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My Dream Date With John Mayer

Illustration for article titled My Dream Date With John Mayer

I mean it literally, you guys.

This was one of the more linear narrative dreams I've had in years. Why my brain chose to waste this rare subconscious comet on a cum stain like him is a question I'll be mulling over for days.


We found ourselves, in medias res, at a small family gathering with John as an inexplicable guest with a complete lack of comprehension as to how to conduct oneself when other people's parents are present. His entire demeanor was more properly suited to the backstage dressing room at a small rock club venue. He casually stretched his Frye-booted feet on the furniture and openly produced a canister of kind bud from his pockets from which he rolled two joints, offering me one. My mother, who is possessed of perhaps the most practiced expression of righteous shock and indignation I've ever known, refused on my behalf. Lest she bore holes in his face with her death glare and deafen us all with her disapproving teeth-sucking, I decided to cut the tension by suggesting we depart for a stroll in the park.

John & I walked, talked, and meandered into a smoky French bistro. He was intrigued by me, as men often are. And I found myself consumed by a blog writer's anthropological and click bait-hungry interest as to whether I, a super-mega sexy black girl, could seduce Mayer into renunciation of his David Duke dick.


It seemed a strong possibility. His reactions to me throughout the evening were a no man's land between subtle negging and Manic Pixie Dream Girl projection. He didn't say much about himself, instead opting to pose questions of me and offering terse commentary on my replies. It was the all-too-familiar technique of a man who's hoping to avoid uttering the inevitably stupid thing that will prevent him from getting into your pants.

In the final moments, John placed his hand on my thigh and leaned in for a kiss. I slid my hand over his crotch —for anthropological reasons— and detected a distinctly tumescent bulge. I'd done it! Victory! (Of sorts.) And in the last second before waking, with my hand on his newly Benetton dick and his hot breath in my face, a single thought ran through my mind: "I can't wait to tell this to the girls on Groupthink."

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