My cousin Sharon Mitchell’s photo inspired a marvelous dream last night. I was dressed as an officer and was aggressed by millenniums at a bar.

“If it were not for people like me you wouldn’t be here now.”

My uniform was from the War on Drugs. The other side.

I walked away without incident and two lesbians asked if I wanted to go to a club in Chinatown.

“It’s not straight or vanilla.”

“Sure.”

It was music to my ears and I slung on my leather jacket.

There was no noise on the street, but the lights and muffled music assured this place was it.

The door person saluted me for having fought the DEA for decades. We went inside and my companion abandoned me to hit a room of bearish women and frail waifs. I silently wished them good luck.

The nameless club melanged into an orgy disco, a Lausida drug den, and every other den of inequity across the centuries was out of control.

Everything was go.

I danced a little and retreated to a strangely quiet room.

I sat and a agelessly beautiful trans joined me. Their tight jeans had been cut at the crotch to reveal their penis and they pulled out a bottle of syringes.

“My name’s Ava. This is the Nod Room. Wanna get busy with me.”

“I only wish I could ”

“I really like getting in the ass and eject heroin while you’re cumming in my hole.”

Fifteen years ago I would have been sold by the offer.

“Sorry, Ava, I got to go.”

The flesh was too weak against this temptation.

I left Ava and went to bar, hanging my jacket
over a chair.

There was no sign of the two women.

I was happy until I discovered someone had stolen my leather jacket.

I trawled the club until I found an abandoned Armani leather.

It was a little large, but better than mine.

Ava caught me at the door.

“Last chance.”

“Maybe next time.”

Ava kissed me on the lips.

Wake up