Sometimes a blogger's relationship to his readers can get a little strange:
I am a 60 year old sexually repressed woman. One of the reasons that I read your blog is because it pulses with sexual energy. This morning I had a dream and you were in it. We were dancing, you and I, and I had my feet on your feet but I was somehow draped over your back, rather than in front of you. You were somehow carrying me piggyback, but still, my feet were on yours. We were in an old house, dancing around through the rooms. Other people were there partying.
I was getting kind of turned on and you carried me (I'm still on your back, with my feet on yours) up to what I presumed was your bedroom. You tossed me onto the bed, which was covered with this green, parachute like thing and got onto me, your lips lightly touching mine. So, we're going to do it, I thought. And then the parachute began to lift. A man was at the side of the bed, pulling it up off of the bed with a pulley contraption. He pointed out some stirrups that were there in the middle of the parachute if I wanted to use them (boy, this is kinky, I thought). I saw that we were each, you and I, in a sort of slot – like a spoke – around the parachute, and that other people were there as well, our feet converging in the middle. It wasn't just me and you, anymore, and I was a little disappointed (because sex wasn't going to happen?) but still a little intrigued. You assured me that this was what "play" was all about, and that sex was a vital part of it.
Anyway, I want to tell you that.
Er, thanks.
The Dish 