Last night I dreamt that Channing Tatum nervously presented me with a dress he’d knitted for me. He clenched his (big, work-roughened) hands in anxious fists while I unfolded it.
“You don’t have to wear it,” he said, before I could say anything.
The dress was perfect. It was beautiful. It could turn into a skirt.
“You like it?” Channing Tatum said, smiling crookedly.
The dress had pockets.
#if anyone ever asks me about female fantasy and some of the ways it differs from perceived female fantasy #i am just going to cite this post
