My Dream of Madonna
I was tossing and turning, half-dreaming my way into wakefulness. The telephone rang. Before it had finished its third ring, I picked up the receiver.
"Hello honey, you got through."
I sensed the voice with an ethereal shudder. It was hers and no other's. It must have been that chain letter, or that very special message on the Contact Line. "We've got to meet. Midnight at the Imperial Palace. Look your best; be your
So it was all going to happen, Madonna would approve me, fulfill me. I was all atremble. I hurriedly shaved, showered and dressed. I looked intellectually smart-casual in dark brown cords? What the hell? Whatever fashion I chose, Madonna was sure to do some really imaginative permutations.
I went down to the vestibule, meaning to call a cab. There, waiting for me, were her bodyguards
—about five foot eight. They were wearing white silk robes with pink sashes. They beckoned me to kneel at the altar, and then to stand. The lights dimmed. Then, from the rear, Madonna entered. She looked exquisite in a purple velvet ball gown, glittering with a handful of jewels flashing all the colors of the rainbow, revealing her shoulders, so wonderfully toned by all that sensual exercise. Her hair was now black and straight, her complexion fresh, without make-up. She stood between the two rows of girls, and then she smiled at me. "You're looking great," shesaid, "I must see more."
"Hi! We've come to collect you. This is your honor and ours."They ushered me into a plush Chevrolet. The engine purred. The upholstery was resilient and pliant, in time, in tune with my quivering anticipation. I was going to be a
sex-object for Madonna.
The cathedral's columns tapered into the infinite darkness, like seductive limbs in erotic dress. The bodyguards motioned me to go in, then turned and left. The interior was swathed in a dim red light. I could hear the dulcet, ethereal sounds of
a choir. But no singers were to be seen. I looked ahead. I was obviously in the chamber of state, where the emperor made his proclamations. There, in two lines, were twelve beautiful girls, all the same height
—tall, coffee-colored, muscular hunks, perfect role-models for my workouts.