I was a writer, traveling in the American South. I made
the acquaintance of a rich, aristocratic family. The
younger son in this family was also a writer, and he
was showing me his latest book, fresh from the printers.
He held the pages for me to see as he read aloud. We
were seated side by side on a bench in a courtyard.
The very first page of this book talked of how he had
discovered his "voice" as a writer, that part inside
of himself, and this page was describing that voice,
as if it were someone else inside him, his other self.
He never called it his feminine side, but in the midst
of this Whitman-like catalog of names for this voice,
he called it "my Ninar" (in the dream it was my real
last name). I was surprised and completely turned on
by seeing my name there, especially since we knew
nothing of each other before that moment. We began
kissing warm, passionate kisses, and soon we became
lovers, much to the chagrin of his family.