dreams: August 2, 1999

a stained angel

It's nighttime. I'm alone with D.R. in the Rose Center. We have gotten to a point where we can no longer resist temptation. He pulls down his pants and says he's very sexually stimulated and now needs climax. He's standing up. I'm sitting on the floor behind him. I get up on my knees and reach around his large legs. I can barely see anything because the room is so dark, but I can tell that his skin is quite pale. I reach up and touch his body with my fingers. Both his hands are wrapped around his semi-flaccid penis, quickly rubbing up and down. His movements almost feel frantic. I'm not stimulated, but I'm still entranced, pulled into his energy, knowing I'm partly responsible. I wrap my fingers around his penis and help him jerk off. The next moment he starts moaning, and then he suddenly turns his body around and comes all over me. The goop has splattered across my face and down the front of my clothed body into my lap. I try not to flinch; it's not a pleasurable experience for me.

We quickly move away from each other, making no eye contact. He pulls up his pants and zips up. I stand up and go into the bathroom. I turn on the light and look in the mirror. I look like a little innocent girl -- or a bride -- wearing an angelic, all-white, frilly dress. My hair is shoulder-length, feathered out around my face, almost blonde. I run my hands under the faucet, scrubbing up to my elbows with a thick lather of white soap. I hear D.R. approaching the door of the bathroom, and I immediately rinse off the soap; I don't want him to see how much I'm cleaning myself, since it may reveal my sense of necessity for purge and purification. Then he's not there anymore. I look down at my white pleated skirt and see that it's covered in creamy splotches that might stain. The fabric of my skirt is not smooth polyester but an absorbant thick linen. I worry about it not being clean enough for my next work.

Then I'm back out in the main room of the Rose Center. D.R. and I barely acknowledge each other, smiling as if nothing happened. Others are here: women fardados. Maureen is sitting on a step ledge, wearing a long skirt, with her hair down. She looks beautiful. She is laughing and talking. She seems so comfortable with herself, sure of who she is. It strikes me as a strong contrast to the way she was when I first met her. I realize that she is a clear example of what happens on this spiritual path. The Santo D. helps us find the light of who we really are.

- FIN -

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