Two boys of about eighteen or nineteen, who shared a bedroom as students. One saw his various sexual conquests as a sign of his machismo and boldness. The other considered lust to be shameful and weak, and regularly told his room-mate that his behaviour was sinful. In reality, their sex lives differed very little, and each one was writing a confessional memoir. Both books featured the same sex object, a girl who both young men were regularly sleeping with, and whose name had one letter different from mine.
A would-be erotic dream where I’m in bed, possibly in a hotel, with an unidentified casual who (according to the dream) I’ve seen a few times before. But he’s unattractively sweaty and I’m considering telling him I don’t want to meet again after today. He climaxes (I think?) and sort of half-heartedly suggests starting again after he’s had a rest, but he sounds grumpy at the idea of having to attend to my pleasure, and I’m not sure I can stomach it anyway.
Staying the night a hotel with my mum and Sibling. We met in the restaurant for breakfast, but since I don’t do well at mornings, the other two were there before me. I arrived just after 10am to find that the restaurant, which was Portugese-influenced, had stopped serving its breakfast menu. Apparently, the Portugese don’t really have specially designated breakfast foods, so fry-ups and cereal were only served as a concession to unadvanturous guests before 10am. After that, you picked from the standard restaurant menu that was available all day. I had some kind of lightly spiced pork and rice concoction, which was delicious but not the eggs royale I’d had in mind. Next to our table, another family (middle-aged parents, teenage or young adult children) were kicking up a stink about the restaurants total disregard to its customers’ needs. Coming over here, taking away our food-based traditions…
My aformentioned ex, while we were still together, giving me a printed black t-shirt for my birthday.
tiated to get a selection of small gifts to roughly compensate the value of the t-shirt. To find anything that took my fancy, I’d had to go through obscure boxes and shelves, delving further than the average customer might. I found a tiny book of (metaphysical?) poetry, bound in pale cream leather. Quite a precious find, to be fair, discarded with no sense of its value. Otherwise, I just got some bits of tat so unmemorable they haven’t made it to awake-mind, and – wtfsubconscious? – a massive bottle of lube.
wtf, subconscious? 