Sex party with Alan Ritchson

Okay, it was a dream. It didn’t happen, but it almost felt like it did. I probably shouldn’t be telling you about this, but I had the dream, or should I say, experience, last night. Sam and I had just bought a new convertible Mercedes-Benz and we went to Blythe‘s parents’ house in Miami. I know it was her parents’ house because it was full of Le Corbusier furniture, all in black.

Alan had brought a cadre of mostly naked bubble-butted boys with him, and they lounged about the Le Corbusier. One of them put a Martha White flour sack full of cocaine on the kitchen counter. I told Blythe it was flour and that I suddenly felt like doing some baking, so I put some of it in a bowl and added water and eggs. Everyone in attendance brought their tiny dog, and the constant corralling of the pack of them was holding up the fun. Preposterous.

All I know is that Sam and Alan, with devilish grins, were helping me stir the “batter”. Alan pumped a couple of squirts of Gun Oil into the mixture, and then wandered off to lie down on the large, black leather chaise in the center of the room.

Suddenly, the batter didn’t matter.

Blythe didn’t seem to mind any of it, provided we cleaned up and cleared out before her parents came home. We all agreed, and she went to her car to go shopping just as it began to rain.

Everyone had convertibles, including us. Everyone flooded out of the house to put up their tops. I smiled, remembering that we paid a little more for a little button on the car key, invaluable at that moment… the one that put up the top and the windows with one little push without leaving the house. Grinning, Sam and Alan closed the front door, leaving all the boys and the dogs out in the rain.

They stood on either side of me, and Alan licked my cheek, again and again, and then slipped his tiny, pink tongue up my nostril. His mouth smelled of Iams MiniChunks: lamb and rice.

It was Max, and I was dreaming, but it was a great way to start the day.

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