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the airman's mess: sex week guest post

I now present a reprisal from the archives of The Airman's Mess, something saigonsam thought might be a good addition to "sex week".

the airman's "mess"

One weekend morning while I was still in highschool back in Hometown, probably around 10 a.m., I was having the best erotic dream of my entire life – even to date, I think. I was still a virgin despite having had a girlfriend of months and months already – we were too chicken to do it, which was and is just fine – but here in this dream there was this incredible blonde girl (who didn't look like my girlfriend at all) who was riding me and both of us were butt-naked and so forth. I was loving it! let me tell you. We aren't just talking visuals here, my friend. Oh no. There were some fine, fine sensations being produced.

This was one of those dreams where you're only a few minutes from waking up, one of those dreams where you can tell that it is a dream, and that's probably why there were real-world elements present. I mean this outrageously hot naked peachskinned dream-blonde was riding me hither and thither but the dream-scenery was my own room, the same room in which I slumbered at that moment, and – you know how difficult it is to speak while inside of a dream; to scream, for example, usually when scared or angry? In this particular blockbuster I was giving voice left and right, all YYYEAHH! OHHOH YYYEAHHH! I mean this was Dream Sex™ in every sense of the word.

–Is this too much information? Go here.

Further, in this hyperrealistic dream with my own room as the setting and all, there came a pounding at the dream-room door and the voice of my dear puritanical mother: "Jack! What's going on in there?!" To which my dream-self, dream-sex-having self dreamily
hollered – with the composite dream-embodiment of every blonde bikini model from all of time riding so blurringly fast and hard above me that she would surely turn to butter in a second, tiger running 'round the tree – I dream-yelled back to dream-Mom, in my dream-voice, I'M HAVING THE BEST SEX OF MY LIFE AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT!!!! And there wasn't anything that could be done, either, because a second later it was ptthhhbt and I woke up.

So there I lay, in my bed, with no eighteen-year-old buxom blonde bikini model anywhere – an 18-year-old girl being, back then, a certifiable Older Woman – and with silence in the room, and me needing to change out my boxers. What did you think? The sensations of a moment ago were dying away like a flywheel running down, but I was giddy and happy and faintly chagrined and faintly guilty-feeling. God, I'm still amazed that my subconscious knew how to make my virginal body feel exactly the way great sex does. Remember Strange Days, that movie with Juliette Lewis and that English Patient guy? That dream of mine would've fetched US$500 per minidisc, minimum.

Predictably, I'd been wearing my last pair of clean drawers when all that happened. So I needed to get downstairs to the laundry room, which, of course, could not be reached without scooting past the kitchen, where I knew my folks would be having coffee and reading the paper. I snuck to the end of the hall and peeked around the corner: there they were. I did a runner and in seconds flat was downstairs with the washer and the dryer; I shucked off my shame, pulled on a new pair from the clothesline, and was in the process of rinsing out the used – decorated with hearts, incidentally, a gift from the girlfriend – when my mom, not of the dream variety this time, walked in behind me. She said something to the effect of, what's up.

I said, "the cut on my back [–I had one] bled into my boxers, so I thought I'd better rinse them off with cold water before it set".

She said okay, then pussyfooted around for a minute talking about this and this and that, and then suddenly looked straight at me and said, "Have you and Carly been having Sexual Intercourse?"

Have you seen Terminator 2? I flew backward against the washing machine in physical recoil and utter shock – just picture Robert Patrick's T-1000 getting blown away with Linda Hamilton's 10-guage shotgun. "AUGH!" I cried, head swimming.

Mom remained perfectly mild. "Well, have you?" she shrugged.

I was choking. "Guh... n!... NO!" I howled.

"Okay then," she said.

I gasped for breath. "Don't ask me that again!"

"I won't," she promised, and walked away.

For a long time, I couldn't understand why she asked me that question that morning. Then, a couple of years ago when I remembered that scene again, it occurred to me to wonder – that dream, so near to wakefulness, with my room as the setting, with me able to speak, with so many similarities to waking reality—

Was it, in fact, all a dream right until I woke up?

Oh, gawd.

Oh gawd.


This has got to be one of my all-time favourite saigonsam stories... glad to see it reprised here for Sex Week!


i do so love that one.

How can you be adorable and fantastically writerly at the same time???

I love it.