“I had a sex dream about you last night,” I said through the haze of sleep early this morning, “but I can’t remember much of it. Still, it was a sex dream about you, and that was nice…”
I had bigger things on my mind. This morning we were supposed to be going to the council to register our intent to marry this summer. The appointment’s been booked for months, and it was unceremoniously cancelled with no prior warning an hour and a half before it was meant to have happened.
Neither of us would have got up so early if we’d known, but then again, this council has always been incompetent. Maybe the local elections in May will elect a new one. That’s very unlikely, though.
It was important, whatever we were doing (or, as it turns out, not doing) this morning, to tell them that I’d had a sex dream about them.
I will admit that there were some bits that I had to miss out. The fact that the dream also involved walking down the long corridor in the YHA I stayed in at age 17. Or that it barely involved them at all and the sex bit was the only bit with them in it (it was, however, the best bit!). Or the position we did it in (probably an impossible one), how long it lasted (not very long), or why it had to end so quickly (my mouth inexplicably filled with water during sex and I had to run to the bathroom to spit it out).
I missed all those bits out, although in my head I was already planning a tweet about it.
In hasn’t, in all honesty, been the best of days.
But I had a sex dream about them.
Which was nice.