Monday, May 4, 2009

I dreamed a dream ...

I dreamed the strangest dream last night – made stranger by the dual facts that I remember the dream so vividly, and also that the participants in it were real, though the events were not – at least not as yet.

The beginning of the dream is a bit odd; I was driving some back-road or empty stretch of highway, both of which exist in abundance, but neither of which I ever travel. I was in my car – the long, powder-blue Lincoln with the 8-track player and the gas leak. I had to pee, and there was a rest stop a mile or so away. I pulled in.

I was surprised to see truckers and various old(er) men standing around in myriad shady spots – cruising (for sex), but more obviously than anyone ever does in real life (or so I think). I went into the men’s room, certain that someone would follow me, and also thinking that I would be really offended if someone did not.

I was at the urinal when I heard someone enter behind me, and decided – quickly – whether to walk away or take advantage of the opportunity for a little fun. I turned – my pants still undone, and the bright, young face with the brooding eyes met my gaze, then looked down to my open pants, and then dropped to his knees.

Things escalated from there – I pushed him against a wall, engaging him, then pulling him up to kiss me. We lingered there, in this very open and surprisingly clean road-side bathroom, devouring each other. He hitched down his athletic shorts, revealing his own very hard and happy member. I dropped to knees, taking him. He was vocal, receptive, his hand on the back of my head, his own head thrown back in a moan … and then I looked up to find Sean standing there.

He had walked into the bathroom – out of nowhere, dressed as always in a mix of Calvin Klein and Kenneth Cole, looking elegant and beautiful, and superior. I paused to greet him, and then went back to the task at hand. He made a snide comment, but stood there – watching. I, once again, paused to offer a retort … and so it went with witty repartee for a few minutes before Sean turned to walk out. The boy – already forgotten – faded into the wall. I thanked him – as it seemed in order to do – and walked out behind Sean.

He stood in the grass, just outside the bathroom. I stopped a few feet from him, and we both stood there – uncertain of the next move or step.

I should say here that Sean is the former best friend with whom I have been, or had been, in love since the day we met, in high school – well over a decade ago. We had a bitter parting, when his addiction and my business led me to feel used, and him to use me. The last time I saw him, I was throwing him out of my apartment – along with the stranger, who resembled a frog, with whom he was partying that evening. It was the second night in a row when he’d shown up at my place with a stranger – after 2AM – to score drugs – and, at that, in an amount that was hardly even worth my time.

The dream lingers with me – not just because I can still, sitting in my cubicle now, hours later, feel and smell and taste the dream … but also because Sean was there. I have certainly thought of him – not often, but more than perhaps I should – since throwing him out. I miss him. I called his home once, spoke to his mother, but never received a call-back. Knowing him, he has gotten involved with someone and is essentially living with and being taken care of by this person; he is uninvolved in, the bars, and any other means by which I would typically run into him.

Out of touch but somehow still within reach – if only in my dreams.

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