I’ve never understood sex dreams. I remember waking up from the first one I had in high school, horrified, because my sexual partner in the dream wasn’t the captain of the basketball team; it wasn’t Robbie, who played trumpet with me in the jazz band and wasn’t afraid to take improv solos and left notes in my locker; it wasn’t even the principal, which could’ve provided for a naughty authority dynamic.

No, it was the sophomore who wore nothing but

these

and these

and a big chain going from his black jeans with the 52″ waist to his empty wallet.

He wasn’t completely a Hobbit, but maybe halfsies, you know? His head was gargantuan. Tiny hands,

fingers like these.

With rhotacism. That’s an l and r to w speech impediment.

Think

this guy.

I remember being enraged at my own subconscious and walking gingerly into school the next day, petrified that, in a moment of trauma-induced Tourette’s, I might blurt it out in the cafeteria and be ridiculed for the rest of my life.

And though I don’t have sex dreams too often, today I woke up shuddering after having dream-sex with a student’s dad. And no, not the hilarious web designer or the charismatic surgeon with beautiful eyes…instead, the paunchy, awkward one with the mid-western accent (yech), whose residence (I remember from the home visit) looks like his garbage can and clothes dryer simultaneously exploded all over the house. It wasn’t even shame-ridden, back-alley sex; there were witnesses.

What is wrong with me?

Please tell me I’m not alone.