I didn't get anywhere with anyone per se, but I was being intensely harassed and seduced by none other than Iron Chef Bobby Flay.
I was at a nice restaurant, chocolate brown leather bench seats, red art deco cone lamps hanging down from the ceiling, simple red flowers on the tables and a warm, dark brown wall color. Don't forget the track lighting! I suppose that's my creative interior designer brain working in my subconscious - even in sleep, I am imagining color schemes hehe. But anyway....
Funny thing is, I wasn't really interested in Mr. Flay at first. You'd think it was because of the level of his arrogance and overt assertiveness, but that is usually what I get off on. Somehow we ended up at a house party where there was all kinds of provocative shenanigans going on. The porn-star looking attendees, especially the women, were all scantily clad, and I didn't feel all that welcome. I especially felt out of place because I was mentally in mommy mode, imagining that I needed to get home to my kids.
Slowly but surely, my outfit morphed into some kind of lack of cloth ensemble, and the women were pulling me along, trying to get me to join in their weird lesbian activities, getting me more and more naked. I knew it was all for the sake of the evil Bobby Flay who was smirking deviously while watching this, knowing these nasty sirens were "prepping" me for the main course.
I don't like women in the sexual way, so I wasn't appreciative of their efforts: inserting fingers where they shouldn't be, convincing me to put my fingers in their soft parts *blech* and *shudder* - it was all too much. Gross, Bobby. If you want me, don't gross me out with the lezzy stuff, ugh.
I had enough of the fake eyes-closed-red-lipstick-open-mouth gasping and moaning stuff from the blonde Playboy wannabes and went over to the Iron Chef himself. I was pissed and I demanded to go home. He said he would drive me home and he had my car keys. I told him I would go myself, but he wouldn't give them to me. Actually, he took off the car key and gave me the rest of my keys.
At some point, we were in my car, him in the driver's seat. He was putting the max moves on me at this point - and even though I thought he was a jerk, I couldn't help but still be interested. Why do I like the jerks? I guess I woke up or something because I was starting to freak out because even in my subconscious, I knew I was married and that this was not a good idea, even if I was slightly interested in hooking up with an unscrupulous celebrity chef.
Then the baby cried and woke me up.
Whew! Or damn it! I'm not sure which reaction to use. Hehe.
After watching a few Throwdown episodes, he seems like such a douche.
I'm not the only one who thinks so, either.
So what does that say about me? I totally fantasize about douchebags. And food. I don't want to marry 'em, I just want to fuck 'em....I guess just get it over with already and call me a gourmet slut. LOL