What dreams may come...
I have a lot of weird, crazy dreams that I should share here more often. This, unfortunately, isn't one of those, but it's still fresh in my mind and I usually forget them in about five minutes so perhaps someone will be entertained (or inspired to give me some profound translation that changes my whole future for the better) but anyway here goes:
Okay. Picture the scene: it's last night; I'm sleeping. Got it? OK, glad you're still with me.
So I'm at some kind of trade show/convention dealio -- you know the ones. Hundreds of booths, mainly low-budget with people who just LOVE their product but are unable to generate much enthusiasm among the non-binary-digit-speaking crowd, and others that spend a fortune on whiz-bang visuals and young, fast-talking speakers and/or eye candy of either gender (but mostly female).
Anyway, so I come upon this group of women, all slickly and impeccably dressed/shod in matching black, all perfectly groomed and beautiful, all slightly different and each one impossibly intriguing to my hopelessly male and chromosome-driven brain. Choreographed like a fine dance company, and each one trained in Jedi Mind Control and exactly how to act and what to say to charm, disarm, and utterly confuse men. Yes, these were the type of women that every halfway intelligent guy wishes were representative of ALL women -- smart, classy, sassy, sexy as hell but nowhere near trashy ('bimbos' don't really work on me) -- and most importantly, each one with a big smile and eye contact that could melt a glacier, with a carefully cultivated but seemingly natural confidence and way of making a man feel like, well, a MAN. Not only did I have an erection, but I was actually TALLER.
So they were bantering with me, and I said something along the lines of "Ha! I see through your transparent attempts to charm me into signing a long-term contract with some company that provides a service I can only begin to understand after I graduate from MIT, a place that doesn't allow my kind within 500 yards of its campus. So where do I sign?"
Not particularly witty OR charming of me by even MY standards -- yet warm, convincing, sincere and APPRECIATIVE laughter erupted from each of the women like 'The Wave' at a ballgame. Perfectly timed, and a perfect combination of sociable and cute and erotic and so out of my league that I was of course unable, like Superman with a FedEx package of chocolate-covered Kryptonite bars, to resist.
Like I was the only man in the whole place, for a few seconds. "Oh, they're good," I thought, wondering how many annoying telemarketer calls from Bangladesh I would be getting once I helplessly, even earnestly, handed over my phone number.
And then it got weird. As soon as they were about to usher me off to some private room to sell me some Timeshare or Obscure Software Doohickey or Penis Enlargement Pills (or, given the usual nature of my dreams, prepare me for slaughter like a ten-point buck in the bed of a '74 Ford F100), some guy in the next booth waved me over. He clutched a bottle of high-end silver Mezcal, and he was pouring shots for each potential customer in a desperate bid to compete with the Jiffy Lube Team From The Island Of Beautiful Women. Oddly, he looked just like me. I mean, exactly. Disheveled hair and everything.
Anyway, so he just looked at me for awhile, saying nothing but leaning at me with the shotglass and a wry grin, so I said "hey man, the tequila is a nice touch, but something is drawing me back to Charlie's Angels -- no hard feelings, eh?" And I started to drift back to the Noir-Clad Sirens who still beckoned from literally meters away.
"Hey," he (or I?) blurted out, "so what are you gonna do with them tonight? I was wondering if maybe I could come along?" This was an odd twist, as I hadn't really thought there were going to be any afterschool specials happening, so I replied, within earshot of The Girls, "First of all, my friend, anything that occurred would need to have a PG rating, since I have a girlfriend who is equally stunning and almost as nice -- I say almost because she knows me, and therefore justifiably rolls her eyes fairly often. She thinks I don't know this, but though she may be sharp as most women of her caliber are, she never had to survive Army Basic Training, and I did. That was a zillion years ago, and the least said about it the better, but some things stay with you."
"Also, I may be gullible but I'm not particularly stupid. These fine women are paid to entice me. No more; no less. They are nice to me because it is their job, and I'm sure that whatever they have planned, you are free to join us, provided that both of us buy something so they can get their commission, remove those gorgeous and expensive and oh-so-uncomfortable shoes, and go home to men much better looking than you or I -- yet somehow still inadequate since, well, they are here and not in, say, St. Tropez."
"And", I added, "if those guys are halfway smart and know a good thing when they've got it, they will NOT ask if she wants a footrub. They will simply do it."
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