dreams: June 30, 1998
I'm sitting around around with N. and two young gangsta guys who are really attractive. Somehow we think they're naive and don't really know anything about sex (at least from a woman's perspective). Lots of flirting is going on. We are sitting in a loft with a very low ceiling and not much space (like a cozy trailer). N. and I offer to show the guys some great sexual positions if they'll each pay us fifty cents. Both guys hand over a couple quarters. Without taking our clothes off, N. and I get into the basic missionary position, with her as the woman and me as the man. I move my hips as if we're having intercourse. Then we change positions into 69. She's on the floor, and I'm over her. She's wearing funky old jeans. I stroke her clit a couple times through the denim. She does the same for me, which feels stabilizing and comforting. The exchange feels just like a friendship with a fun new level of intimacy. In relation to the guys watching, I feel sexually powerful. We're the teachers. We're showing them what we like. I feel feminine and sexy. Then things disperse. I'm in a big bed. I want to have sex with one of the guys. I crave touch. And passion. And his dick. A new woman is in the huge bed too, and she's with one of the men. I overhear their dialogue: "Hmmm... You've gotten a few tattoos before. I think we should use a condom," she says. I think about the logic of her statement, realizing that the tattoo needle could have made him HIV+ earlier in his life. I'm lying on the right side of the bed. An older woman comes over to me, sitting down on the edge of the bed where the warm light of a lamp on the bedside table illuminates her naked body. She's slim; her skin looks older than I've ever seen, very tan and loose and wrinkly. I think she's beautiful. I'm now a man. We talk about having sex. I ask her if she has a condom. She doesn't know where we can find one. She says something about the situation of a mother and a daughter in the same bed if she were to crawl in (making me guess that the younger woman is her daughter). Then a murder has just happened. I'm freaked out. I run away from the situation as fast as I can. Somehow the stress of giving a big public speech (for graduation?) is part of the whole deal. I'm in a different bedroom. The door is closed. Matt Robison is trying to get in. I can see his shoe stuck in the doorway on the floor. He's trying to push the door open. I'm pushing it closed. His head keeps popping in. His face is covered with white creamy goop. He has a psychotic look on his face. I know he's very strong, and I wonder to myself why he doesn't just bust through. I'm not holding the door very hard. Is he just doing this for show (to scare me)? I run down a spiral stair case. I'm in an unusual building; some voice is telling me that this is "her" bed and breakfast. I search for a place to lock myself and hide when I get down to the lower level. I feel like someone is chasing after me, about to get me. I see bathroom doors and run into the women's bathroom. It's extremely tiny. There are many ice cubes in the toilet. I forget to turn on the light, so it's pretty dark in here. All I care about is locking the door. I swing over the little hook on the door in order to fasten it to the little metla circle on the left. Somehow it comes undone. I try to fasten it again. I notice that there are a bunch of others down the door, which is surprising. I go down the doorway, clasping them one by one. They make me feel safe.
NEXT, I'm watching a woman fire off the city fireworks on the night of the 4th of July. There's a stack of big tubular cannisters on the grass, each with a different color stripe on it (like cans of paint). She picks one at a time and sets it on a running machine that shoots it up into the air to explode. It's fun to watch. It looks like she is going to run out of them soon.
- FIN -
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