woke-up dreaming about lesbians on Highland Street. It started-out, I was waiting for a bus, which blew through the busstop in front of the mall without me, but when I chased it on my bike to it's next stop (it's next stop was in the fictional square where all the fictional big newspapers had their fictional offices—my dreams are often set in the golden age of the fourth estate) I decided to skip the bus and just ride the bike to Tech Pizza. And I must have been hungry, too, because I ordered 2 toasted tunafish subs, plus a Greek Salad. (I have been craving one of their toasted tuna subs since the seizure, but Tech Pizza started their 1-week vacation the same day I got out of the hospital.)
I was dreaming on and off all morning. I'm still recuperating quite a bit; my right foot is inexplicably aching a lot, and my shoulder is looser than my reputation. But mostly, I was enjoying the ability—which has returned to me today—to answer the question, "What was I just thinking?" My moments have resumed being re-retrievable. That's not just retrievable, but RE-retrievable.
one of the first things to go is that high-level thought-process that goes on in the upper regions where the mind meets the soul, like the dance of Northern Lights in the rarefied outer atmosphere. Out there, flashes of thought are real, not doubtful things swept from consciousness the moment they are known, as if they never existed. But for several hours leading up to a seizure, and for about a week afterward, such thoughts are as nebulous and fleeting as the Aurora Borealis; they are me, made alien and unreachable. And getting them back today is no less than the reunion of me with my self.
After I was given (in my dream) all the food I ordered—it was provided, oddly, all in one giant roll-up; the tuna subs, salad and all—I discovered that a car had hit my bike, and left its front rim bent. I don't know why I didn't go back into the pizza shop for a phone, but I found myself interrupting a job interview at the store next to the pizza shop. This is the store the lesbians own, and the guy they were interviewing had that curious way of letting you know he is, in fact, gay while denying any interest in you whatsoever. When the womyn weren't looking, he stared at me, and slightly down, until he was sure I noticed.
There were curtained doorways, and clutttered back-rooms, and the womyn were non-plussed by my presence, telling me curtly to wait until they were done with the interview. Their applicant was perfect; charming to a fault, not so good-looking as to take attention away from whatever it was they sold, well-groomed, and attentive to his prospective employers as though they were the only people on earth. Until they went away to confer privately, then he noticed me and my basket.
i can't have something if it's what I want. So, in order for me to be happy, everything that I get must first be stuff that you want. In a nutshell, this translates to; abuse is erotic. I get turned-on if you treat me like I am nothing but a means for you to satisfy your need. That makes it pretty damn complicated to try and get what I want.
I had a fuck-buddy once who took me parking on a regular basis. He had a stunning endowment, of which he was quite ashamed. He folded and tucked it away such that if he popped a boner in an akward situation, he would not be embarrassed by the enormous protrusion. And spontaneous hard-ons were a regular problem for him; I, on the other hand, have always had difficulty coaxing it up when I most wanted it. Life ain't fair. Because of his daily deformation, his penis was bent in the middle, even when it was erect. He had four inches—and I am not exaggerating one iota—on both sides of a 45 degree crook.
We role-played every time, but basically I was always the begging bottom, and he was the teasing top. He was always amazingly attentive to me, and if I even appeared to resist some pose we had assumed for our roles, he would instantly respond. Like during one of our first encounters, when we were doggy-style, and he was holding my arm up behind my back for effect, and as happens sometimes during such writhings, the pressure on my arm got just slightly uncomfortable. I resisted, almost imperceptibly, and he was immediately aware and lessened his pressure, without once breaking the role play. This was just one of many such gestures which moved the earth for me; until then, I had conditioned myself to accept encounters in which nobody mattered. Today, I can't believe that I felt guilty at the time for having sex with him. It really was such kind play...
I wanted him to bareback me every time—what could be more abusive and hence, for me, erotic, than that?—but he did bareback me only the very first time, when we weren't sure we'd ever see each other again. I never told him I preferred him without a rubber, for two reasons: Primarily (sorry, but this really was the primary reason) that had far too much potential for sounding gross, as in eiw!, and then I'd never see him again. Secondarily (but enough reason by itself for keeping my condom contempt a secret), that would constitute taking ownership of my desires, and as I said above, you have to want to abuse me before I can admit that that's what I want. He never wanted to abuse me, he wouldn't even consider it, and his respect for me made me realize that deep, deep down, I really didn't want to be abused; he wore one everytime after the first time.
At first, I was disappointed by the caring consideration exhibited by his use of condoms; obviously the turn-on of mistreatment would not survive long in this relationship. And if abuse were his only erotic quality, I would have dropped him like a stone. But he promptly re-introduced me to an eroticism not based on abuse, that I had lost track of long ago. And I was surprized by a reaction I had to his scrupulous use of rubbers; I felt relieved, and I realized I could maybe start to trust him. I'm sure that sounds like no big deal to you, but keep in mind that this was at a time when, if you wore a rubber, I was not interested. For some reason, it had become OK for him to treat me nice. I had not let anybody do that for a very long time.
Sex with Andrew in the late 1980's, in the back of his even-then-old Chevy Impala was more therapeutic for me than a good deal of the therapy for which I have paid. He moved away ten years ago, before we had established any relationship outside of that Impala. But I would love to see him again someday, just to talk, or to perhaps become friends.
and the lesbians on Highland Street... they let me use the phone, and—uncharacteristic of me—I called the cops. They came and I don't know what they actually did; I mean, they got out of their cruiser, examined my bent bike, and acknowledged, simply, that someone with a car had done a bad thing, and I appreciated that. I never call cops for injustices, especially if they happen to me—except in dreams.
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