It was steamy. Real steamy. The car, I mean. It sort of resembled the scene from Titanic, except there was double dick-aprio and we were in a 4×4. And, rather cruelly I think, I didn’t actually get *mine*; apparently even in my own dreams, my psyche knows not to go overboard. “Orgasm?! HA! She’ll see right through the whole thing! No, we want her convinced that this is happening. She will remain none the wiser until her bladder awakens her at 4AM,” this, I imagine, is the logic my subconscious insists on.
Anyhow, things were really heating up. The backseats of the 4×4 were more spacious than I’d ever imagined (not that I regularly weigh-up the innards of a car and imagine how I would navigate an orgy) and, between the three of us, we had a raucous good time. Bizarrely, though not too bizarrely for dream world, they were both faceless. I mean, they *had* faces, but I couldn’t pick them out of a line-up, if ya know what I mean. They did, however, have lovely bodies and lovely appendages dangling from said bodies. Together, we made imaginary magic. It was literally the stuff dreams are made of. And then the car halted. Apparently it had been moving the whole time. The identity of the voyeur in the drivers seat was never revealed, but I’m sure they got an eyeful. The brakes slammed. The car jerked. I woke up.
“WHAT A WILD RIDE!”, I thought. “Where the fuck did that come from? What could I have possibly watched that could evoke such tantalising images of a Jeep-based threesome? Storage Hunters? Nope. Storage Hunters UK? Ceeertainly not. Arrested Development? Nope. (Although, days later, I did dream-cheat with Buster off of Arrested Development. Anyone who’s watched the show will understand how problematic and icky this particular scenario is.) Hours spent consecutively watching YouTube clips of Jennifer Lawrence, Liam Hemsworth and Josh Hutcherson being cute as fuck in interviews? That’s it. That’s gotta be it.”
And so I woke. Unfulfilled. Longing. A bit guilty. A lot aroused. Needing to pee. I knew that, should I be able to slip back into that particular dream, it would be the greatest picture my subconscious had ever painted. It would be a masterpiece. A ménage-à-triumph. A coital classic. Two men, a woman and a Jeep. If it were a cheesy porno, it’d be called Balls Deep in a Jeep. Or something equally crude. But it wasn’t a cheesy porno; it was a dream. The question remained: why was I dreaming of three-ways anyways? What does it mean? Am I unfulfilled? Is a threesome on my humping horizon? Does my relationship need spicing up? How do I stop dreaming about Buster Bluth? How do I start dreaming about Jason Bateman? Who decides who I dream-shag? WHERE IS LIAM HEMSWORTH WHEN YOU NEED HIM?!?!?!?!?
I did a bit of research-related digging, thoroughly concerned that my recent foray into dream promiscuity spelt disaster for my relationship. I had all but planned my break-up speech: “Look, boyf, I don’t know how to say this but… I’m seeing someone. Well, several people really. (cue gasp and premature “YOU WHOR-!”) and I’ve been intimate with all but one of them. Someone slammed a door in the house before Will Arnett and I got down to it. I was devastated. I mean, you know how much I fancy Will Arnett! Anyway, I digress. I don’t know how or why it keeps happening but it can surely one mean one thing: we’re doomed. Maybe you’re seeing other people, too! Are you? YOU BASTARD. And while I was sleeping peacefully beside you, I bet! Typical.”
I would eventually divulge the most pivotal information of all – that these dalliances existed only in my head – but not before grilling him over how many times he’d dream-humped Katy Perry. In this fictitious scenario, it would turn out that he hadn’t once dream-humped Katy Perry. One time, in fact, he’d picked me over Katy Perry. No mean feat, I’m sure. The verdict was in: his mind was pure. Any attempts from his devilish psyche to offer up a plateau of desirable women had been just as quickly diminished. Just as it should be. Mine, however, was still running rampant.
Google offered some solace, but not much. My serial, smutty, night-time nookie sessions could be a result of guilt. Not necessarily relationship-based guilt, but guilt about anything. I’ll chalk it up to the excessive amount of chocolate consumption, then. Alternatively, Yahoo Answers suggested a small part of me wished to be “free and single”. I will have to politely disagree with that suggestion, what with being in a happy relationship and all. One wise woman at Glamour deduced that dream-cheating merely suggested I was giving my “time, attention and affection” to something other than my boyfriend. Well, unless that ‘something’ is ASOS, I highly doubt that’s the case. If online retailers do constitute ‘something’, then we may be on to, erm, something; they certainly have my time and affection.
In summary: countless articles and dream analysis sites later, I had no definitive answer.
I spent the next couple of days steering clear of chocolate (and by ‘steering clear’ I mean limiting myself to three bars a day), boycotting ASOS (and by ‘boycotting’ I mean limiting myself to three visits a day) and pouring my affections into my relationship (and by ‘pouring my affections’ I mean texting an extra three times a day). The next night I dreamt of Buster Bluth. I think it’s safe to assume that my dream-cheating is slowly, but surely, on the decline.