Lucid Dreaming!

I haven't had as many wet dreams as I would like. Usually when I dream about "sex," hardly anything happens except a little French kissing, which ever since Chirac opposed invading Iraq, I've avoided anyway. But last night I read something in The New York Times Magazine which suggested a solution to my dry sheets: lucid dreaming. Perhaps you've heard of it before. (In fact, I read essentially the same article some time ago in Esquire or Vanity Fair.) It is, in short, the ability to control your dreams, a way to "harness the power of your imagination." As most of my harnessing involves mentally undressing the businesswoman sitting across from me on the subway (or making shit up about myself for this column), you can understand my excitement. And you can also understand why I'm whistling Dixie (Chicks, that is) after having experienced just such a dream this morning.

More on that in a second. Lawrence Osborne, the Times writer, visited a Lucidity Institute vacation seminar in Hawaii. The participants were lectured on rapid eye movement or whatever the fuck and took capsules of galantamine, "which is thought to heighten cognitive faculties, including those responsible for dreaming." At bedtime, a red light meant to induce lucidity was beamed into one of their eyes. Osborne finally pulled it off on his last night: "As I swam around her [some chick from the seminar], I noticed that her body had become young and slim and that her hair had grown inordinately long, floating around her like kelp. [She sounds like a prize in real life.] I'm dreaming, I thought, and I reached up to touch the Reality Check button on my NovaDreamer [Oh yeah, there's this Reality Check button that, if actually awake, you can press on your helmet to make the red light blink.]. Nothing: I was definitely dreaming." Snore. If they got down lucid style, he doesn't even mention it!

Now, I'm not making any of this up, although the details have since become slightly hazy. The long-ago night after reading the article in Esquire or wherever, I found myself slowly become aware that I was dreaming; I made the hardwood floor in my apartment change into a zebra pattern and turned a ghost in the hallway (it'd been a borderline nightmare) into a beautiful woman, who I promptly made out with. After that, I had maybe one more dream where I achieved lucidity for only a moment before waking up. Obviously, the power of suggestion works for me. This morning my alarm went off shortly before 10. I turned it off and rolled back over. (My leisurely lifestyle may also have something to do with all this, since the dreams I remember usually happen in the morning, when I'm drifting in and out of consciousness, procrastinating deliciously.) Did I mention I sleep in the nude?


Chunky Girls Club (Skintight)

Decadent Divas XXIV (Feline)

1 Whore + 1 More = 2 Chick on 1 Dick (JM)

Anyway, I start dreaming that I'm a dorm resident assistant again, but my room is huge and strange; on one side, there's a sunken whirlpool bathtub, already filled with lukewarm water. After visiting a couple of flirty chicks across the hall, I came home and sat in the tub (I was suddenly wearing a bathing suit). Fully aware it was sometime after 10 a.m. and I'd have to start my day soon, I sat in the tub luxuriating, thinking how much I love life. Obviously, I was not lucid at this point.

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Shortly after I turned on the jets, about six or seven of my friends and just invented characters came in and started talking to me as I bathed; one of them showed me the dial that heated the water. Then they all disappeared into this building beside the tub—my dorm room had become a quasi-outdoor area—and I got up and started walking to the bathroom, glancing at the big digital clock I'd previously been tracking the time on. But instead of reading 12 past the hour or something, it just started counting back from 10, and suddenly I knew I was dreaming. I stopped and looked over at the building where my friends and some hot strangers were. I thought briefly about the corny Reality Check button, then hurriedly pulled off my shirt, strode into the building, and started making out with this lady in a bosom-flattering gray sweater and tight jeans. Just as I was slipping my finger down her pants and into her ass, the lucidity slid all too quickly into consciousness. I opened my eyes and thought with a pang of how I had to write my column. Then I jerked off. (Don't worry, I washed my hands.)

Lawrence Osborne points out that most lucid dreams are about flying or fucking. In the real world, where columns were due last Friday and most dreams involve yourself in underwear, there's flight school and porn. So onto the smut. This week I picked movies with an extra helping of ladies. Or lady, as the case is with Chunky Girls Club (Skintight), starring plus-size superstar Roxy Blaze as head of the Man Haters Club and the reed-thin Gen Padova as a young lady who stumbles into one of her meetings. Even when obscured by dumb fat jokes, the lesson is clear: big women are sexual beings, too. My favorite part of the outstanding, Andrew Blake–caliber faux-lesbian indulgence Decadent Divas XXIV (Feline) is when the two black, brick-house dominatrices creatively abuse a little white girl: "I had a bad day"—slap, whip—"Yeah . . . and I just don't like white people!" Another white slave gets it while blindfolded and ball-gagged in the mostly excellent 1 Whore + 1 More = 2 Chick on 1 Dick (JM), this time from a buxom, pale, potty-mouthed mistress and an inspired Mark Wood, who's usually a snore. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for a nap.

Feline, 9145 Owensmouth Avenue, Chatsworth, CA 91311,

JM, 9140 Owensmouth Avenue, Chatsworth, CA 91311,

Skintight, 9145 Owensmouth Avenue, Chatsworth, CA 91311,

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