Waterbed Fantasy

Everyone has fantasies.
It's true.
Even your mousy librarian in junior high (who used to wear odd apparel that clashed like elephant tusks with humus and couscous, who used to purr in ecstasy when she hammered a book card with her little stamp) had a fantasy of desire that plagued her every shelving day. And I'd be a prude if I didn't mention that it probably involved talking dirty poetry, a parking cone and a few vats of hibiscus juice and office supplies. But I trigress…

I, too, have an unrelenting fantasy. It's one that began chiseling itself into perfection when I was a ripe young teenager and first saw a waterbed in the house of the 16-year old anarchist boy I had a crush on.

But, you can stop reading now, because this particular waterbed fantasy, though involving a degree of moistness, is far from sexual and certainly involves the harming of no gerbils, curious snakes or even vacuums with low self esteems.
It goes something like this:
I approach the waterbed. I pull out a nail, or an ice pick or a vampire tooth or Goliath's sewing needle or a piece of a shattered German beer mug and go on a serial mattress-stabbing binge. Once I've poked a sufficient amount of holes, I toss something really heavy on the bed (a led-filled conch shell attached to a small-framed sumo wrestler), and sit back and bask in the beauty of my self-created fountain from which water flies in all directions, and transparent, liquid rainbows lick and slobber on all of the bedroom furniture. Ah, yes… a truly beautiful vision…

(Explanation: I was reminded of this silly childhood fantasy today, only because it's exactly what I'd like to do this evening. Only, I'd like to replace the waterbed with the clouds over this city in Japan.)
Let it rain!