Two nights ago, my subconscious played a nasty trick on me. I had a sex dream starring Christopher Hitchens. And myself obviously. Well, maybe not so obviously… I don’t know, maybe your sex dreams are more like pornos during which you voyeuristically watch others getting it on. Mine tend to have me in a starring role, which is good some times (hello, Zac Efron) and bad in others (aforementioned C.H.)
Being able to act out your fantasies while asleep is like a restful form of multi-tasking. Plus, it’s taken up a peg by the glimpse it gives you into the dark matter that makes up your unacknowledged desires. Mine apparently run towards the neo-con hate-fuck. God, I hope Dick Cheney doesn’t crop up any time soon.
Hitch and I were at some fancy dinner in an anywhere hotel convention center. The sort of place where the carpet has a swamp-like thickness and heels drown into plush shag. Hitch, needing a cigarette, left for the foyer and I apparently followed him since I wished to drown under his thicket of shaggy chest hair. I sidled up to him as he lit his fag and told him, “I know you had yourself waterboarded for that VF story just to show off your smokin bod.”
From under his bedroom lids, he peered at me and in a surprisingly high-pitched bark replied, “Absolutely not. Pure journalistic inquiry.” I watched him through the obscuring cloud from his Benson & Hedges Gold and then sniffed, “It’s pretty apparent that you’re the M to Graydon’s S.”
He coughed out a laugh and grabbed my arm. “I’m always S.” Then we absconded to the nearest ladies toilet. Things steamed up so rapidly, we realized we needed to move to the handicapped stall.
Really, Brain? Really?! This is like all those supposedly liberal-minded guys who wanted to give Palin a railing. Well, maybe not quite so bad, since I do have a sweet-spot in my heart for shambolic, but deft debaters – a ten sheets to the winder who can quote Chekov and Marx and then unsnap my bra. Why else would I want a nut-job like Hitchens? Well, I do like a good smoke in the shower…