Last night I dreamed that E.S. and I were staying in an apartment not our own; the only appointment I can remember is a lame popcorn popper. Tamara Tunie from Law & Order: SVU walked in, and E.S. revealed to us that he had just jacked off.
Then we decided to go to the movies to see the new release of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video. We took separate cars (if I hadn’t already known it was a dream this would have tipped me off, since I am a terrible, terrible driver; when I was driving, back in high school, I caused nine or ten car accidents, though I feel I am owed a commendation because I swear that old lady and her granddaughter were up to something shady).
E.S. turned off the highway into the parking lot of a diner because he needed to look at a map. When I got out—somehow our two cars had magically become one by this point—I saw that the left front tire had melted. I went into the diner and called AAA, but I was connected to somebody in Wisconsin who couldn’t help me because we were in Virginia.
Finally a car repair service called ZZZ showed up unasked; I worried that they were con men but, since we had no other options if we wanted to see “Thriller,” we paid them to replace the tire. While they were working, Karl Rove tried to enter the diner, but with lightning speed I pushed the inner door open really wide and trapped him in between the door and the wall of the vestibule, whereupon I performed a one-act musical at him.
At that point his wife showed up, and unfortunately she was so nice that I let him go, at which point E.S. and I left for the movie theater. In two different lines for concessions I stood in front of two different men, the erection of each of whom I could feel against my ass through our pants. Neither of them was as attractive as E.S., though, so after buying a chocolate-chip-blueberry cookie I went with him into the theater.