hair down to her mid-back and a body of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, only instead of a bikini she wore a white lab coat with the requisite amount of cleavage to give the dream a hint of eroticism.

She lifted the sheet off my lower torso and said, “Nice stiffy!” As much as the overseeing Witness that I was wanted to take pride in this statement, the fact was that rigor mortis had set in and my whole body was stiff. She then pulled out her scalpel and cut off my lingam and took it home to use as a nut cracker and meat tenderizer, in which I couldn’t help but to see the irony, as cracking nuts and pounding meat was its primarily use in life as well.

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