sexual frustration
M. and I are having sex. He keeps stopping right before I feel like I'm about to climax. He leaves the room after he comes. I masturbate in attempt to have an orgasm since I feel like I'm on the brink; yet it doesn't happen. I'm wearing my navy blue fish boxer shorts.
skydiving over a sepiatoned city
NEXT, I'm with a group of people who are about to go skydiving; yet I'm only an invisible omniscent observer. They are all being directed by a young man who is telling them what to do. We are up in the air, motionless, way above the ground. I look down and see a city below us. Warm amber light is washing over everything, so it looks like a sepiatoned photograph. All the skyscrapers and streets look tiny. Everyone is standing on a horizontal square surface that is somehow hovering in the air. It has a small railing around it. The leader guy orders everyone to slide down and hang their bodies off the edge, holding the railing with their hands. They all get into that position. He tells them to look at the ground and to individually pick out landing spots for themselves. People are finding their places by counting out five blocks. I'm looking down. I see some good spots. It looks like there is a mirror reflection in one little area between buildings. As an omniscent invisible viewer, I'm looking at John. He's still looking at the ground trying to pick a landing spot for himself. I think to myself how wacky it is that everyone has to hang here for so long. Aren't their arms getting tired? What if someone drops accidentally? I'm getting an adrenaline rush thinking about the risks involved. I see Megan hanging on the other side. The guy instructs everyone to throw their individual towel-like pieces of fabric over their hanger-like pieces of wire while they are hanging there. It's a tricky process. They're all supposed to get it lined up the right way so that the leader can then come around and fix it to be their parachutes. Then they'll be released to drop. Suddenly some bureaucratic detail gets in the way. A couple men have landed on the horizontal surface everyone is hanging off of, and they are claiming that people can't do this whole thing for some reason. While they argue with the leader guy, everyone continues to hang from the landing. It's slightly windy out here. Things are okay now. John was the first (and only?) skydiver to get his hanger/towel in the correct formation. The guy releases him. I see him falling below me, becoming only a little dot in the sky, freefalling toward the city without a parachute. His image gets lost in the clouds.
angry negotiations for my radio show
NEXT, time jumps ahead to the next morning. I'm just waking up. I'm at John's house. I'm wearing a white tee-shirt, boxers and no shoes or socks. John and some others are sitting in the living room. I'm about to ask them about their skydiving adventure when I see a radio show schedule posted on a sheet hanging from the piano. I look for my name; I'm in the time slot of 2:30 to 7am. I'm suddenly very angry. I don't want a radio shift in the middle of the night! John was in charge of getting me my shift. I'm mad, mad. I decide to go deal directly with the station managers. WSRN station is located nearby in the neighborhood. I think of it on 4th and East Main. I march up there. As I leave the house I realize that I'm still in my PJs, without shoes and without brushed teeth or washed face. I didn't even look in the mirror. But I have to deal with this situation. I get up to a big building. There is a lot of commotion going on. The place seems familiar (almost like I've been there before in another dream). I am in back of the huge building, walking along the back wall. It has a line of labeled doors along the back, each with a different function and opening to a different part of the whole company station. (Like Willie Wonka's chocolate factory.) I read some as I walk along: one says "door," while the one next to it says "colored door." I'm surprised, wondering why they haven't changed it. How racist! I see some doors that lead to "bowling." It looks like the bottom of a bowling alley. I go inside the whole place. Tons of people are hustling around. Someone ends up pointing me to the huge upstairs room where a news broadcast is now taking place. They're supposedly in the process of announcing the new schedule of shows. I go up a tiny stairway and sneak inside the room. Many cameras are set up, all facing the front of the room where two people sit at a table. They are the only ones in this huge upstairs room. I march over and sit down next to them in front of the cameras (and for a second it crosses my mind that it looks like I just woke up, but then I don't care). I turn to the newscasting couple next to me and demand to know why I got scheduled to do a show from 2:30 to 7am!? I tell them that I'm in my last year of school, now a senior, and I've done a radio show every single semester (though I know I'm lying about last semester); thus I should have more seniority. They try to calm me down and get me out of there. I just keep yelling and ranting and raving. A woman comes over to talk to me. They move me out of camera range. The woman and I sit down and try to figure it out. She's young and has curly long hair.
I'm still very angry. I realize I never filled out a list of preferred time slots; but John should have taken care of that. I tell her what I told the couple. "I did the show with Timothy Bragg," I tell her. "I'm surprised you haven't heard of us if you've been here for the last four years. We're famous." She shows me that they did leave open the noon to 3pm slots every day, reserved for shows that fit a certain criteria of being named "Emotional Feelings." I tell her that I'll take it, that my music show could fit that name. I'm still very angry, yet I'm also willing to do anything to get a better time slot. FIN
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