How about a lil' full frontal?

[Disclaimer: This comes from an email in which a friend describes an erotic dream she had about Bret Michaels, 90s rock God and current reality show whore. Her name has been changed to protect her innocence. Let's just say her name rhymes with Schmeggy. Read and enjoy...]

...lobotomy? Because, seriously, I need one. And here's why:

I HAD A DREAM I WAS ON ROCK OF LOVE. I don't exactly remember all of the details (thank GOD), but here's my hazy recollection of what went down....

So, I'm on the show. I kind of have a feeling that I'm not myself. I think I'm Ambre, which would make sense, since she's, like, Methuselah, or something, on the show, at the ripe ol' age of 32. And as we're all sitting around in some room, watching re-runs of the last season of RoL, Inna (whom I shall henceforth refer to as Inna Tuna, or some variation of the name, in honor of TWoP) and I get into it. Not into the show, I mean...into an altercation. There's all sorts of head-shaking and finger-waving, and the "Fuck you, bitch"es are flying furiously. I think she started it by called me old, or maybe I started it by calling her a skank, but that's really neither here nor there. Then things get physical, and I choke her out, UFC style, which was totally AWESOME...even moreso because at this point I'm myself again and not Ambre, and you know in real life I would not have a chance against Inna Tuna, since she would most likely devour me (literallly). Except the really shameful thing is that we're both in bikinis (with moderate to full back coverage...that's the only saving grace) and she's wearing stilettos, which you know will later give Bret some "heavy movement" when he sees the footage. CREEPY!

Anyways, in the midst of the mixed-martial arts, one of Tuna-girl's stiletto heels catches me on the top of my foot, and I start bleeding profusely. Positively spurting blood, jugular-style. (I'm no M.D., but I don't think that's possible with a foot injury, short of actually having your foot severed--but either way, it hurt like a bitch and I totally made a mess all over the place.) Well, I'm pissed, and apparently really mature, because I wrap my gaping wound in toilet paper and march (well, limp) off down the hall to tattle on Tuna. Yes, ladies. In the grand RoL tradition, I'm gonna tell on someone to further my own game. Embarrassing. And I'm myself and not Ambre, so there's really no excuse.

Well, there's Bret in the kitchen, making himself an omelette. And thank the good Lord that he has a full head of SHORT hair and he is sans bandana. He's almost hot, in a puffy-aging-rocker kind of way. He looks at me like he pretty much doesn't have a clue who I am...which makes more sense when it is revealed that I had actually tried out for the previous season and had not even made it into the house to get rejected, meaning, of course, that I'm completely forgettable. But it probably also means that I didn't bare my breasts or do something equally humiliating. Or maybe I did and got rejected anyway, which is even more humiliating, since it doesn't seem that Bret is really that discriminating. And though I know about the past failure, it still seems like it's news to me, even as I hear the words coming out of my own mouth.

Then, here's the weird thing--okay, not THE weird thing...one of many weird things, obviously: Some random lady kind of materializes next to me (I think maybe she's Bret's mom?) and tells Bret that I have a two-year-old son, and then she...dematerializes, I guess. Think transporter beam from "Star Trek." And it's at that exact moment that he and I make a spiritual connection, because you know he always bonds with chicks who have kids...and this is immediately followed by a PHYSICAL connection, as he throws down his spatula and moves in for a kiss. AND THEN THERE IS PASSIONATE NECKING. I think he gets to first base; I'm trying hard to NOT remember. But as we pull apart, he looks at me and says, real serious-like, "You know there are eliminations tonight." I hang on his words, waiting breathlessly to see where this is going, and as I see him begin to slowly shake his head I realize that...my tour...ends...here. And I'm like, WTF? I just MADE OUT with you, dude. I'm risking my good health, here, not to speak of my reputation, which has now be permanently soiled. What will my parents think, even though I'm 33 and it doesn't actually matter? (Quick aside: It appears that while I have a son, I do not actually have a husband. Or I have no recollection of a husband. Otherwise, I probably would've been slightly more concerned about what HE would think of what has transpired. Or so one would hope.)

It turns out that even though I made out with him at the drop of a hat (or a spatula, as it so happens), I am not slutty enough because I am not a stripper and I don't know how to work the pole. And even though I should be mighty proud, I'm actually discouraged, and I offer a pitiful and half-hearted, "But...I could learn." Yet, he tells me that in another time, another place, maybe it would have worked, but it's just not meant to be in the here and now. And then he says he's gonna go catch a movie with Big John.

Ladies, do you think it's possible to catch an STD from a dream?

The answer is yes, Schmeggy. A most definite yes.