We were probably both new-ish-ly single. Or possibly I wasn’t; I’ve spent more of my adulthood in relationships than out, but I haven’t always given a fraction of a shit about sentimental days where I’m supposed to buy candy.

Still, I made Eloise a mix CD of various slightly-fractured love songs because I make excellent mix CDs and getting them is often one of the perks of being my friend and driving me places. (Erasure’s “Waiting For Sex” was on it, as was mc chris’s “nerd grrrl” and Liz Phair’s “Flower”. Look me in the fucking face and tell me that mix wasn’t inspired.) We hopped in her car and on the other end of the drive we found a magical land of drag shows and women making out.

It felt like home. Wait, no, it felt like fun.

For some reason that’s the exact kind of New Year’s Eve I’d like to have. Maybe because Laramy’s working tonight so I can’t kiss my man and that reminds me of a Valentine’s day alone. Or maybe just because it would be intensely awesome. I can’t unravel the psychology of it all right now. I just want to see drag, dance with chicks, and ideally drink brightly colored, deceptively intoxicating sugar water.

Eloise has moved away, though, and I’m too tired to dance. Boo. Maybe I’ll have a night home alone dressed in drag. That would definitely be zero units of pathetic, right?

Oh yeah and HAPPY NEW YEAR everyone!

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I realize we’ve been through this before. I realize that I want a terrible lot of novelty dildos, some of which even exist. But I swear, this time it’s serious.

I want a unicorn horn dildo. I want to strap it on and have a majestic unicorn horn cock. I want to strut around with it, admiring myself, horned creature. I want to fuck a woman with it and give her the most obscene orgasms: orgasms that are truly, offensively beautiful.

I want to lock our fingers together as I plunge my majestic cock into her and tell her with my eyes that this thing we’re doing, which has the impossible nestled right there in the middle of it all, is absolutely true. There is nothing truer or more honest than the moment when I make her come.

We are an improbable creature together, more beautiful than sense.

Or, failing that, I want to own a unicorn horn dildo because fuck you, I have a unicorn horn dildo. And it can double as a narwhal tusk. Holy shit why am I not ordering this right now?

Oh, cause I’m broke? Okay, I guess that’s valid.

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I read somewhere that the first step is keeping a dream journal, which I always thought sounded all New Age and twee, but the reasoning turns out to be sound. If your brain knows that you’re going to be writing down what’s happening in your dreams it will start paying more attention to remembering them, and attentive dreaming is only a few rungs down from lucid dreaming.

As someone who can barely ever remember her dreams, my dream journal entries so far are each only one or two sentences long, and I’ve only been able to write anything at all for four days in the past seven.

So far, I have:

14 Oct 2011

I had a feeling I couldn’t trust the red blotchy stone.

16 Oct 2011

A snarky commando guy was annoying. Someone was attacking us.

17 Oct 2011

Party planning of some kind, possibly with high school marching band director. I sucked at cake decorating.

And, my personal favorite, this morning’s scintillating

20 Oct 2011

Someone sent me an email survey.

Yes, seriously. So that is the entire week’s dreams as I’ve been able to remember them. Keep in mind that I sleep about nine hours a night rather than, oh, say fifteen minutes. Operation: Lucid Dreaming is going to be a resounding success; I can just feel it.

There is one question for which my infant dream journal provides no answers, though: Why did I wake up with a desperate longing to feel someone’s fingers push inside me and beckon me, coax me into a frenzy? The crush of my orgasm, the spray, the prayerful breath, the deep, deep swoon. The thought was there fully-formed when I opened my eyes, a real and complete thing, indivisible. Not cock, not tongue, not toy, and you’d better believe not my own god damn fingers would do. I wanted this like the day was born to see me want it.

So obviously I’m wondering what was in that email survey.

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It is, objectively speaking, what dead wigs hope they’ll become every time a bell rings. It’s long and layered, wavy, two different shades of blue, and just vampy as fuck. Worth every penny I paid. I’ve never worn it out of the house, but I’ve taken crappy webcam pictures with it on, and when I look at them there’s something strange and unsettling about them.

The girl in the pictures isn’t me. To be perfectly honest, she’s sexy.

It isn’t just her long, blue tresses, although she has mindbogglingly fabulous hair. There’s more to her allure. Framed by that tide, the landscape of her face is no detestable nation. Her waist nips in and her curves bloom out in ways I appreciate. Her skin looks soft and her lips sweet and kissable. At the risk of sounding horribly narcissistic here, she’s actually kind of my type as long as I forget she’s me.

I’ve been clean through a rainbow and yards of hair over the years, and I’ve had a lot of different looks, but somehow I’ve never looked quite like I do in that wig. I guess the biggest difference is that when I wear it I don’t feel like me at all. I’m someone different. Different enough, at least, to stop maniacally tallying the dark circles under my eyes and stretch marks and 15 lbs I wouldn’t mind losing instead of looking. Really looking.

And I don’t hate what I see again until the wig comes off. How fucked up is that? How perfectly normal.

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I’m being cheated, really. Sleep would be the ideal place to have sex (excepting, of course, actual sex with a person you’re super into, pretty much anywhere, which I get fairly often so I really shouldn’t bitch). You waste no physical energy, are unlimited by any rules, laws, or limits, including of physics. And you could probably learn important things about yourself and your deepest desires or some shit.

Maybe I should look into lucid dreaming.

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Basically, at what point does it become creepy and objectifying?

You know how some guys seem to regress to preverbal panting when confronted by a naturally redheaded woman? I wonder what it’s like to be that redhead. Is there a rush of power, knowing that she’s the brass ring for plenty of people? Is it annoying because while they’re fixating on her titian hair no one seems to be noticing her beautifully sculpted shoulders? Is it just exhausting because it’s so seldom just red hair they want, but things they associate with red hair, be it sexual dynamism, temperament, whatever the hell people tend to think they know about her before they know it. I imagine it has to be demoralizing on some level to realize that you can be someone’s perfect woman before he knows a second thing about you.

And red hair is just one example. I’ve known Asian women who’ve had a similar problem, carefully wading through fantasists to find sincere dating prospects. I’ve met people who will only fuck musicians, or rich people, or skinny people. And well-endowed women must get tired of all that eye contact their boobs get.

Where exactly does it stop being creepy and start being the normal way attraction works? I do not know. It’s hard for me to feel actual attraction for someone I haven’t gotten to know yet. Maybe if I was experienced in feeling instantaneous sexual interest I’d have a sense of that line. Or if I felt constantly fetishized I’m sure I’d have some opinions on where it is.

I suppose the one fetish/preconception trigger I sometimes feel like I’m brushing up against is the bright hair. It isn’t really the same thing, maybe, but it give me some insight. See, I like to dye my hair crazy colors most commonly seen on the heads of high schoolers and cartoon characters. I’ve been through most of the colors of the rainbow and some change. Immature, unprofessional, attention-seeking, or whatever you want to call it, it’s honestly just the way I like my hair. It looks right to me when it’s ridiculous. And maybe that does say something about me on a deeper level, but I don’t think it says much. I’m very much the same person no matter what my hair looks like.

But occasionally I’ll run into a guy who looks at me and sees a Manic Pixie Dream Girl*. He will ask me about my hair, why it’s purple or whatever, and expect an interesting response. A movie dialogue response. “It’s my natural color. I decided.” will not entirely satisfy. “I like it.” would not be valid at all because it isn’t going to blow his mind and kick off our amazing adventure that will culminate in him growing as a person.

Even getting to know me a bit, when he finds I’m silly and quirky and whimsical and creative, the illusion won’t be shattered just yet. It will take a little while to realize that instead of teaching “broodingly soulful young [him] to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures” I’m kind of just going through life as normal and trying to have a relationship (or possibly just a fling). Knowing me isn’t really opening the world up like a wacky, technicolor flower.

And then he feels resentful because I’ve lied. Not with my tongue and lips, but with my hair and playful attitude, now belied to hell by my being a real fucking person who is too busy being a protagonist in my own stuff to bother being a plot device.

I’ve just gotten tastes of that. Of course most people over four don’t really think my hair makes me magical. If they did, though, I’d have an even longer history of disappointing them.

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* I realize the link describes this stock character as “stunningly attractive”, but naturally real-life MPDGs would be held to a lower standard. These characters are usually romantic interests for main characters, and played by Hollywood actresses, so…

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I would seriously, shamelessly trade sex for guitar lessons. Or Photoshop/Illustrator lessons. Or a few other skills I want to pick up. I realize that friends and lovers kind of naturally teach each other about their passions and such, but I’m talking about a formal arrangement: sex for skill.

It’s a fantasy I go back to occasionally, realizing that it’s a) harmless and b) may be in violation of certain feminist principals. Sex isn’t a commodity (although in reality sometimes it is), and female sexuality isn’t some mysterious thing you have to offer tribute to engage (although I’m a big supporter of sex work, and the simple fact is that there is a demand). In practice, the arrangement would be nothing approaching fair, as I would be enjoying it just as much as anyone I willingly made this type of agreement with. We’re basically talking the most one-sided barter ever, like someone telling me, “I’ll give you this Milky Way if you pet my adorable kitten.”

Um, yeah. Where do I sign?

I find skill arousing. I like the idea of actively living the student role with a sex partner, and the trade part puts it over the top for some reason. I can’t put my finger on it; maybe I want to pretend that sex with me is so totally awesome someone would resort to bribery to procure it. It would be super, extra cool to know a shy music or design geek ended up thinking, “Holy shit. My random skill just came in more useful than I ever hoped to imagine.”

I don’t think this counts as prostitution per se, but if you want to call it that, you honestly just made it even hotter.

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(Actual text transcript)

QP: If we ever get a place together can I install a stripper pole?

Laramy: YES!

———

We’d have pretty much the best parties ever.

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1. Flirt with strangers: This one still sounds like fun, and I still don’t do it, except sometimes by accident. I barely even make eye contact with people on my bad days. So FAIL.
2. Initiate sex with my boyfriend: Not. Really. I think I did that all of once, then we got interrupted in the middle of fucking and I felt like a loser. FAIL.
3. Admit when I’m attracted to someone: I’m getting much better at this, though I’m still not at the point where I admit to that person. DEMIWIN.
4. Fulfill three new sexual fantasies: I’ve had a fuck-ton of fucking fun this year. I had a lot of great sex. I discovered that Laramy is awesome at spanking. I got to have a foursome and a FMF threesome (both featuring the earth-shatteringly hot Rowan and Viola Sharqtipus, with my sexy Laramy in the former), but I’d have liked to have been more proactive and adventurous in general. Still, WIN. And you would totally agree if you saw the pretties I got to play with.
5. Perform in a drag show: I did this. I need to remember to tell you about it. It was amazing. WIN. So much win.
6. Try out new sex toys! With an emphasis on sharing toys with others. While naked: I tried a few new toys. I still suck at bringing them into partner play. DEMIWIN? I guess?
7. Feel okay wearing the sexy stuff in front of partners: FAIL. Just fail. I’ve realized, though, that Laramy couldn’t care less if I wear sexy underwear (he seems to think that lingerie is a superfluous middleman between clothed and naked), though he does appreciate when I wear clothes that prove I have boobies.

So, considering that I didn’t really maintain the eye of the tiger on these, at all, not a super bad showing.

Upon rereading these, I realized that most of 2010′s resolutions dealt with insecurities, which is pretty fair. So this year I’m going to keep it very, very simple and just work on confidence. In 2011 I’m going to start thinking I’m awesome or die faking it.

Damn, this is going to be hard.

Do you have any New Year’s Resolutions that involve orgasms in some way, shape or form? Or even if they don’t, I’m always curious. You can even tell me anonymously if you like.

Happy New Year! I hope this year is far better than the last for each and every one of you.

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It was a rather low-rent, dismal establishment: one of those seedy brothels rather than, you know, the mind-blowingly classy ones you generally picture. In my dream, I wasn’t anxious about embarking on a life of harlotry, but rather the fact that this wasn’t one of the nicer cathouses in town. “If I start out here is that going to hurt my chances of getting into a better house?” I remember asking one of the girls turning me out. She assured me I could move on to bigger and better operations once I’d learned the game. I like to think we both knew she was lying, but I’ll never know for sure.

Strangely, this was all fairly realistic. The sketchiness of the brothel really is what I’d worry about, to the exclusion of loftier moral issues. If I’m getting paid to fuck, I damn well want to be a hetaera, not a pornai.

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