THE DOORWAY GIRL
Dreamed 1997/9/6 by Chris Wayan
It's a rare hot night in San Francisco--no fog for days. I'm in San Francisco's rough cheap Tenderloin District. Between the drunks and hookers are most of the City's small and experimental theatres, here for the same reason: low rent. I'm walking back to my car after a play, late at night, a little nervous from the grit and reek of beery piss and snatches of hot-weather arguments from open windows, punctuated by far sirens.
I pass the front of a nude live theater. A side doorway's open for ventilation. In the doorway leans a dancer in a short filmy robe, nude underneath. Silhouetted in the light, she's beautiful, but I'm as startled by her aura as by her body: as she she talks to someone inside, the energy fluttering around her is as soft and open as that gauze robe! Not at all cynical--sweet. Like a flower breaking through asphalt.
I feel tempted to walk up to her and see if she senses my own aura, if we'll instantly fall in love... but I'm with a friend, and it's late, and it's a rough block, and a hundred other excuses cascade through my head... and now we'll never know.
Or will we?
I ask my dreams.
I dream I'm in a group, half a dozen men and women, around a prostitute who's encouraging us to touch her and talk to her in rotation. She's teaching us about sexual energy and magic. She's the dancer in the doorway with the flower aura, of course.
When it's my turn, I reach up under her short robe and rub her cunt, eventually sliding my fingers in. The sharedness of it turns me on--that and her aura-sweetness, which I sense again, this time in a steady glow, not just a glimpse as I walked by. It's an unmistakable confirmation of what I sensed. No projection, no mistake.
The sex-energy we're raising has her distinctive flavor--it's as much spiritual as sexual, and she deserves most of the credit for that.
Next, we're going to work magic with that energy... but what, for what purpose? Only she knows.
And as she starts to tell us... I wake.
My body left suburbia long ago, but my head's still there--slum dwellers are all wicked. Don't talk to THOSE people! Consume culture, walk to your car, and go straight home. That's a good little American.
Well, really, the lesson is simpler than that: trust my sense of people. Sounds bland, but it has implications. Like: last night, I betrayed my trust.
Talk about sleaze!
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