the lost man chronicles
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Making Love to (Fucking) Madonna
I was making love to Madonna.
Well, actually, I was fucking her.
Then again, in the heat of the moment, it felt more like a tender amalgamation of both.
Half-naked, she was riding on top of me, grinding slowly, smiling, when, along with a good old-fashioned erection, I felt a sudden pang of emotion swell up inside of me.
Whimsically I professed, “ I love you Madonna,” and we both laughed, for it felt strange to address her by her popular mononym, even if it really is her given name. I smiled and was about to whisper something endearing into her ear when all of the sudden—the damned alarm went off.
“Fuck,” I thought.
“Just one more hour of sleep,” I subsequently decided as consolation.
So, I reset the alarm for 5:30, fully intending to reunite with my Norma Jeanne in the sleepy and serene pocket of deep somnolence.
Alas, as I lie half-awake, struggling to remain still enough to regain that blessed connection, time flew by so fast and unnoticed that when the alarm went off again it felt as if a mere five minutes had passed.
Accepting that my opportunity to sleep with Ms. Ciccone had all but slipped and land-slided away, I lied in bed—“just for a few more minutes”—to ponder my fate.
I thought about how truly fond I am of Madonna, someone I consider to be a contemporary heroine of sorts. For regardless of how many people make fun of her and deride her publicity stunts as tasteless, I think she’s fantastic, truly an exceptional human being who constantly strives to achieve more while fulfilling her potential and inspiring others to do much the same.
Moreover, she’s courageous, unafraid to expose herself and make bold commercial moves; she’s tenacious, at 40 still performing and traveling on relentless the tour circuit, still recording albums and writing (children’s) books and raising Lola; and she’s beautiful, not only because she maintains her health, not wiling to give into middle age and easily retire from the arduous and audacious life of the celebrity, but also in the spiritual sense she is seemingly highly evolved. For not only is it well known that she practices Kabbalah, but along with her integrity, public poise and highly-developed individuality, she demonstrates an impressive feat of self-actualization. And so, despite the onslaught of puritanical criticism, she appears to be is as true to herself as each one of us should be to ourselves.
That said, even though in my fully conscious life I sincerely admire her, admittedly, I was slightly disappointed that we didn’t get to fuck after all this morning.
Ah! But I did get to sleep an extra hour, and a little more even before a phantom concierge “called me” to wake me up again and make sure that I did not oversleep. It was an eerie experience, because as I sat up I had an intense feeling of gratitude, wondering who the mysterious character was that had graciously stirred me. But after putting on my glasses and focusing my senses on the present I realized that it was all part of the dream.
As I stood before the bathroom mirror and mentally shook off the lingering stupor, I came to realize how easy it would be to sleep one’s life away—just an endless supply of opium and surely time would pass wholly unnoticed.
“Wow,” I thought. No troubles, no struggle, just me and Madonna making love in dreamland.
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