Thanks to all the hullabaloo about the Diamond Jubilee last week, I’ve been having a lot of dreams involving Prince Harry. Or, as I like to call him His Royal Ginger. Also, Yum!
Many of these dreams have been of the adult variety, not so much XXX but more Skinemax. I like to think it’s my subconciousness’s way of saying, “here, you deserve this.” Thanks to Google, I don’t feel too Coo Coo Ca CaCera about this celebrity crush because I discovered His Royal Adorableness is 27. Twenty-seven happens to be the creep-number for FORTY!-year-old women (half your age + seven).
Rawr! I am cougar here me roar.
Sadly this is not about my Rated-R almost sex dreams about the Royal Gingy. No, this is about the saddest sex dream in all the land. I happen to be the brain that conjured up and hosted this dream.
In this dream I was ordering dinner at Perkins from a waiter who was not Prince Harry. The waiter was also kind of an asshole, because no matter how hard he tried to get me to order seafood, I refused. He made fun of me for whatever I was ordering calling it “the Big Mac of Perkins.”
Yes, apparently I dreamed up a food-snob Perkins waiter who I proceeded to have sex with standing up outside the women’s bathroom. I’m not sure how or why the sex started. What I do know is that he came much faster than I did and when I complained he said, “Oh, you’re totally finished. I can tell.” No matter how much I protested about how I did not have an orgasm, he refused to believe me. It totally sucked.
I can’t tell what’s sadder that I had a dream where I had sex with an asshole Perkins waiter or that my dream sex was so damn bad.