For as long as I can remember, I’ve craved a three-day weekend of drunken debauchery.At least, my Id does. My alter-ego, alter-id.Locked away in a hotel room, thirty floors above the desert. A cache of beer and wine and liquor that would take a normal couple three weeks to drink.

I want to revel in sloth, gluttony, and lust. A weekend that finally gets me excommunicated.

No clothes. No toothbrush. No clocks.

Just unbridled ~ unchecked ~ uninhibited consumption.

I envision it sometimes before bed. Lying on the pink sofa in my daughter’s room, waiting for her to fall asleep….There to protect her from monsters and men. Nights filled with teeth-brushing and stories and battles to use the “potty”. Its an escape to think of where my body could be lying…

Sprawled out on a king-sized bed, one hand gripping a beer while the other gently fingers my lover. Caressing her until I feel her teeth dig into in my shoulder, then cooling her clit with the touch of a cold bottle.

An absolute acceptance of the nudity. No worries about shaving, combing, or sucking in my gut. Sharing showers and drying off from the motion under the covers.

Mutual masturbation while we watch game-shows.

Sucking port wine from the sponge of her pubic hair.

Taking turns to exploring each crevice and contour with our fingertips. Traveling from head to toe until it tickles.

Ordering room service and eating BLT’s off my belly.

Rum and gin and whiskey. Four cases of beer and a good shiraz.

Against the wall. On the sink. Over the dresser. Anywhere and anytime the mood struck.

Three days of drunken debauchery…

It won’t ever happen. As fantasies rarely become reality, because if they did, when would we be satisfied?