The Shy Orgy
Dreamed 1983/3/10 by Wayan
Intrigue in downtown Spokane. I follow a man I mistrust.
Near Spokane Falls, he dives in the river! I follow. A gang of teen and tween girls follow me in...
Lose him. I climb out cold and soaked. In the back of my hippie camper bus, I peel off my wet clothes and open the sun roof to dry me. The girls open the doors and pile in too, strip and sit with me, drying off. Touch me, teasing, giggling. Treat me as a sex object, like an animal they want to arouse and toy with.
And they succeed. I know they're too young, but naked, I can't hide my erection.
But I figure what pushes them to tease me is their own sexual awkwardness. So rather than feel hurt, I just let that shy chubby little girl touch me, and fondle her right back--I mirror whatever she does to me.
Mmmm. She likes that! Likes that a LOT. She's rocking, she's coming...
And once she comes, I get to play with a birdlike 15-year-old blonde who's adorable...
My family drags me off to a play in a community theater. In the lobby we meet Lisa, a friend of my sister Miriel. Lisa uses makeup and streaks her hair. Behind her back, Miriel & especially my mom snicker at her for being so artificial. I thought she looked okay and think "Wow, I knew my mom puts down men. But women? So much for her feminism... guess it's only skin deep." Well, make-up deep.
Though Lisa's aura did feel wrong. Smoky, gritty, maybe even mean if pushed. She's hot, but I wouldn't date her. Wow, I'm a snob too--just an AURA snob. Whatever that is. (I feel moods as clouds around people. I don't know why. Did your senses come with an instruction manual? Mine sure didn't.)
The play is called Vanities. Three childhood friends diverge in adulthood:
So... should I feel guilty about my dream about them, or take it as predictive... or both?
Quite without my knowing it, dream and play together guided me. What attracted me most was birdlike Kathy's need for free time, not love or money. Without knowing, that's what I prioritized in my own life. Not finding a Kathy, becoming her. Saved up so I could be independently poor--an artist not needing a dayjob.
Seven years later I retired at age 36, and my sullen anger, like Mary's, slowly eased--even without True Love.
I posted this one for two reasons:
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