Personally, I don't think this shit is blogworthy. OTHER unmentionables disagree. And since there's nothing I like better than describing the intimate details of my psychosis with the entire planet, I'll post.
(And just so everyone is clear, "What Margaret wants...." well, you know the rest.)
So there is this one dream I had recently that was, well, weird. My profession in said dream?: Prostitute. Not the usual topic of dreams around here, but I wasn't your usual, run of the mill prostitute. Oh no no no no. I was a high paid, all expense paid, no expense spared, martini drinking, classy, prada wearing snob of a prostitute. I even had a bag of "stuff" in the dream. Just a large, white gucci bag slung on my shoulder full of who only knows what. To be honest, who cares? The bag is a gucci! More importantly, did I mention the prada shoes? EEEEEEE!!!
In said dream I was on my way to a French hotel for a, ah hem, business meeting. I get to the pink striped luxurious hotel (mental note to self to go on pink detox) and remember that this meeting is also going to involve include be attended by none other than Miss Belle de Jour; and of course all I can think is HOLY CHRIST I'M GOING TO MEET BELLE FUCKING DE JOUR!!!! What will she look like? What if I say something stupid? What if she doesn't like my hair? Oh GOD - what if she notices my bag doesn't match my knickers. The horror. THE HORRORRRRR!!!!
I stop in front of the mirror in the hallway and calm myself down. Proceed to door. Breathe. Knock.
Belle answers. She's black. Yup. I guess in SOME part of my fucked up brain I expect that she "doesn't look anything like I'd expect her to look", couple that with a VERY long chat the night before to my best friend, and that's how she came out in my dream. Keira-ish, but short and with an annoying, unpolished northern england accent. And dreads. So... I guess, wasn't really anything at all like my best friend, but you get the point. She wasn't what I expected. I enter the suite and she proceeds to over-elaborate in her manish, throaty, rough, unpolished accent that the bloke is in the loo.
And we just sit there. For a while.
Watching TV. Waiting.
Until she starts cozying up to me, explaining that he'll be out of the shower "any moment" and that the "troops need to be ready". Ohhhhhhhh kay. ? . ? .
And then he comes out of the shower promptly swinging his genitalia in our direction, all the while giggling and drunkenly slurring AT us, "Which penis would you lasses like to take care of first?"
Excuse me for a moment while I try to comprehend that this freakazoid has not one, not two, but THREE penises all hanging out in front of god and everybody. And more importantly, me and Belle.
But Belle is a total pro and knows *exactly* what to do (which is why she gets paid the bigger bucks). Everyone starts to sense my subtle "Holy shit he has 3 penises" trepidation and almost in unison say something to the effect of, "Here, hold this".
Perfect. Fabulous. I looove, um, *scrunches face* holding stuff?
But then the 3 penised freakazoid DASHES across the room and pulls several sparkly costumes out of his circus trunk, each made of real ostrich feathers. And when Belle FINALLY freaks out, almost screaming at the top of her lungs that "real ostriches were hurt just for his sexcapades", THEN she storms out.
Queue Prodigy. Queue me running out of there, in suit, with my ostrich feathered getup on.
What do you think? Should I lay off the crack before going to bed?
Comments
Freud would have a field day with this!
The funniest bit is the detail of the gucci bag and the prada shoes - the whole thing reads like a sex dream by Eddy from Absolutely Fabulous - very funny!
Gangway! Ostrich coming through!
ever hear the expression "happier than a puppy with two peeters?"
That's a negatory 9'er. Never heard it, and don't especially want to ask fearing what response I might get...