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.