Remembering Dreams

I dreamed that I fucked Anthony Bourdain in a dark upstairs room with the window open.  He was good; slow and insistent.  I licked his tattoo.  Afterwards we sat and smoked strange little purply bruise-coloured handrolled cigarettes that turned our tongues and our lips and the tips of our fingers black and shiny, and we laughed at it.

Remarks: Ectoplasmic infidelity is so often awesome, and I have sometimes wondered about Anthony, but not lately, so this was unexpected.  (Something about not looking a gift horse in the mouth) Umm... alright.     

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