The story so far:

After a wine-induced haze, I fell asleep face first on my sofa. And then it happened. My very first sex dream. It took 21 years, 50 weeks and 2 lovers later to experience my first sexual fantasy. I mean, I've had dreams where I've gotten shot down by famous people I wanted to sleep with (aka Noel from Felicity: "But you're a nerd!" I retorted when he didn't want me) This dream, however, was wonderful; he was a very attentive lover. The only mentionable thing about it though was the leading man (and what a man he was)... is my boss.

This isn't the same as a boss from any part-time job where fooling around isn't a big deal (Thanks for the memories Brian). This is a real-live corporation that is listed in the Fortune 1000. Office policies exist, and if I'm going to move into the executive position they offered me, I must obey these rules. Not to mention that Mr. Spectacular also follows these rules rigidly.

Upon telling my friend Bonnie on the way to work, and waiting several minutes for her to stop laughing, she assured me that sex dreams about your boss is not a big deal. Just don't look at him in the eyes for a few days. Okay, sounds good. I have a plan and plans are good. Then that night I had the dream that categorizes me as a class-one weirdo.

It is my birthday (which is rapidly approaching and I would just like to mention that I like shiny things and will be accepting gifts all month. Drinks also make excellent tokens). My Wild Wing Crew and I are celebrating me living 22 years without being accidentally "offed." We sit around a huge black marble table at a very elegant and opulent seafood restaurant and the servers carry huge platters of seafood and place them on the table. Then he walks in. Omigod. Will, Bonnie, TC, and I all exchange open-mouthed gasps, and Bonnie mouths the word that I would least likely want to associate with a new lover: transvestite. He sports a bright red dress that falls to his thighs, a single strand of pearls around his neck, and hair gel in his already short hair. Omigod he looks dykie. He takes a seat next to me and the shrimp the size of manicotti noodles no longer look appetizing; I hope my friends foot the bill. Will and TC take him aside and let him know how disappointed I am. I probably looked like I did on my 8th birthday when I had to share my birthday cake with my brother Patrick and all I got was a Barbie doll. He returns to the table and I do my best not to look at him. Then I can't breathe. I cannot breathe. Reaching up to my neck, I try to loosen my necktie. What is with the role reversal? I am not wearing a necktie-- like the woman I am, I am wearing a skimpy little black dress and nothing is even remotely near my neck. A necktie has got to be loosened for me to breathe, so I turn to the person next to me-- and it's him. To my surprise, he now wears an undershirt with a button-down shirt over it, the top two buttons undone. I pull at his collar for a breath of air and under his white undershirt I see the strand of pearls and the neck of the red dress. He didn't take it off. He looked down, ashamed and embarrassed. That's when I woke up in a panic.

I could not speak to him today, much less avoid the eyes...