Tag: dreams

As days pass and I become more embroiled in other pursuits, my erotic thoughts slip into the realm of fantasy. Less wham bam and more interpretive imagery.

I think of women whom I only know via the figurative written page as gulls standing on the hull of my boat, pecking at the glass. Their faces those of birds, yet still human, as if reincarnated. Their free spirits returned to send a message.

I dream of another on a bed not her own. Her face a sad smile and her body thicker than it was. Rounded, curdled hips. Large and heavy breasts. Her hair wet and wrapped atop her head. She sits on the edge of a bed as two men—one presumably me—take lotion and moisten her entire body. She also assists. She smiles and relays some great anecdote as if in mute, her lips forming words without sounds, even as our fingers spread lotion over her brows, around her cheekbones, along her chin. There are lines in her skin where there weren’t before. When she stops mouthing she lays back and we slather her body to the bottom of the last painted gray toe. When the task is complete the two men—possibly we—stand and walk out onto a balcony where a great pile of dried moss is gathered, and a flowing creek emerges from an unseen source and out over the edge. We step outside and motion for her to emerge. She stands and again smiles sadly. It is the smile of someone older making a decision in which she has no choice. She steps out and the lotion soaks into her skin with first grace of the sun. Her hair falls loose. Dark brown, streaks of gold and gray. She walks to the moss mound and lies back, splayed before us in an expectant and impatient display. We walk to her and take her in the most savage of ways. She produces no sounds, merely mouths them, and tears roll down her cheeks as we go into the night, the next morning, and finally lie still as a tangle of people in the midday sun. At dusk she gathers herself and returns inside to bathe. We wash our hands at a wash basin and gather the lotion, prepared to go again and until the end of time.

As days pass and I become more embroiled in other pursuits, my erotic thoughts slip into the realm of fantasy. Less wham bam and more interpretive imagery.

I think of women whom I only know via the figurative written page as gulls standing on the hull of my boat, pecking at the glass. Their faces those of birds, yet still human, as if reincarnated. Their free spirits returned to send a message.

I dream of another on a bed not her own. Her face a sad smile and her body thicker than it was. Rounded, curdled hips. Large and heavy breasts. Her hair wet and wrapped atop her head. She sits on the edge of a bed as two men—one presumably me—take lotion and moisten her entire body. She also assists. She smiles and relays some great anecdote as if in mute, her lips forming words without sounds, even as our fingers spread lotion over her brows, around her cheekbones, along her chin. There are lines in her skin where there weren’t before. When she stops mouthing she lays back and we slather her body to the bottom of the last painted gray toe. When the task is complete the two men—possibly we—stand and walk out onto a balcony where a great pile of dried moss is gathered, and a flowing creek emerges from an unseen source and out over the edge. We step outside and motion for her to emerge. She stands and again smiles sadly. It is the smile of someone older making a decision in which she has no choice. She steps out and the lotion soaks into her skin with first grace of the sun. Her hair falls loose. Dark brown, streaks of gold and gray. She walks to the moss mound and lies back, splayed before us in an expectant and impatient display. We walk to her and take her in the most savage of ways. She produces no sounds, merely mouths them, and tears roll down her cheeks as we go into the night, the next morning, and finally lie still as a tangle of people in the midday sun. At dusk she gathers herself and returns inside to bathe. We wash our hands at a wash basin and gather the lotion, prepared to go again and until the end of time.

First, I’m sick of pumpkins. All of them. The way people flock to them like they know about the harvest or the sabbath. Let’s not front.

When I awoke this morning I was most eager to work on my car, play video games, and write a poem, in that order.

Last night, I arrived at home and left straight away with my away pack. I drove north to a secluded section of beach where high tide comes awful close. I parked a short ways up the road at a construction lot and then walked down the rotting wooden steps to the shore. It was dark by then and the cold was nipping. I set up the tent as best I could with full awareness of the sheer amounts of sand. I’d brought two bottles of water I’d filtered at home. One was gone by the time I finished.

I wished for a burger but passed the time with a fruit bar. When there was nothing but the roar of the ocean, I slept.

It may have been the cold or the lack of overnutrition, but I dreamt a dream as I hadn’t had in a while. I was married at the start to a nice, pretty, smart woman. We’d only known each other a few years. We planned on having children.

“Your car isn’t good enough,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“It has no back seat.”

“Yes, it does. I temporarily removed it because I don’t need it. I will put it back in.”

“It isn’t safe.”

“Yes, it is. Stupid drivers aren’t safe.”

“It isn’t reliable.”

“Yes, it is. It’ll run as long as I want it to run. Owners aren’t reliable.”

She became more annoyed with each retort, until finally she said, “I don’t like it. Get rid of it.”

And I replied, “Fuck it.”

By and by I was in middle age. My mate was a girl young enough to be my daughter. She appreciated what wisdom and direction I had to give. She stayed until she was near 30. We had sex everywhere and I relished in the public nature of our coupling.

By and by I was an old man. My companions were two dogs, large and small, male and female—McCarthy and Oates.

“McCarthanoats, McCarthanoats!”

They accompanied me in my jeep to the ocean every day, rain or shine. The three of us never died, but instead walked to every beach we could find.

I replaced my windshield this morning, when I returned. It took an hour.

First, I’m sick of pumpkins. All of them. The way people flock to them like they know about the harvest or the sabbath. Let’s not front.

When I awoke this morning I was most eager to work on my car, play video games, and write a poem, in that order.

Last night, I arrived at home and left straight away with my away pack. I drove north to a secluded section of beach where high tide comes awful close. I parked a short ways up the road at a construction lot and then walked down the rotting wooden steps to the shore. It was dark by then and the cold was nipping. I set up the tent as best I could with full awareness of the sheer amounts of sand. I’d brought two bottles of water I’d filtered at home. One was gone by the time I finished.

I wished for a burger but passed the time with a fruit bar. When there was nothing but the roar of the ocean, I slept.

It may have been the cold or the lack of overnutrition, but I dreamt a dream as I hadn’t had in a while. I was married at the start to a nice, pretty, smart woman. We’d only known each other a few years. We planned on having children.

“Your car isn’t good enough,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“It has no back seat.”

“Yes, it does. I temporarily removed it because I don’t need it. I will put it back in.”

“It isn’t safe.”

“Yes, it is. Stupid drivers aren’t safe.”

“It isn’t reliable.”

“Yes, it is. It’ll run as long as I want it to run. Owners aren’t reliable.”

She became more annoyed with each retort, until finally she said, “I don’t like it. Get rid of it.”

And I replied, “Fuck it.”

By and by I was in middle age. My mate was a girl young enough to be my daughter. She appreciated what wisdom and direction I had to give. She stayed until she was near 30. We had sex everywhere and I relished in the public nature of our coupling.

By and by I was an old man. My companions were two dogs, large and small, male and female—McCarthy and Oates.

“McCarthanoats, McCarthanoats!”

They accompanied me in my jeep to the ocean every day, rain or shine. The three of us never died, but instead walked to every beach we could find.

I replaced my windshield this morning, when I returned. It took an hour.