Fine, Fickle, Fertile Fettle (Doot)

He dreamt of sex.

"Always in the middle of a kiss
Came the profane stimulus to cough;
Always from the pulpit during service
Leaned the devil prompting you to laugh."

     He dreamt of the raunchiest, lewdest things—fantasies of taboos and twists of pain—inflicted upon woman after woman. He dominated, deflowered, desecrated, devastated supermodels, virgin schoolgirls, Asian women with cat-ears, Victorian visages of dour nobles . .. His lusts were boundless, when he slept.

"Behind mock-cermony of your grief
Lurked the burlesque instinct of the ham;
You never altered your amused belief
That life was a mere monumental sham."

     Once, in the midst of a wet dream, his mother appeared in his mind and screamed in his mental ear: "Get off her! Get off her! Get off her!" That ended the dream rather abruptly and unpleasantly, then, in his next set of dreams, there was no sex. Instead, he was a medieval knight in platemail, wielding a great, holy sword and leading an army against the walls of some foreign, rival kingdom. No princesses awaited at home, either, to be taken.

"From the comic accident of birth
To the final grotesque joke of death
Your malady of sacrilegious mirth
Spread gay contagion with each clever breath"

     There was an English teacher featured in one of his sex-dreams, a teacher for which he harboured faint feelings of attraction. Halfway through the act, she aged into an elderly woman, opened her mouth, and died—little rivulets of blood streaming out of her mouth. He never really felt any stirrings in his stomach when he saw her, henceforth, and his grandmother died the next week. He dreamt of sex, because his worst fear was powerlessness.

"Now you must play the straight man for a term
And tolerate the humor of the worm."