Window Into the Mind of An Erotica Author

I had a most bizarre and rambling dream last night, parts of which were quite sexy. Some of its influences are easy to spot. For example, when I dreamt I was a young woman, walking down the street with a gaggle of hip friends including Courtney Love, that's because I just finished reading Girl Boy Girl: How I Became JT Leroy. Courtney Love was a JT Leroy fan, as were Carrie Fisher, Gus Van Sant, and other people way cooler than me.

So anyway, I'm walking down a dusty street with my crew and I stop at a little art boutique. On a spinning metal rack out from there is a painting so beautiful I know I have to have it, no matter what the cost. I don't have any money, so I decide on the spot I'm going to turn a trick to get it. (Remember, JT Leroy was purported to be a street hustler.) Fortunately, the shop owner and I are alone. He looks like Adam Levine. I get him in his back-room office and make my proposal, which he gladly accepts on the condition that he be allowed to not wear a condom. I readily agree, secretly thinking that I'm a bit nasty because I prefer the exchange of bodily fluids to the neatness of condoms. I walk away with my treasure.

The appearance of art in my dream is entirely the fault of JD Busch.

Later, the boutique owner reappears at my house, where I've already hung the painting in the attic. There is a lot of wood in this house: the rafters from the attic, the wooden railing of the stairs. He is either drunk or high, swaying where he stands and asking me questions that don't make any sense. He wants to know if we've had sex, and if so, if I raped him. I don't know how to answer. I feel guilty now.

But I know I shouldn't be feeling guilty, because I'm really just remembering an earlier incident which wasn't my fault. I'd been camping in the woods with Robert Pattinson (I'm obviously dreaming this because of writing another article about Twilight on Sunday). Inside our tent, he'd tried to grope me, though I managed to get him to stop. We ended up swimming in the lake, though, and he drowned.

When the boutique owner reappeared later, he was making out with Adam Lambert. (I did hear "Whataya Want From Me" on the radio yesterday.) The guy-on-guy action can be explained by my having received the cover art for Evernight Publishing's Indecent Encounters anthology yesterday.

My menage story "Post Op" is appearing in there, and the cover features a brunette female smooshed between two hot guys, one of whom has a sexy tribal tattoo. I don't know if La Lambert has ink, but Adam Levine does, despite his Yiddish ethnicity. One might equate the forbidden-ness of tattooed Jews with the impropriety of unprotected sex and prostitution. That's what this dream is about, I suppose: the eroticism of the forbidden. So now you have a little window into how my mind works.