Sex Dreams and EnemasSeptember 9, 2018
Dreams are a funny things. Sex dreams even more so.
I rarely wrote about my dreams in my previous blogging life but decided that I spend so much time thinking about my dreams these days and how their changes and rhythms are reflective of things going on in my real life that it didn’t make sense to not write about them. And the ones I steered clear of before, for whatever reason, were sex dreams. And it’s not because I’m a sexual prude, I’m not, but there was always this fear in that my readers would project their own bullshit into them where in reality my dreams are purely, 100%, my own bullshit.
Like last night, must have slept for twelve hours. Came home after comic-con. We had sushi. I had my fair share of whisky and that combined with hours of walking being surrounded by thousands of people had me tuckered out. So I did what any sane person would: I went to bed early.
The dreams, as usual, were odd. I dreamed of this strange town/area that had tons of large music venues, the kinds that have large orchestras. Dreamed of some people that had found some archeological something or other that had burned down in the 1800’s or something. For some reason I dreamed there was a long water hose I had to get to the end to, turn off, and wrap back up and put away. I dreamed of doctors and dentists looking up my nostrils to diagnose something that was going on with me (most likely because I was having a lot of sinus pain last night). And yeah, I dreamt of sex.
Actually I didn’t dream of sex so much that I dreamed of a girl that wanted to have sex and would rush me off to a room where she’d take her shirt off and ask me to brush my hands over her breasts. And just like me it’s rarely the same person or type of person (more on that another time) but for some reason she was petite, reminding me of the fourth girl I’d ever been with (that was a short, tumultuous, dramatic, and ultimately fucked up explosion of personal insecurity, depression, and trying to use sex to take my mind off of my life imploding–I put an end to it after a week causes even more drama and yes, I had that coming). Back to my dream, there was no sex. Just a lot of talking, laying around. Her parents were in the house so we had to be quiet. There was a whole stream of consciousness about that and the father went into some kind of unrelated murderous thing.
Now some would read this and start interpreting but that, in my mind, is foolish. All I’ve shared is snapshots, bits and pieces that aren’t attached in any meaningful way. Personally, I think it a waste of time to attempt interpretation unless you can remember significant portions of a dream, how all the various pieces tie into each other, and what you were experiencing and thinking during the dream. If you are, like me, in touch with your inner being then the meaning generally is easy to parse out. Last night’s dreams, as near as I can tell in terms of two of them, were a) me having another jaunt into my own health issues and b) me responding to all the attractive cleavage bouncing about at ComicCon. Nothing more interesting than that. And typically speaking, sex dreams for me are almost never about sex. Actually, that’s probably true of most people. But as with most of my dreams they’re always weird, though generally the least weird. Like needing to find a bathroom in a dream, they’re about an insatiable need for something our human bodies are seeking whether it be to relieve ourselves or to get a little action, attention, or figure out where we fit in the magical web of human interactions and relationships.
With that, it’s time to do my coffee enema. Yeah, more on that another time folks.