An unusually horny, guilty, and oddly literary (in the sense that I am doing a lot of reading) dream assaulted me last night:

I'm in school, and it's an amalgam of every school--be it nursery, elementary, secondary, or university--I've ever been in. Slowly, I realize I'm searching for something, but I do not know what. So, I tour the various buildings and quads and atriums and halls. I'm in a good mood, really, even though I'm not really accomplishing much.

Slowly, though, I'm seized with feelings I haven't felt since I was a child. I walk into the bathroom, and am overcome with shame and disgust at my attempts to sneak a peek at the equipment of my peers. These feelings don't really stop my pathetic attempts, but a textual description of them starts to scroll in the upper right portion of my vision.

Dick, dick, he's got one just like me, dick, dick, wanna play doctor, I can pee farther than you can, let me see let me see I'll show you mine if you show me yours, I'll let you touch mine if you let me touch yours, dick dick dick dick

I'm growing older as I leave the loo, but I'm really unaware of how old I am. I wander into the gym

sweat, I love the sheen of sweat on these boys, I love it I love it it's hot and slick and I love it when he scratches himself, and when he pulls his shirt up and reveals that faint goodie trail, I love the dimples I see right above his shorts and jesus the only thing holding up those shorts is his fine ass, jesus jesus help me I'm drowning in sweat, drowning in hormones help me I'll die I'll die help me. Don't help me.

and make my way to the locker room, where I'm overcome with fear and anticipation and excitement. A lust seizes me, so great and powerful and terrible in how good it feels. I feel desperate because I have no outlet for these hormones, these feelings, these pressures that I know, I know these other boys, so many, so infinite, so different so beautiful are also feeling. I stand and watch the adolescent horseplay, these beautiful beautiful boys clad only in jockstraps or boxers or tighty whities as they snap and pop wet towels on each other's flesh. It all feels like it will boil over at any minute, any second the play will naturally and spontaneously turn to orgiastic, innocent, hot, homosexual sex, a fundamental release of boyspunk into the damp swampy stinky air of the locker room, and as I think these thoughts in my dream

My god, they're doing it, they are doing it they're naked and writhing and moaning and groaning and pumping and thrusting and stroking and licking and biting and sucking and nibbling and screaming and fucking and coming and I'm not part of it I'm too scared, I pushed myself over the edge but then I didn't fall but these boys have fallen because I pushed them and they love it here in this temple, this sweaty dirty jock-strappy temple to man and boy and cock and sex and fuck

the clouds of steam obscure a happy dogpile of legs, hair, balls, ass, cock from my vision and I'm overwhelmed with regret and desire and hunger. And now I know I'm too old for this shit and I hate myself for not making it happen when I was sixteen because I could have, I could have, I could have.

So I leave the locker room, full of anger, full of contempt, and enter a warm, well-lit room. It is both library and laboratory, both study hall and playground. The room is filled with people, different aspects of me and members of my family, and I finally know that here in this room will be the thing I've been looking for this entire dream

You need THE BOOK

it is a book, though I know not which book it is. So I begin searching the stacks, flipping through various tomes, recalling phrases from books I read a long time ago, while my mother, or various aspects of her


talks gently to me, forgiveness explicit and implicit in everything she's murmuring to me, telling me it's all right, it's all right, it's all right to feel what I'm feeling, just don't do it in her house, what I'm feeling, just don't mess up her clean sheets, what I'm doing, just don't show that part of my self in her house, who I am. And I begin to get a little exasperated with this dream, with this gross overstatement of my past experiences concerning my puberty and my homosexuality and my family. I've grown beyond all of this

jabberjape jabberjape no you haven't no you haven't you let me out today you let me out today and now I'm free to you and me to run about and jabber and jape and fuck and rape

childishness and I just really want to find that book, THE BOOK, so I can get this dream done and wake up.

And so thinking, I find THE BOOK, it's underneath an aquarium filled with beautiful fish. The book is both enormous and tiny at the same time, with a title something non-sensical like My First Universe emblazoned across the spine, and as soon as I reach out to touch it, to take it, to end the dream

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the girth. Cast down are the dicked for they are the consumers of flesh. Holy are the queer for they have too much deer.

when a priest lays his hand on my shoulder. I turn, and there he is, in his starkly black frock and funny Jesuit hat, and he tells me that I must not partake of THE BOOK for it will be the undoing of all the Church for all time. And at that point, I become a wolf and I bite the priest's ears off, so he can no longer hear the nonsense he is spouting, and thus I save him from personal embarrassment and then I take the book

and here's God again, and She's Marianne Faithfull again and she's beautiful with too much lipstick though

without upsetting the Aquarium, and now God's hand is on my shoulder, and She's smoking the best damn cigarettes the universe has to offer, the kind that kill you with pleasure not with cancer, and she says, she tells me, "Well, it's a start. I'll look in on you soon. Don't forget to feed the fish and turn out the lights when you're done. Ta."

Then She kisses me, God kisses me, lightly and vanishes in a puff of light.

I walk outside (forgetting to feed the fish and turn out the lights), and find the school has vanished, and everyone I ever knew or have known or never will know is sitting on fields of rolling emerald green grass, and they see me with THE BOOK, and they cheer.

Then I wake up, wondering what the hell I ate to make me sick up such a bizarre piece of dreamstuff.

I laid down for a short nap right after enjoying a tasty breakfast of french toast prepared by my friend Joyce. I slept, and I dreamt.

I was living in an artist's colony, something like an old college dorm where everyone has their own rooms, but share a kitchen, bath and a common room in the middle. And we were having a party.

One of my dorm mates lived down the hall, and i well, sorta liked her. She had long straight blonde hair, an impish smile and the voluptous curves of an R. Crumb woman. Your basic earth mother in jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt. I started looking at her, and she looked back . She smiled back.

The party swirled on and I came across her sitting on the end of a couch. She sipped on her drink and asked my help with her walkman. I helped clear the jam and as i gave it back to her traced one fingertip down the length of her forearm. Our fingers touched. With a soft, sultry voice she said: "So when are you going to C! my body?"

Just as our lips met I awoke. Joyce's husband Mike knocked at the door, reminding me we had to leave for a 4th of July cookout. My dream lover was gone.

Damn! Why do dreams like that never get finished?

The other question I have is where did my subconscious come up with that piece of dialogue, so perfectly delivered? And why?

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