Throw a big stick ...

Cable toss is a rather extraordinary event. Large, often hairy, men in kilts vie to see who can toss their big stick - the cable - the farthest. So, when I dreamed that I was attending a cable toss event, it occurred to me there were sexual overtones. The heavily-bearded men with bulging muscles (and bellies), woolly kilts, and a very casual relationship with deodorant are not my usual type, but my subconscious is always game for a challenge.

The dream ended with a bang, not a whimper ... as one of the hairy, kilted men lost control of his cable - crushing me beneath its massive weight.

In another dream, I was asleep on the Councilman's couch - minding my own, sleepy business, drunk as a frat boy (before his first gay experience), when I was awakened by a ruckus. The Chihuahua, the Beagle, and a strange assemblage of animals - a 'coon, a bunny, two beavers, and some chickens had somehow gotten into the house. There was a multi-species cat-fight going on just beyond the couch. I was confused. I was frightened. I had to fight my way out - the best way I knew how ... running from the beavers, using the bunny to beat down the 'coon, and choking the chicken(s).

Freudian(?) ... no, never, not me.

Frankly, though one has little control over the course, or the particulars, of one's dreams, I usually benefit from the sort of obtuse, impenetrable fantasies explored in numerous Kurosawa or Bergman films. They are occasionally in black-and-white. I think there was once a ninja, but that could merely have been an hallucination as that particular dream did involve the French Foreign Legion, the Sahara, and at least one camel in heat.

There may have been a mime ... but far be it from me to appear pretentious.

I have been remiss in my film class this semester. It's summer, and I am facing jail-time, so my focus is off - needless to say; nonetheless, I have seen every film we are discussing - among them: "Casablanca," "Spaceballs," "The Thing," "Spartacus," "Citizen Kane," etc. The picture is a standard one - the American canon, expanded somewhat to include Mel Brooks, a little SciFi, and horror. I think "Friday, the 13th" is part of the 10 weeks course. In any event, my paper on "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?," entitled: "My Favorite Bog: the Consequences of Knowing Each Other" was a hit, and the piece on "Casablanca" - "This is the Beginning of a Beautiful [Mess]" promises to raise eyebrows, if only for the suggestion that Peter Lorre is a desperate homosexual (another dream ... don't ask).

My own precarious legal predicament is such that I, perhaps, have desperation on the brain. It is not often, after all, that one actually finds oneself called to surrender one's own freedom - rather, it is often simply taken away - swiftly, cruelly, and without much warning (although often with much ado). That said, I find myself anxious but not desperate. I am eerily calm - convinced, if you will, that the God who protects fools, babies, ships named Enterprise (and bloggers) will somehow provide a little deus ex machina.

My awareness of the desperate - for now - is tuned upon those around me, although degrees of desperation vary from one to the next.

Ova the Top - for example - is intent on buying a house. He is intent on owning a home, and being able to move into it when his fiance, Daddy, arrives in town in a few weeks. Any number of people, including the Czarina, the Great Prince, the Frenemy, and myself think he could do better, could otherwise find a better deal than the one into which he has now entered; nonetheless, what Ova's doing is far from desperate. If anything, it fits him - practical, reasoned, and while there is compromise, it's not in the way of sacrifice. He is getting a house - which will eventually, quickly - I'd say, become a home. He will live in a subdivision, and there will be children (evil things, really ...) at play nearby, but short of living in a bath-house (to which he and Daddy might not be completely opposed) there are not a great many alternatives.

On the other hand, the Frenemy - who recently decided to rebirth his alter-ego, Tori - is not only desperate but also horny. It is said that one should never shop for groceries when hungry. If men are groceries, the Frenemy is always hungry ... and thus should perhaps never shop. Nonetheless, despite drives to Floresville for 3AM hook-ups, the acquisition of an entire S&M wardrobe for the sake of an (expensive) encounter with an escort, and countless hours spent sleeping off a buzz in a dive bar parking lot, the Frenemy maintains a near-constant supply of "trade." Moving, as he does, from one hook-up to the next (many times in succession), through a seemingly endless string of sex play(s), his modus operandi smacks not only of desperation but also of a religious devotion - likenable, it seems, to a sexual jihad.

Being the all or nothing queen that he is, the Frenemy decided to relinquish his gay self; six months, it seems, of general success with gay men who do not return phone calls, or require him to pay for a date, or who stay the night (talking) and don't put out, pales in comparison to the quantity success of blowing drunken day laborers behind dumpsters, or in the backseat.

Viva puta!

Others in my life, far less absolute individuals - with jobs, goals, and the expectation of waking up free tomorrow live lives of far less quiet (or noisy) desperation. For this, my first writing in a week or more, I find myself melancholic but hopeful.

Is it blind ambition, delusion, or hysterics that keep me going today? I wish I knew ... but I am enjoying a glass of wine for lunch, tapping away on a netbook at a heretofore undisclosed location - hoping, if I may, that you picture something more romantic than a pilfered Starbuck's WiFi connection, and the red flip-flops I am actually wearing. Picture me romantically, if you will, sitting beside a lazy river - in Gruene, or Boerne, or one of those local places I hope to frequent again soon - once the period of my unfortunate incarceration passes. Think that I am writing to you while gazing wistfully upon a deer, and sipping a Riesling at some place where it would not be unexpected to find a celebrity, but not Paris Hilton or anyone from "The Hills."

Suffice it to say, that today will be a good day.

Mark

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 gay.com, 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.