|"just a dream -- not a sex dream"
||[Apr. 22nd, 2009|08:49 pm]
He dreams about her. But it's not a sex dream. Well, it's almost not. |
She's standing in a communal kitchen. On one leg. Barefoot. A lifetime, so far, of never being sure what foot to stand on when interacting with other people, has made her stand like this. She switches feet, occasionally, on the floor, the free foot braced against her other knee. It's the way birds would stand if they had the lateral flexibility of humanoids. She's flexible. And likes the feel of skin on skin. But this is not about a sex dream.
She's making something. It could be a cake. Could be cookies. Could be a bomb. It's hard to tell since, in this dream, he's looking more at her body than at what she's doing on the counter. There's a bowl. A mixer. Measuring cups and spoons. A large container that holds flour, or possibly high-explosives. He's not sure.
But when she folds stuff in the bowl with a wooden spoon, her legs move from side to side like a pair of palm trees swaying in the kind of warm breeze off the Caribbean Sea in January, that makes people from places with real winter really thankful we invented airplanes.
So she's suddenly there, lounging at a beach on the kind of Caribbean sand that resembles sugar waiting to be licked. She's laid out on a beach towel. Lying on her stomach, her bikini top untied and lying by her sides. Her bikini bottom just barely large enough to hold the small white, air-mail envelopes that form the "hello" of her butt smile.
Later, back at the hotel, she showers. In the gleaming, hotel bathroom, standing barefoot on the cool tile, bathroom floor, she slips off her beach robe, looking at her body in the full-length mirror on the wall. She's cute, and getting pinky-tan already. She unties the bikini top, and slides the bottom down and off her feet. Still holding them in her hand, she looks at herself in the mirror again.
A different place. Different mirror. Different context. Tan skin. Hair disheveled by salt water and the sun. Her first reaction is that she's looking at someone else. A girl who isn't shy about having someone look at her, naked. She feels a sudden flush, but doesn't turn away. Somehow, in a different place, with a different look, she feels bolder. Like a different girl, too.
She's been with herself before. That's not new. Sometimes she's her best and only outlet. And as a part of foreplay, she's watched boys do themselves while they've watched her. But she's never watched herself, like she was watching someone else. Never really been her own, best lover, like she really was her lover. And somehow the thought of that is not a turn-off for her now.
Well, at least it's not a turn-off for her in the dream. Which, okay, IS a sex dream. So we won't bother you with lurid details. Both usual and unusual things happen in the dream, with the outcome generally regarded as "extra-crispy," by both the dreamer and dreamee.
As the boy sleeps through the alarm. Wakes up two hours late for work. Misses a bus, a train, and finally gets there just in time for lunch. But feeling like a thirsty camel who's just found water in the desert. Refreshed.
20090422 20:50 Wed (560 words)