Tunnel of Love

Last night I dreamt that I was on an old school bus with three women. One was somewhat of a friend from my childhood ward, one was from my work, and the third I didn't recognize. None was particularly attractive.

The bus was entirely empty--not even benches--with the exception of the driver's area, and a kiddie pool at the very back that had been converted into a hot tub. The bus was heading down the road with the four of us, naked, in the hot tub in the back, unfazed that there was no driver.

After a while, the bus came to a stop and the women got out of the pool, baring every nook and cranny to me in the process but seemingly indifferent to my presence as they did so. They bundled up in heavy fall clothes--wool turtlenecks, scarves, hats, boots--said, "See you later," and got out at what appeared to be a streetcar stop that one would find in some Germanic city. As I watched the women take their first few steps from the bus as it started to pull away, the buildings and storefronts outside looked Central European as well, and gray was the predominant color, but we were in Denver.

Once the bus was back on the road and the women out of sight, I wondered why I hadn't touched them. I became agitated and began to m (which is the way I'll abbreviate the full word--and you know which one I mean--in this blog, since I don't want Killer Kalves to be a result for any searches for m-ate, m-ing, m-tion or any other form of the word that might exist) until I saw that the bus had entered a tunnel, and that we were swiftly nearing the wall of a "T" intersection that ended the road we were on.

I got out of the pool and headed toward the front of the bus, struggling to pull my jeans up as I walked. I saw that the steering wheel was held in a straight position by a road bike tire that was fastened between it and the seat. I moved my feet toward the brakes but was too late and the bus slammed into the wall of solid rock.

I hit the dash and windshield but wasn't hurt, and fumbled toward the back of the bus--erect, my jeans still around my ankles--to slammed into the wall but didn't hurt me get the rest of my clothes on before a crowd assembled. As I passed the rear passenger's side step-down door, I saw a woman--either a brunette or a black woman--dressed in a navy blue coat and uniform that indicated authority of some kind, walking up alongside the bus, and I knew I was in big trouble.