I don’t often dream about sex. It may be that I get enough during my waking hours, or cover the possibilities during my fantasies. Either way, to dream of sexual dalliances, relations, meanderings and savourings is precious and memorable to me. Strangers all, my dream lovers – unforgettable and yet not a threat to those I love when my eyes are open. Sparkling brightly, my dream self comes together with them only once, before they move on to another setting, another dreaming desirer.
The first sexual dream I ever had occurred when I was in my early teens, around the time I lost my virginity (although I cannot recall if it was before or after, and in truth, it does not matter). Much of it has faded, and yet three things remain: the person, the location, the weather.
My lover was male – his face is forgotten, although I recall his body well. We were together in an apartment building high above a city, in a large one-room studio that had polished wood floors and floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. There was no furniture, no rugs, no wall hangings. Just us, up against the wall, the city lights bright and night sky dark, and shadows crossing the floor and striping across us as we came together.
My second dream, a few years later, was an altogether sweeter experience. A boy about my age, a tree-house, and delightful explorations and laughter. He was the prettiest man I’d ever seen, and his face stayed with me for many years.
There was a long dry spell in my sexual dreams after that – at least, that I can recall. I went through one, two, three long relationships before they caught up with me again. I had left a bad relationship (finally), and was taking a much needed 100 days break to get my heart and mind together. My horniness had dropped away to nearly nothing, and instead of masturbating I mused on where I wanted my life to go, and how to walk that path. I discovered that I wished to explore my interest in women, and I discovered that I did not want to limit myself to monogamy.
Eventually I dreamed.
I was walking alone down the ramps of a parking building, which had the occasional car scattered, but no people. As I walked lower, beneath the ground, I could hear water running, and it called to me. Looking over crossing metal struts, I could see a woman at the far end of the floor, showering. Initially all I could see was her damp hair and face turned up to the spout, but as I came closer I took in all of her – wet, naked, and very desirable. I walked up to her and she smiled at me, kissed me. Loved me.
(Less then two months after that I had a girlfriend – my first. And the desirability of women to me was never in question again.)
And then there was last night. A different sort of sexual dream. I was dining at an outdoor picnic, a long table stretched across the paddock. A man, next to me – we flirted, as did the women next to him. We both wanted him – but it was me he flirted back with, and she conceded gracefully. We fondled and kissed and eventually departed, walking down the fields to the road below. We talked of attraction and fucking, and I told him of my marriage. He hadn’t noticed my ring, was worried I was cheating (I disabused him of that swiftly, smiling as I spoke of Apollo). Then he misunderstood, and thought I wanted him to father a child for me (which I certainly did not!). We made it down to the road walked arm in arm across cattle gates and mucky spots, then I determined that we needed birth control before we could be together. As dreams are wont to provide, a dairy was around the corner. The dairy owner entertained us by blowing up condoms – the brand was one I had not seen, and the boxes were dusty. I doubted they were still good, and he wished to prove me wrong. But as I was pulling out coins to pay for them, so my to-be-lover and I could go on our way … the alarm went off (dammit!).
My picnic man is a dream lover that I never saw naked, never took into myself. But I loved him as much as the man in the apartment, the boy in the treehouse, the woman in the shower. They are a part of my dreamscape, my sexuality, my love.
They loved me for who I am (was, will be). Unconditionally. Which is a precious, memorable thing.
Originally posted September 2007.