The mystical Jungian images appeared to be drawing me deeper into their symbolic realm when - suddenly - I found myself sprawled in bed naked next to a lone figure turned away from me slumbering away.
Suddenly - without warning - the warm body rolled over and I was stunned to find myself kissy-face with Angelina Jolie.
In a few seconds, we were all over each other, making out furiously!
Cut to a speeding Porsche.
"We musn't tell Brad," she insisted, as she shifted the gears of the high-maintenance roadster and gazed deeply into my eyes.
Before you could say - "wet dream" - I was wide awake and shaking my head in disbelief.
What the heck was that all about?
The curious dream was obviously triggered by the fact I mentioned how stunning the actress looked on the red carpet at the Oscar celebrations last week.
Of course, wild dangerous femme fatales are no strangers to moi!
In fact, in my youth - when the sixties were in full swing - I crossed paths with a few!
Recently, when I was in Vancouver visiting old friends - a security guard (and a former member of a notorious biker gang) who was in charge of security at Rochdale College when I was in attendance there in 1969 - out-of-the-blue asked a question which jarred my memory a tad.
"What ever happened to that blond babe with the great ta ta's you hung out with," he quizzed me point-blank without a hint of decorum in his voice.
Before I could collect my thoughts and respond, he turned to the other guests in the room, and tattled on me!
"You should have seen this chick (his expression, not mine, ladies).
"She had these huge melons, and porcelain skin, and the hottest little bod on her."
"And," he cackled, "She wore a long white fur coat without anything - no panties, nothing - underneath."
Now the memories came flooding back, indeed!
We met earlier in the evening, made out in the shower, and then party-hopped around the 18-level College dorm 'til the crack of dawn.
I guess we were quite an eyeful - me, in my tight-fitting blue jeans, shirtless and barefoot - she, a ravenous Swedish beauty wrapped in a lone luxurious fur.
Well, I've always adored beautiful women.
Put them up on a pedestal, that's for sure.
I guess I'm a sort-of a "fag-hag" in reverse.
Readers who follow my blog are keen on the fact I'm inclined to feature a stunning beauty or two in a blog post now and then.
And, if I'm reviewing a film or penning a career profile - you can bet your sweet - um - bippy - that I'll post a flattering photo which usually captures the lass as scantily-clad as possible.
Handsome men get the nod, too.
I need something to pretty up the pages, don't I?
Ralph Waldo Emerson said it best:
"Love of beauty is taste. The creation of beauty is Art."
Suddenly - without warning - the warm body rolled over and I was stunned to find myself kissy-face with Angelina Jolie.
In a few seconds, we were all over each other, making out furiously!
Cut to a speeding Porsche.
"We musn't tell Brad," she insisted, as she shifted the gears of the high-maintenance roadster and gazed deeply into my eyes.
Before you could say - "wet dream" - I was wide awake and shaking my head in disbelief.
What the heck was that all about?
The curious dream was obviously triggered by the fact I mentioned how stunning the actress looked on the red carpet at the Oscar celebrations last week.
Of course, wild dangerous femme fatales are no strangers to moi!
In fact, in my youth - when the sixties were in full swing - I crossed paths with a few!
Recently, when I was in Vancouver visiting old friends - a security guard (and a former member of a notorious biker gang) who was in charge of security at Rochdale College when I was in attendance there in 1969 - out-of-the-blue asked a question which jarred my memory a tad.
"What ever happened to that blond babe with the great ta ta's you hung out with," he quizzed me point-blank without a hint of decorum in his voice.
Before I could collect my thoughts and respond, he turned to the other guests in the room, and tattled on me!
"You should have seen this chick (his expression, not mine, ladies).
"She had these huge melons, and porcelain skin, and the hottest little bod on her."
"And," he cackled, "She wore a long white fur coat without anything - no panties, nothing - underneath."
Now the memories came flooding back, indeed!
We met earlier in the evening, made out in the shower, and then party-hopped around the 18-level College dorm 'til the crack of dawn.
I guess we were quite an eyeful - me, in my tight-fitting blue jeans, shirtless and barefoot - she, a ravenous Swedish beauty wrapped in a lone luxurious fur.
Well, I've always adored beautiful women.
Put them up on a pedestal, that's for sure.
I guess I'm a sort-of a "fag-hag" in reverse.
Readers who follow my blog are keen on the fact I'm inclined to feature a stunning beauty or two in a blog post now and then.
And, if I'm reviewing a film or penning a career profile - you can bet your sweet - um - bippy - that I'll post a flattering photo which usually captures the lass as scantily-clad as possible.
Handsome men get the nod, too.
I need something to pretty up the pages, don't I?
Ralph Waldo Emerson said it best:
"Love of beauty is taste. The creation of beauty is Art."
Blond Bombshell! Brigitte Bardot!
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