No doubt it was the drugs taken to obviate the pain of yanking a muscle into spasm ten days ago (and the general lateness of the hour - I went to bed at 5am after writing six pages of fiction), but I found myself in a long and entirely pleasurable dream set in a huge pink chateau-like hotel-spa in Las Vegas, a green and hilly New England-like Las Vegas, so much more charming than the real city (which I have only visited once, and in August, for a witches' convention, and have no desire ever to visit again).
The room was vast and comfortable, the bed as well, and there were attractive persons wishing to share it with me. The décor of the establishment was imitative of European styles but in the very best of taste, a little gaudy but human. There were cozy nooks for intimate conversations and a kindly wait-staff serving margaritas. I never saw a slot machine or a card table, and until this moment did not remark how odd that was. (This shows you the sort of thing I am apt to like on a vacation.) There were fully-staged theater productions of South Pacific and Gypsy - the former starred the aging Mary Martin (when was this supposed to be taking place?) and we went backstage afterwards to get her autograph - she was utterly lovely about it. Somehow I encountered Megan Mullaly (Karen from Will & Grace), and she focused her voracious sexual needs on me, and somehow my face was full of pierced jewelry, which seems entirely anachronistic. (I did have an earring once, but my lobes are too thick for this to work.) While Megan and I were flirting up a storm and tossing back drink upon drink, lovely sunlight poured through the windows from well-sculpted lawns and woodsy landscapes. We sat on banquettes in a cheerful salon. (My bed in real life is placed to capture morning sun, of which there is a great deal today.) A couple of very well-built supporting stars of Megan's fluttered about us, and they too couldn't have been more friendly and interested - in both of us.
The whole show was moving - slowly but definitively - in the direction of a ten-hot-boys-and-Megan scene in my bedroom when I somehow emerged from slumber (the phone; wrong number) and found myself in a delicious, semi-sensuous, relaxed and content-with-life sort of mood. I'd so enjoyed the little thrill of nuzzling the hairs on the arms and neck of the young men and fending off Megan's flirtatious little hands, that I felt a lingering well-being. After many a decade, the orgasm has receded from anything like primacy in sex for me, and just having a hot body to nuzzle and to nuzzle me is all I could require. Good musicals around the corner and green landscapes out the window are also ... dreamy.
So I'm almost ready to hit the books - except my back is still unhappy and overstressed. Got a massage from Tim yesterday - he said, "I hate to be a broken record ... but have you been stretching?" Not enough, and he's quite right. I do envy him living in a cabin in the woods all through the winter, only hitting town now and then. I think my back and hips would me much happier if I'd lie on the floor with my legs over a chair every evening. Then maybe it wouldn't hurt to sit in front of the computer screen by the hour. Then maybe I could ride my bike, for which we are currently having (40s F) perfect weather.
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