Who Would Believe
Her piercing gaze finally jerks me from my slumber. I can still here her laugh as it echos in my head, still see the flush of her cheeks and am still momentarily blinded by the halogen lights as the reflect from the glasses perched on the edge of her nose.
Some would describe her as, "the sexy libarian look" still others as "a Playboy secretarial spread come to life."
For me, she is my attorney and as I scramble from between the sheets, search frantically for my misplaced spectacles and ever so gently climb over the prone forms surronding me, this images sticks with me as I fight frantically to get this down before the dream fades...as dreams do.
It seems like forever and a day since dreams like this have invaded my slumber, such is the curse of an insomniac and an abuser of memory altering drugs. She was the original inspiration you see, my first and most poorly written, but absolute favorite muse for this particular line of fictitious meanderings. I have found zero inspiration and all my half assed attempts over the past year to create something new have fallen to the side and dissapeared with a click when the message on my screen reads, "Save Document? YES or NO?"
I curse quietly to myself in frustration, sheer exhaustion makes my reactions lethargic and my normal semi-ineptness with computer systems is doubled when my brain is clouded so. I can't even begin to accurately describe the shadows that dip and dive around me as sleep deprevation plays with my senses and is heightened by the bright glow of a computer screen in the depths of a dark room.
My fingers fly faster than I can possibly keep up with in this condition. Words splatter upon the white canvas; phrases and unfinished sentences, raw, unbridled thoughts are thrown randomly around. My pulse quickens and my breathing begins spewing out in short gasps. My body tenses, my hair stands on end and I feel the transformation surge forth as the adrenaline kicks in and takes me from half-dead to mostly aroused in the span of a few lines of text.
The dream fades and with a sigh of contetment, I lean back to absorb, critique and organize the rough data before me. Satisfied with my initial endeavor I stretch and begin to let the body wind back down so that sleep can take me once more. Inspiration strikes at the oddest times and this, dearest of diaries, is no exception.
Slowly rising, I peel myself away from the leather contraption that holds my lanky frame and it is then that I noticed both blonde crowned heads are turned in my direction. Two pairs of baby blue eyes follow me and I give up on discretion as I once again take my place snuggled securely between them.
They move in unison, letting me wrap a long arm around each of them and my fingers get lost in the tangles of their long silky hair. Silence permeates the air for several long minutes before they speak:
K, "You are certainly are an odd one; up writing like some possessed madman at 3AM"V, "Yes, what on earth were you writing about?"
an idea for a story. inspiration strikes me most often when I am sleep deprived, I explain.
V, "ooohhh, is it a story about a girl?"
K, "or maybe a story about two blonde girls that are laying in your bed?"
With a chuckle, I explain that I had a dream of someone I love but can not have and it was of a slightly erotic nature. In addition, this sparked creative fire in an imaginational void that I have had for some time in regards to some of my more...explicit works of fiction. So no, my blue eyed beauties, you are not of what I wrote about.
Fingernails and lips, tongues and tits being used in various x-rated aspects are the only response I receive for quite some time...
Very near to sunrise I prepare to finally slumber once again. Wearly I pull myself back to the leather seat and jot a few more notes. Not suprisingly, my blonde companions requested that I write something for and about them, despite my explanation that 'erotic fictoin' is exactly that; made up stories of sexual situations where the only limit is my own creative perversions. Besides, where's the fun in writing about something I've already done?
My attorney appreciates such ideals; letting ones imagination run wild and the stimulation that such mind fucking can bring is sometimes better than the actual act itself. The book ends residing in my bed do not or can not grasp such concepts. Simple minds tend to be much more visual anyway and these two are no exception. In order to placate them and get a few hours sleep before my day was to begin I asked them if they would prefer a written account of our encounter or if they would prefer to just watch the video tape? Silent disbelief descended around me as I depress the play button and my TV jumps to life. Satisfied that I had finally shut them up, the Sandman blesses me and sleep washes over me once again.
***
I awoke very late for work and to the hysterical laughter of my super hot roomate as she apparently split her side over something she deemed quite hilarious from the confines of our shared bathroom. Stumbling like a drunk into the hall, she beckons towards the mirror between hair-brush strokes.
Written in bright red lipstick was the following:
"M, you were right, the movie is better than the book. Same time next week? K and V", appropriately accented with two lip prints next to each corresponding letter.
Turning sheepishly to my roomate, I prepare to mutter some sort of explanation. She, however, stops me short by placing a finger to my lips and guiding my hands to slide beneath the shear material of her bathrobe. With a mischevious sparkle in her eyes she coos to me, "You know I've always thought you were sexy Bradley..." and leans in parting her lips in anticipation.
Wait...Bradley...who the fuck is Bradley...?
***
I awake(?) once again with a start. It takes several minutes of confused blinking before I finally get my bearings and shake the cobwebs from my head. I stagger out of my room and find and empty house; no roomate, no blonde book ends and no video tape in my player. With a dejected sigh, I decide that sleep deprevation is definetly starting to mess with me as I haven't hallucinated like this since...
These thoughts die on the vine, the water I have freshly splashed from the basin upon my groggy features drips in random droplets to puddle upon the sink. My brain fights to comprehend and seperate the dreams, hallucinations and reality of my situation. I touch the lipstick to make sure it's real, before I form the unanswered questions of the week and fouly curse my cranium for playing with me so...
Where in the fuck did the video tape disappear to and who in the hell is Bradley?
Talk about weaving a tangled web.
Comments Are Always Appreciated!
powered by SignMyGuestbook.com