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Dreamed 1982/10/20 by Chris Wayan

Ballet lift that's explicitly sexual; ink sketch of a dream by Wayan. Click to enlarge.

I'm a kid in a group of boys at a party, huddled round a girl in her early teens, in tight skimpy shorts. We form a circle, hiding her from passers-by, and peel off her shorts and top. She doesn't say a word as her little breasts pop out, steps out of her pants like it's her idea.

Maybe it is. I'm not sure how we started. We're all very quiet and serious, like we're in church. Worshiping her.

I stroke the fold where her ass meets her leg, slip my hand deeper into the hollow. I grab her chin, turn her mouth to me, kiss... she's still silent and passive, but when I put my hand on her cunt, she's wet and slippery and she sucks my finger in! Her clit is oozing a light lemon sauce--I kneel and taste it.

Mmmm... Hollandaise sauce!

Her cunt won't let go of my finger, so I push another in, and pick her up and carry her by her cunt into the next room, as if she's weightless. It's hot and stuffy in the little bedroom, and the boys crowd in, watching us. Uh-oh! Now there's a fierce old woman too, in a babushka scarf. I worry about her a moment--will Babushka interfere? Then I ignore them all, and start playing with her clit, and she rocks happily, and my cock throbs with excitement...

And the watchers? They turn glassy and fade away into ghosts, into air, and are gone!

We're alone at last. We can do what we want.

And I wake, bursting with lust... and yet in a cold sweat of fear! Even though the watchers disappeared...

Or BECAUSE they disappeared?

After all... now my shyness has no more small-boy excuses.


The dream parodied a short dance film I just saw, In a Rehearsal Room, whose over-romanticized sexuality bothered me. Carrying this childlike girlfriend weightlessly by her cunt was a parody of the young, ultrafem ballerina being lifted by the crotch in the film.

Still, there was a deeper message to this dream. Like...when I ignore my childhood fears and go openly for sex, my shyness (the circle of boys) disappears! But... invisible is not gone. It's as if even rehearsing for sex, going back all the way to the very edge of puberty--even in the safety of my dreams--summons nightmare figures.

Was I hurt that deeply?

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