An old dream:
He was very muscular -- not quite the type that as a common rule features in these sort of situations; I have a preference for more classical proportions. But he had a pleasant voice -- not too gruff, but distinctly masculine. His features were handsome, with a touch of boyishness; he had large, dark blue eyes that promised both danger and tenderness. I recognized him.
In that way that knowledge is imparted in dreams, I somehow knew -- we both knew -- that we were supposed to have sex. Although it was clear we were both badly aching for physical intimacy, neither of us seemed particularly enthusiastic about the idea of achieving it with the present party. It was a mocking match.
Following a few crucial minutes where we mentally grasped for a way -- any way -- to excite ourselves with the material at hand, somewhere we silently agreed it would not be feasible that evening.
He paused. Do I sleep in your bed?
I suppose it's expected.
There are areas where the unconscious excels in accuracy, and others where it embroiders prodigiously. My bedsheets, for example, were fresh and clean; obviously I had made every effort within my sphere of power to minimize moments of embarassment -- a true-to-life obsession. On the other hand, I was wearing some silky, lace-edged thing I most certainly do not own. He wore naught else but some long cotton trousers -- white pinstripes on a blue probably selected to match his eyes.
We fumbled our way into bed, self-conscious of our gracelessness; I have forgotten who got in first.
I touched his arm; it felt alarmingly firm. Unable to resist, I moved down and slid my palm against his, fingers slightly splayed; beneath them, I felt years of calluses, burns, and scars. He had the hands of a man who laboured. I could feel his heart pulse through them, a tattoo beating with the very heat and passion of life.
I guided it to curve around my shoulder. The rough, textured fingertips rested gently on the soft flesh of my forearm. It was artificial, but it was warmth, and security. I knew we would both honour ourselves.
We said good night.
For a long while, neither of us could bring ourselves to sleep. But, as I at last began to drift off, I could still feel him awake next to me. I curled closer as sleep enveloped me, and his arm squeezed around me, almost imperceptibly.
posted at 8:46:02 pm
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.
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