|Why yes, I'd love to dream without|
Rude Dudes starring in them, thanks.
Even though I write erotic romance, it doesn’t mean I’m a raging sexual maniac. To have a saucy dream is a bit traumatic for me, to be honest. In this particular dream I felt like I would in real life. Sandwiched between Ronan Keating and an unknown man in my bed, I was conscious of being in my scabby old nightclothes, but more importantly, the need to get the fuck out of the bed and away from those perverts. When Ronan produced a Marigold glove and started prodding at my lady garden with it, I knew I was in trouble. Thankfully, as the blown-up item pressed against my nethers, I woke up and could only assume the glove had been tied at the top to hold in all the air.
"I'm never going to wash up by hand again, not with gloves on anyway. Scarred for damn life thanks to you, Keating."
Let me tell you, I was thankful to be awake. I had that startled look, I’m sure, of someone not knowing whether they’d had a dream or if it was real, because, of course, I’d woken up in the same damn bed my dream had been set in. Was that huddle beside me the unknown man and not Hub? And was Ronan on the other side, waiting with a sinister smile and a bloated glove, ready to confess his needs in that Irish accent of his, or maybe even sing it in a Boyzoney manner? I confess I checked. Yes, I turned to the side only to see my flowery wallpaper.
"Never had a rose in full bloom looked so good. I reached out to touch it, thankful my fingertips only met with wallpaper and not the soft, Irish skin of a crooner."
I snuggled up to Hub then fell back to sleep—only to find myself in another weird dream with sexual connotations. What-the-fuckery was afoot, and I was at a loss to get myself awake. My mind wasn’t allowing it.
Picture this. Night. Balmy summer. And I was naked in a tree-surrounded car park with David Beckham. We were on the tarmac on our backs, looking up at the stars. A car came along and parked right by us, the front of the undercarriage over me, one of the tyres perilously close to my shoulder. I remember thinking he’d better stop or he’d fuck my poorly shoulder up even more. The driver got out. Someone else walked across the car park, and, as me and David watched, the driver killed them.
|Random woman with baps on display outside at night.|
The dream switched, as they so often do, to another scene. The police had arrived, and myself and Beckham were giving statements, totally unabashed at being naked. I asked myself why the cops had clothes on, and thought they were weird to have such items covering them. It felt like showing your jolly bits was normal, so for them to have theirs covered…nope, couldn’t get my head around that.
"Why haven't you go your tackle out, Mr Coppah, swaying in this here cool breeze?"
Anyway, I woke up at that point, frowning and asking myself why both dreams had been on the rude side. I mean, the last time I’d had a rude one was years ago when I’d dreamt of being naked in a stinky old tent with Liam Gallagher while he’d warbled Wonderwall at me. After he’d finished singing, I left the tent—naked again—and wandered between thousands of others, wondering when the concert was going to start. I assumed I was on one of those weekend wotsits, where people camped out and got high for two days while waving their lighters about in the air when famous artists got on stage to belt out their latest songs.
|My thumb is simply not for licking.|
I ended up on a main road, the tents behind me, and stood there with my thumb out. I’d never hitchhike, so that felt weird—even weirder when Gallagher appeared by my side on his knees, licked my thumb then told me not to look back in anger and that his band, Oasis, would save me.
Like I said, what-the-fuckery, all of it.
So, I braved it and went to the dream dictionary to find out why Ronan had prodded me with an inflated washing-up glove and why Beckham had been looking up at the stars with me. I’m a tad old-fashioned, and although I know I can’t control my dreams and it isn’t my fault who stars in them with me, I kind of want Hub looking at the stars and Hub poking me with a…no, actually, I don’t want that, but you get the idea.
So, here’s the interpretation. Snippets from dreammoods.com:
Marigold: To see marigolds in your dream denotes health and longevity. (I’ll take that, even though I’m sure they mean a flower and not some fucked-up glove.)
Famous Singer: It indicates harmony and glorification of the human spirit. (Oh, right, so what the hell was him poking me all about?)
Poking: Perhaps the dream is giving you a poke or a nudge to move forward. Thus, the dream may be a pun on being "pokey" or slow. You need to stop sitting around and start accomplishing your goals. (It took me going through THAT for my subconscious to just say: Pull your fucking finger out, get a grip and get on with things?)
Murder: To dream that you witness a murder indicates deep-seated anger towards somebody. Consider how the victim represents aspects of yourself that you want to destroy or eliminate. (No idea who the murder victim was, so this doesn’t help. I had anger at myself in my waking hours, though, and I did want to destroy the part of myself that was making me unhappy, so yeah, I dig this.)
Naked: If you are accepting of someone else's nudity, then it implies that you can see right through them and their intentions. Or perhaps you are completely accepting them for who they are. If you do not care about someone else's nudity, then it suggests that you need to learn not to be afraid of rejection. (So why was I confused at the cops being clothed? Sod this analysis business for a laugh…)
Okay, I get it. When I’m stressed and unhappy at myself I’m going to have rude dreams. Best be making myself a bit more cheerful then, because I dread to think what the hell my subconscious will come up with next. A cow’s udder instead of a glove?
|My name is Marigold.|
"I'm watching you, Ellis. I'll flap my udders at you as soon as you think you're safe..."