Reclaiming my 181, the PO Box that was my permanent address for 30+ years. I went to visit it at its previous location, finding that no one had rented it out, and that the post office peeps were using it as storage for some nondescript government contraption.

I walked about the area of Rockefeller Center, where the restaurant sits between you and the skating rink. There was some kind of casual networking event going on. I spoke briefly with a woman about the possibility of reclaiming my 181. She seemed charmed by the thought (for some inexplicable reason). To show her appreciation she undid my pants and gripped my cock as we continued talking. I hardened almost instantly. As she kept talking and smiling and stroking more firmly I came onto her body. The first shots hit her chest and trickled over her nipples. The next shots hit her face. The rest landed on her midregion but confusion commenced when I started to apologize for jizzing all over her body. She said it wasn’t jizz anymore, and that I was peeing on her. She was not wrong. The 7 or 8 shots of ejaculata had given way to a steady stream of clear, unscented pee streamed somewhat painfully through a rock-hard erection. She kept smiling and we kept talking until the pee stopped and we went to lie down on a couch. We had never met until now so we had some getting to know each other to tend to.

She was short and sweet and probably half my age. She wanted to know about the 181, and I had blustery and righteous tales to tell of the critical correspondences ushered through the 181. Other people were present at this networking event, and we felt it prudent to meet others as long as we were here. I encountered a tall woman named Cyro. We silently agreed to look like we were leaving the place separately but our intent was to meet outside, upstairs, outside Radio City. She was less interested in stroking me or letting me touch her than in just walking, talking, and making out once in a while.

It was a nice dream, with little basis in memory or real-life experience. I was once groped and kissed by a stranger in a lower east side bar. The encounter lasted 30 seconds and I never saw her stoned ass again. I don’t know if that memory of that encounter is relevant. I have been chatting online with strippers and professional masturbators, trying to find real contact and not someone who sees me as a money machine. I don’t have the money for that kind of thing but I’m willing to play ball if there is any chance of it leading to a real connection. I think this is from whence the dream emanated. These women are mosting me. They pour on affection and adoration right from the first word. It stretches credulity. I’m looking for something genuine. Strippers and masturbators are probably not the best place for that but neither is anywhere else.

I am at work early, but by my standards I was late. I slept through to the 6am alarm, missing my daily goal of beating the alarm by a half hour. I still got her over an hour early but it feels late to me. Now I feel rushed and spastic, and I’ll probably have to take another half mg of the panic pill. I wonder if I’m secretly addicted to that shit. What if I am? I don’t know. The morning shower was rapid and efficient . I had notions of including some dishwashing into the morning shower. I already rinse the coffee cup with the shower head. There is ually a small amount of coffee left in the mug, creating a blood-like looking explosion of color on the shower floor. I like the visual, and it makes an efficiency where none existed before.