I dreamed about him last night. Not the innocent sort of dream, but a hot montage of illicit acts that make me blush to recall them in the daylight. It's sexy enough that once I dig out my vibrator's dusty case and take care of myself, I write down what I can recollect as an erotic short on my word processor. I save it under “XXX.doc.” I guess you can say I'm feeling inspired. After showering, I pull on a pair of Levi's and one of my favorite graphic tees. This one has a picture of Shakira's face superimposed over a Pac-Man shape and is captioned “Waka Waka.” I'm going out to lunch with the girls—Lydia, Kayla, and Amy. Nothing too fancy. We meet up at Kayla's, since she lives closest to our downtown. After a lengthy deliberation about diets and allergies, we end up deciding on Thai. “I know a great place,” Kayla says, nixing Bangkok Nights because she claims that their glassware smells like wet dog. “It's called All Thai'd Up.” I almost choke on my spit as a whole flood of naughty imagery floods my brain from yesterday's session with Tristan.
