Dream Sex With Angelina Jolie and Nicolas Cage

Mark Baumer


Every night I have the same dream. It involves Angelina Jolie, a boat, Nicolas Cage, and sexual intercourse. It’s never clear why we’re on the boat or when the sex begins or where the boat came from or why I always cry, but every night the boat arrives, sex is created, and I cry.

The other people on the boat don’t pay attention to us because they have their own sex to create.

Sometimes the boat is not even a boat. I remember one dream where the boat felt like a large, flat, square piece of wood. In another dream, we were inside the airplane that Nicolas Cage used to own when his hair was still allowed to get long and strange.

Last night, we were floating through a city that didn’t have any buildings. I saw a sign that said we were in Delaware. I don’t know if this was true. I have never been near the rivers of Delaware.

The sex in these dreams is not quite sex. The three of us merely press our genitals together and an inverted triangle of unholy pleasure is created. It is usually at this point when I begin to cry. Often, I am looking at Nicolas Cage’s face before the tears start. Each teardrop is a form of happiness that secretly always hoped Nicolas Cage and Angelina Jolie would end up together. It’s sort of like the child who wants a puppy, but never tells anyone and then magically one day the child’s father brings home Keanu Reeves who has agreed to become the family’s pet.

One of the genitals on Nicolas Cage is very similar to one of the genitals on Angelina Jolie and one of the other genitals on Angelina Jolie is identical to my genitals which are sort of identical to both of Nicolas Cage’s genitals. I think this is the reason why our genitals fit together so perfectly and an inverted triangle of unholy pleasure is created.

The sex usually continues until none of us are having sex with each other anymore. Then a few minutes later we began to create sex again, forgetting about all the moments in our lives when we weren’t making sex.

Also, each of us has our own special cream. My cream is in a container which looks like the brand of yogurt that Nicolas Cage likes to eat. Sometimes while we’re having sex Nicolas Cage will say something like, “I’ve noticed lately that it’s becoming increasingly difficult to buy plain, regular yogurt at the grocery store because all the yogurts either have special flavoring or added sugar.” The more Nicolas Cage talks about yogurt the angrier he gets. But he always calms down whenever Angelina Jolie says, “Bad Cage.”

A fragment of disappointment develops when the sex ends for the last time and we realize that what we had been creating is not infinite. Of course, I am probably too young at this point in my life to understand the complexities of what other people might be thinking.

Usually, after sex, Nicolas Cage and I will go swimming. Angelina Jolie never goes swimming, but she occasionally will pee in the water where we are swimming.

One time a giant fish arm tried to kill us after we created sex. It turned out okay because the giant fish arm only put a massive hole in the side of the boat and none of us got killed. Still, Angelina Jolie did not like being on a boat with a massive hole in it so she climbed off and went to her office. I was afraid she wouldn’t come back.

In every experience—even in dreams that are essentially not real—there are very real and vivid emotions that are impossible to share.

I climbed off the boat and followed Angelina Jolie. Nicolas Cage was the only person left on the boat with a massive hole in it. Angelina Jolie was only in her office for a few moments. When we tried to get back on the boat together it had already floated away. Neither of us knew how to get on a boat that had already floated away.

It was at this point that both Angelina Jolie and I realized we were in relationships with other people. I began crying because my boyfriend or girlfriend once told me I was not allowed to have sex with either Nicolas Cage or Angelina Jolie. The tears did not last very long because I sort of realized that there was no reason to cry. Instead, Angelina Jolie and I had a conversation that was so long it would be impossible to transcribe here because we were both talking at a rate of a 150,000 words per minute and the conversation lasted twelve years.

Like all situations, my alone time with Angelina Jolie was in danger of becoming very normal and bureaucratic. We both missed Nicolas Cage. He was probably dead. Angelina Jolie and I went down to the highway to gather trash. A seventy-year-old woman in a pickup stopped to give us a ride. We climbed in the back of the pickup. The ride was very brief, but we had another conversation that was so impossibly long it would take four-hundred consecutive lifetimes to translate.

After this second conversation ended we silently agreed that sex was no longer a desire that existed within either of us and in its place we had created something that was only present when every other emotion in the world besides love is forgotten.

As I looked at Angelina Jolie, half of her face was replaced by half of Nicolas Cage’s face and half my face was replaced by the other half of Nicolas Cage’s face.