I dreamt I was lying in bed nude. My dearly beloved was in the shower. I could hear the splashing water as I floated in and out of a hazy sleep. Suddenly, there was a lesbian next to me. She was sort of big and soft and seemed comfortable, so I rested my head on her shoulder and sighed. She was explaining why I want to wash Ann Curry's hair.
"You are simply peeling off another layer," she said in an echoey voice. "Let it fall off, little chrysalis, like an onion skin."
She asked if she could "go straight" on me. I politely--even coquettishly--declined. I was unsure exactly what "go straight" meant. The experience might likely have included intercourse with her while she donned a prosthetic penis--an intimidating prospect. (Sort of a let down to know I play it safe, even in my dreams.)
Then I was seated at a table with a whole bevy of lesbians, all of whom were coifed, painted and clad in satin teddies. A delicate cloud of patchouli surrounded them. Their collective demeanor did not match their collective appearance, however. They were scornfully calling my infatuation with shampooing Ann Curry's hair a "ten minute thing." They had names for feminine odor I had not heard before (and cannot remember now ... snarf? Snoof?) I became angry and indignant.
"Ann Curry respects me as a writer AND an craftsman!" I said, although even in the dream, I knew this to be an exaggeration, if not a bald lie. I have never met Ann Curry.
"You mean craftsWOMAN," said one of the lesbians, snorting. They shook their manes of silken hair. They rolled their sparkling eyes. They pursed their lipsticked lips.
In an instant, the beautiful lesbians were gone. I was in line at my college cafeteria. I was the only human. The rest of the endless line was populated by Gort-like robots with cylindrical metal appendages where the usual suspect lurks on a human male. I tried to remember the phrase associated with Gort, but I could not summon it, nor the name of the movie in which he appeared. When I finally got to the steam tables, I had abandoned trying to remember the robot's particulars. I was ravenous, but my dish was impossibly small. I heaped chicken potpie casserole into it anyway. The gravy spilled over the sides of the dish onto the tray. The silent Gorts did not take any food.
Maybe I should go on a diet.