A dream to end all dreams

Last night I had sex with a cheerleader. She was 22, an athlete, American, and had skin like the sweetest olive you’ve ever tasted on a pizza. It was frantic, beautiful, vivid, long, and as the sun began peeking through the curtains onto our tired, spent bodies she stroked my stomach gently and told me I was incredible.
Then I woke up, and headed for the washing machine.
The mind is an amazing thing. It can invent a scenario like the one above to thrill you while sleeping, and it seems so real you feel superhuman for at least twelve hours afterwards. All day today I’ve had a remarkable post-coital glow, and a spring in my step that even the mass of my hulking torso cannot dampen - just because my brain imagined something erotic, and then convinced another part of my brain that it had really happened. Fantastic. I was tempted to find mums old sleeping pills to see if I could go back for seconds.

On an unrelated topic, I now have a petition on display in the corner shop. It reads – “We the undersigned appeal on behalf of all that is sane and decent for Jamie Oliver to be ripped from public life and forced to swear never to present, write or cook ever again on pain of having his fingernails removed by a blind, drunk one-armed failed medical student from Southport”
I’m aiming for 500 signatures by Friday.

Now I’m gonna eat two blocks of cheese and have an early night. All being well I’ll be back in my cheerleaders arms by midnight.

RC 20-10-08
2153 BST