Somewhere in my subconscious, there is a little man who wears a cap with a bright blue post-it note reading “Editor in Chief, Bureau of Taboos” stuck to its bill. He’s a tricky little bastard and it's because of his influence that I haven’t had a wet dream in years.

I can’t remember the last time I achieved orgasm during my visits to those R.E.M. borderlands, but I can recall quite a few close calls.

Typical situation: I’m walking along, chasing a pig or being chased by a herd of pigs, when I forget what I’m doing and come across a beautiful female creature. A beautiful female human creature, that is. Somehow or other, sexual communiqué are exchanged, and we begin to…

Then the sneaky jerk starts cutting and pasting. About a year ago, I was about to disrobe and get funky when “THE NEXT DAY…” appeared across my dream in bright block letters, and I woke up (in my dream) next to my ::implied:: lover, cheated of those sticky intimacies by a clever splicing of my dream-reels.

More recently, I found myself with a gorgeously open woman who proposed we have an orgy. In no time at all, three more ladies had signed up, and we were making our way up the stairs to an available dorm room. As we climbed, I realized that my bladder was brimming, and knew I’d enjoy the forthcoming session much better if I didn’t feel so pressed to urinate. So I excused myself, and walked into the bathroom. The toilet was about the size of a coffee cup, and it was spilling sewage all over the place. I was in my socks, and had a mighty rich time trying to pee and dance around the puddles of excrement at the same time. Soon, people were banging on the frosted-glass door, and I decided to just go ahead and screw on a full bladder. I told the impatient woman “Hey, that’s not my mess,” and went to the dorm room where my sexy maenads were writhing in heated expectation of my proud masculine force.

When I finally got there, I jumped under the covers, only to find Rod Stewart and a 50-year-old bald man rubbing against each other.

“Noooo!” I cried out, fleeing the twisted scene of aged homosex.


I don’t ejaculate during sleep, and I don’t throw up. I hate throwing up, even when I know it will make me feel better. I wonder if the abstaining from these two bodily functions are somehow tied together. Maybe the Editor knows how infrequently I do laundry, and is simply keeping an eye my bedding for me.

But he’s probably just another by-product of my Christian upbringing.

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