Madonna of the Dreams

I suppose everyone has had “sex with Madonna” dreams.

I rememberhaving one in which she appeared as she looked circa 1995. She held my handand wept that she truly missed Sean. I listened sympathetically, tellingher it would hurt for a long time, and she would never stop loving him, butshe would find happiness again.

I awoke from that dream liking Madonna better.

I’mnot a big fan or anything, but that’s how the subconscious works. It seeksout cultural icons to throw into the mishmash of daily life to fabricatedreams.

Madonna equals sex in the popular imagination, so it’s no surprise she haunts our sex dreams.

This morning, I awoke from this dream:

Iwas at Madonna’s beach house. Madonna was home, but in a private wing. Justas visitors to the White House aren’t likely to bump into the President,I assumed I would not see Madonna.

I was in a small bedroom withBugs, and we started to fool around. Raven soon joined us. Then Meg. Allthree were focused on me.

This isn’t right, I thought. There should be more men here.

The dreaming became metacognitive at this point; I was aware of being in a dream.

The bedroom led onto a living room where men milled about. I didn’t recognize them.

Oneof the men was drunk. He went into a room, from which soon came the soundof breaking wood. Investigating, I saw that he had broken a bed.

I looked for Jake or Todd, thinking we should get this guy to leave. I couldn’t find them.

I ran into Madonna in the kitchen. She looked as she does now, long blonde hair, very fit and pretty. She was making a snack.

I tried to be nonchalant.

“Hey, Jefferson,” she said, as she chopped vegetables. “I got something for your kids . . . it’s on the counter.”

Iguess she knows me in this dream, I thought. On the counter was a bubbleblower. I was nervous around her, so I distracted myself by blowing bubbles.

“Thanks Madonna.”

“Oh it’s no big deal. I thought it wascute.” She remembered something, and pointed her knife at me. “Listen, whateverthe greyhounds tell you, it’s a lie.”

“The greyhounds?”

“Yeah,they’re miffed because we got some dachshunds. It’s like a civil war aroundhere.” She laughed, picking up her plate. “See you, Jefferson. Have fun.”She strolled into an adjacent corridor leading to the private quarters.

Two greyhounds approached me by the pool. They were barking and agitated. They wanted me to follow.

In a patch of high grasses, they showed me the corpse of a third greyhound. Its four paws had been amputated.

“You see what they are doing to us?,” one implored of me.

Backinside the house, a sex party was underway. At least, I was told it was asex party, but my metacognitive mind believed that it was not a sex party.

Madonna walked up to me. She was heavier, resembling Mae West, andvery intent on me. We kissed. We were soon on the floor, having sex.

“Umm, I want you to be happy, Jefferson.”

Dacia strolled by, nude. She patted me on the back. “Having fun there, Jefferson?” she smiled. She walked out to the pool.

I came. Madonna smiled.

Her smile broadened mischievously. I didn’t like the looks of this.

Shelifted her neck, and closed her eyes. Her head detached from her body androlled quickly toward to the kitchen and the private quarters beyond.

“Hey Jefferson! Jefferson!” Dacia called from the grasses by the pool. The greyhounds were at her side. “You have to see this!”

“I know about the greyhounds! Come here, you have to see this!”

Madonna’shead stopped and emitted a bubble. The bubble grew and transformed into Madonna’smore familiar body. The body reached down and put the head in place.

Enough! I woke myself.

Madonna
sex
dreams
sexblogs
erotica