It has been more than a quarter of a century since my last wet dream. This morning, if not for my lover in the bed next to me, snoring in my face with stagnant breath, I would have creamed all over our new bedspread.
Viki Rosebud, a former co-worker was in my dream, although it was not Viki Rosebud’s red hair or plump breasts that caused an erection in my sleep. Viki was in my penthouse on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, although, in waking-life, I do not own a condo. She was impressed with fancy window shades that my lover designed. With a push of a button, the shades moved like a curtain and the glittery world of Manhattan was revealed. Viki stood with her thin-lipped mouth wide- open in my dream, agahst by the fancy shades over our skyscraper windows. A crystal glass filled with red wine was grasped by Viki as it should be– the stem balanced through gaps in the fingers, curled in a delicate, freckled hand formed to the shape of a Grecian urn. Bradley, my lover, kept opening and closing the shades on her. I offered Viki more wine and refused to talk about the old job.
Viki Rosebud’s appearance in my wet dream is a symbolic one, and not sexual at all. In fact, I recall, as a young, acne-faced critter, once having a wet dream about my aunt’s best friend, Penny Kauffman, but later grew up to be a raging homosexual with absolutely no desire to put my pee thing inside anything with mucous membrane.
That fact is apparent to me as I reflect on the matter here in the light of a beautiful Brooklyn morning why Viki Rosebud appeared out of nowhere, into my subconscious, dirty mind. Although it is unethical of me to share information about Viki Rosebud’s patients at a mental health treatment facility in which we both worked, I will share a bit of data on why I conclude that her appearance out of ‘nowhere’ in my ‘vision’ is relevant when thoroughly psychoanalyzing one’s buried nature:–
Years ago, one of Viki’s adolescent male patients was kindly released for treatment at the clinic in which we both worked for flashing blue-eyed Viki during a talk therapy session. Therapist are not supposed to be as pretty as Viki. What was to be expected from our troubled teens? The lad whipped out his cock and asked his therapist– “What am I supposed to do with this?” With a full grasp of what psychologist call ‘sexual transference’, Viki Rosebud immediately diagnosed that the young man suffered from a mutant form of attention deficit disorder of the lower extremities.
Viki didn’t stay long in the dream– nor did she as a therapist after that little event. But today, Viki Rosebud was there in my twilight– watching the blinds move, sipping glass after glass of expensive Australian kangaroo wine.
For some reason, as in mostly all dreams, the setting of my excursion early this morning changed from my sprawling penthouse to the Port Authority bus terminal. Day changed to night. I had been riding the bus for a very long time it seemed, for I found myself in rural America– a place in New Jersey, most likely, where houses were far apart. The bus, mostly empty, rolled down a desolate stretch of land where corn and alfalfa fields were plentiful. Realizing I had missed my stop, not understanding exactly where I was headed in the first place, I got off the bus and attempted to read a bus map hanging upon a lamppost along the road.
It was too dark to read and my eyes, too tired to care.
Apparently there was not a scheduled bus back to New York until early morning. Nearby, the sound of Bon Jovi filled the night air. It was a pool party. The crowd was mostly Italian– Jersey Shore types. The house with a pool was built of stone, but had aluminum siding along both the house and the pool.
I entered the sprawling dwelling without knocking and witnessed, while standing near a fireplace hearth, a fight between two college jocks. One had asked the other for a cigarette. Rather than hand him the fag, the young man who had the cigarettes threw it to his friend rather than handing it to him. The man turned and walked away, leaving the cigarette on the carpeted floor. I picked it up when neither was looking, smoked it, and headed outside to the party where everyone was swimming in the nude.
College chicks with huge breasts sat with shaven legs dipped knee-deep in the crystal, heavily chlorinated water at the pool’s edge. Their dark nipples were like stains of red wine upon burgundy shag carpet. Their nipples were large enough to accommodate large- mouthed bass.
The college jocks were busy playing pool games. I had remembered, just as I jumped into the salty water that I had left my wallet with at least $5,000 in it, inside the house. Considering the fact that the girls at the pool party were not concerned about leaving sopping, unshaven vaginas dangle at pool-side, why should I worry about money when there was so much of it, seemingly available. Where was Bradley? Why was he not with me? Did it matter? He would certainly enjoy the party. Dreams are funny like that.
“The only thing better than entering a virgin for the first time is actually screwing one for the first time, ” I said to the young, beautiful male swimmers who obviously, until that point were synchronizing some sort of robbery scheme involving my wallet and tons of cash.
“Where’s your wife now?” one of the men asked, entering me from behind, handing me a bottle of poppers to breathe through my left nostril, just before a Italian with a crew cut took over the air passages of my throat. Bi sexual men always ask me that– “Where’s your wife? You really are straight ain’t ya?” I always answer yes, because I know they don’t want to have sex with a guy who openly admits to being gay.
“I’m gay,” I attempted to say. I wanted to tell them that it was true. I have only had sex with a woman three or so times in my life, but never before have I enjoyed such good squeaky-clean fun.
The guys nearly suffocated me as they attempted to bring me back. Three or four of the angelic creatures shoved me underwater before I could explain myself, but I held my breath and enjoyed the moment one of the glowing nymphs erupted in golden lava, under water, upon my smiling face.
“We are thieves,” a girl I hadn’t touched admitted as I came up for air and slowly crawled out of the pool.
“Ain’t that the truth?” I asked, leaving the house naked, deciding to walk back to New York– not concerned any longer about money, clothing, or shelter.
Suddenly, Bradley hogged the sheet from me, waking me in a tug from early morning bliss, just as I was prepared to release that sticky mess that most men at 42 can only dream of.
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