By Dave Krough

You try and wake up every day, jackass, from the one where you and the ex are standing in lower Manhattan as the ash and vaporized body parts fall all around you. That's the first half.

Hell, I'll take crazy sex dreams anytime.

And I'm no amateur, baby, let's get that straight. I'm known far and wide as one of the most vivid dreamers and far-out visionaries of the twisted, deep-sleep subconscious movies from here to BFE. Ask around. I remember, dammit. I couldn't make this up if I wanted to. And I don't want to.

Nevertheless, I was never one to hold fast to the Asian girl fetish thing, but there she was in full living color the other night - Lucy Liu in my bed, with nothing on, save a pair of white panties, sweat and a frothy grin.Fine by me.

We had been playing games on a field perched near a cliff earlier, as boys tried to rope us into games of foosball and Ping-Pong, but when I tried to start up a rousing round of racquetball the boys said, "We're playing with SMALL BALLS ONLY!"
"But, handballs aren't THAT BIG" I replied.

By this time, the small, white orbs were flying around the room of my mind, and the next thing; I'm under the covers with Charlie's sexiest angel, and she's ready to rock.I trace my fingers along her tattooed shoulders and neck, which resemble a myriad pattern of red, white and blue stars in various outbursts, with a blank line running through between her head and shoulder blades.
"Why the blank space, babe?""It's for the snake. I'm having it filled in between."Aha."Aren't you Brandon Walsh?" she asks.
I laugh. "No, darlin', that's just kind of a running joke with me," I say.
So pulses are pounding, juices are flowing and I'm about to nail 'er. Heads under the covers, heads and bodies outside the covers, hot and heavy stuff is going down as a glance out the window on what seems to be either a Greenwich Village neighborhood or the skyline of Little Tokyo, I can't really tell.

She says the birth control is ready. (Cue Cold War stock footage of missiles blasting out of the silos, trains shooting into the tunnel, the hot dog rotisserie, submarine firing torpedo, etc) and then the usual.I wake up. Shaken and aroused.
So what does it all mean pray tell? There's the obvious, the Freudian interpretations of balls, snakes, covers and juices. But Occam's Razor tells us the simplest explanation is probably the correct one.

Fessin' up. Sure I need to get some more, I won't lie on behest of some masculine-coded fuck-quest, but the little sports fest of "small balls" tells me I'm ready to play with cajones bigger than the rest of the guys on the field. Done. Rubber and hollow, eh?But why wasn't I wearing my beloved fishnets and mascara whilst boasting of my manly diatribes?

Easy: It's all play. Evidence of my near over-confidence with my own sexuality, ready for a jaunt into the Eastern mystic mindset for those who think I'm unaware of the Tao te Ching of Sex. Ha. Nice try. Pretzels with cheese anyone? Cuffs, coffins and fiery love wax?

Bring it. Tasty.

Next time I awake from one of these dreams, Spartacus Leathers is getting a bump on my credit card, I swear to God.

Maybe tomorrow.

As for the Walsh reference, Hollywood knows me all too well. I'd never stoop to dating Jenny Garth.