Dear Linc,
I would expect most folks in our generation to be fans of Friends. Well, I suppose there are lots of people who don’t like it just as much as most of my own friends — no pun intended, or do I? — do like it, but I would hope you have at least some awareness of the show. Like the time Joey was cast in a porn movie as a copy machine repair man.
In my dream last night, I was cooking grits for breakfast. (Grits are my new thing. I never had them growing up. I was more of an oatmeal guy. But done right, grits are delicious, as I have recently discovered their smooth buttery goodness.) I was at the stovetop when you interrupted this process. Recall that I have previously written in these never-to-be-sents that despite the obvious fandom behind these never-to-be-sents, I don’t actually dream about you very much.
The dream made one of those abrupt transitions where everything is different but the same. Instead of cooking grits, the stove was now turned off and you had me naked on the adjoining countertop. Thank goodness we practiced safety first.
With the remnants of steam billowing from the cooling pot, I pleaded to you with the droll earnestness commonplace in porn and soap operas: “Impregnate me.”
With that same melodramatic flare, you said,” I can’t. It’s biologically impossible.” Then you nibbled on my neck and my hands reached around your body, also naked, over your waist and down into crevices that made you moan.
“Getting there is half the fun,” I breathed.
“But no matter how much sex we have, you’ll never be pregnant.”
“What about the statistical theory that if you do something often enough then you will eventually achieve the desired result?”
Now your fingers slipped down into my crevices when you said, “I think you’re either oversimplifying or totally misinterpreting the theory.”
Even though our functional discourse in the tides of soap operatic passion now strikes me with convulsive hilarity, I didn’t wake up in laughter. My condition this morning was about what you’d expect…
Joe
