Usually my dreams are not about me. They’re about other people and I watch them and listen to see what the themes are and stuff because they are narrated a lot like books. I mean, I even have dreams with complicated time-schemas, where you start at the end and then find out what happened to lead up to it.
Last night I dreamed that I was in Florida and I was getting back into private party dancing. So some girl that I kind of knew had set up this bachelor party, and I was supposed to meet her at the hotel. On the way to the hotel, tho, Hat-ma (it’s always Hat-ma to the rescue) called to tell me that the hotel had been taken over by cops and they’d outfitted all the rooms on the top floor with cameras to bust people for prostitution. Most states have really weird prostitution laws, such that a lapdance could be considered prostitution. So I get to the hotel and find out that it is on the top floor, and the guys are texting me and being all shady so I decide to go up and try to rescue the girl who had booked it.
I get on the elevator, and halfway up it stops and my favorite author gets on. I used to have a little crush on my favorite author, but ever since we had this disagreement about sex work I’ve found him pretty unattractive. So anyways. There I am on the elevator with my favorite author, and he says something, and I say something, and then we start kissing. Between kisses I’m thinking about how awful this guys attitudes towards women are, and how probably this just feels so good cause it’s playing into some stupid childhood trauma or something.
Then we have this totally passionate conversation about music and literature and bringing down civilization and open relationships (it was a really slow elevator, obviously), and as the elevator starts to get to the top I realize that as much as the cops are camping out upstairs waiting to bust hookers, they’re waiting for him too. Either they’re gonna bust him, or he’s one of them. Fuck, which could it be. So I’m like, hang on, I gotta go rescue my friend. I’ll be right back. But he can’t bear to be parted from me. I don’t want him to come in case he is one of the cops and he busts my friend, so I’m trying to figure out how to get away from him, but I want his phone number so I can call him. He’s being all skillfully evasive about the phone number, so I’m like, alright, gotta go save my friend. Be right back.
He says fine then, fuck you, and stomps off.
Strange as this sounds, it is not as strange as my real life.
Prostitution laws are dumb. Specifically because many times people who make the laws partake in “prostitution” activities themselves (ie receiving lapdances. Oh the scandal!).