My Waking Dream

The dress was late. It should have been here by now, so I'm wearing just my underclothes, but there are people all around—
  "Is this confidence?" she asked. "No, it's just too hot in here."—

I'm clutching a bunch of  aubergine, golf-ball sized fruits on long stems. I can feel their weight as they bob and sway with my movements. I'm supposed to address the crowd, but the shame of the missing dress is too much, and I begin to cry. 

You ran down stairs to get me, and then we were out in the crisp and clean and cold night. I remember the moon in Your eyes.

I dropped the fruits back there, and I can see their stain on the path behind me. Flickering lights make me turn. Something is shining, white and blue with pale green at the edges, but it is too bright to see who or what. But we are neither of us afraid. 

The light gellifies, and begins to blob around (gegenuber).

I hear You cry out.

Hospital Cure: Part Two

    It's been entirely too long, and I should have done this long ago; but , confusion and mixed feelings, distance and dreams, life and You, all of it has served to remove from me the feelings of excitement and wonder, the possibilities that I began to see are now bitterly retracted. But, I will try to remember.

  Two days, sixteen hours was all we had. Even less than that. And  what happened? I was turned on, fondled, flirted with and excited. But none of that lasted. In the moments we were together there was a pulling at me, a desire to give and receive. In the moments between it seemed unreal, and unlikely.

  He came back in the next morning; I thought it was all over already, but he smiled at me just the way he had before and came over to the bed. "How was your night?" Quiet, boring, lonely. You hadn't been there, You had to stay home so You could sleep and be rested for work the next day. "How are you feeling today?" "Sore, and thirsty." "I'll tell you what. After I make rounds I'll come back and give you a massage. What would you like to drink?" "Could I have a cup of ice, and a Sprite Zero?" He laughed a little, "Sure." About an hour later he was back again. I had drifted off to sleep again, and I woke to find him leaning over me a bit, a banana and red jello in hand. "What's this?" "They call it a banana; I though you might like some breakfast, and if you eat this I won't have to give you a potassium pill." "Those are the big fuckers, right?" "Yeah, they're really big." He said he had to take care of some things, but that he hadn't forgotten the promised massage. I ate the banana and jello in the relative silence of the room, wondering about You, and relieved to be eating something. You were at work by now. What were You doing? What did You think I was doing? Do you imagine me there there alone, sleeping or reading or watching tv or talking to nurses when You are gone. Usually I am alone and asleep, letting the medications seep in and steal away the hours until it's time to go.

  And then he was there again—another shot of morphine ready— hands rubbing together to warm them before he touched me. I turned sideways on the bed again, waiting for the pain relief, and perhaps more. His hands were strong and the pressure he exerted was intoxicating. I leaned my head back a little, and he leaned in to my neck, breathing and whispering in my ear, perhaps discerning my weaknesses—my weakness. Why was I letting him do this? I couldn't tell myself that it was just a friendly massage. I wanted it, wanted more, wanted him, but at the same time I felt deceitful and wrong. He was married; neither You nor his wife had any idea about what was happening, and that made me feel terrible, but the touch was so good, and this had never happened to me before— I gave in to my weakness for just a little bit more, but still fearing that it was all too far, and too much, and unforgivable. His hands massaged lower on my back, and around my hips, then made their way back up to my shoulders and arms and chest, just barely touching my breasts. I swayed with the movements and moaned with the ministrations, and then I heard him say something like "I'm getting my dick sucked." Wait, what?

  He went to the door and checked the hall, then he came back to the bedside and pulled his scrubs down a little, and there, behold, was his cock. Brown and erect, with a scent of fabric softener and musk, and just inches away from my face...this was all too fast for me. I couldn't let myself go that far, even with the drowsiness and medications, I knew, I knew, but still I could almost feel my tongue stretching forward to lick and kiss and feel the tumescent flesh filling my small mouth...no, no. "I'm sorry, I can't." "Come on, I'll be quick..."  His hand came down to my shorts, searching for the warmest secret spot. I backed away, "I'm sorry. I just can't. It's not that I'm not very tempted by you, and your cock is beautiful, but I can't do this like this." "What do you mean, like this?" I took a deep breath and tried to formulate what I wanted to say. "Have you heard of polyamory?"   

  He cocked his head a little, and his eyebrows and his pants went up. "What does that mean?" "Well, it means that my fiancee and I have an agreement. It means that we are open to seeing other people, and that under the right circumstances we might develop other, interests. Maybe, I don't know, maybe we could get together for coffee, or something, and discuss the possibility of this happening another way?" "My relationship doesn't work that way. I can't develop feelings for you." By this time the cock had disappeared back into his pants. "Oh, well..." He took a deep breath and let it out in an explosive expletive. He stretched his arms up over his head, his shirt raising to reveal his stomach, and then he brought this arms down and around in circle-stretches. "I'd better go. I'll come check on you in a little while."  "Ok."

  So there it, mostly, is. What I remember. I saw him two more times, briefly, as he administered my medications, but there was no more flirting. He still looked me in the eyes, and maybe, maybe there was a sort of regret there, but what sort I can't say. He didn't say good-bye when his shift ended; he just walked out and away. And now, as I've told You over and over, I don't know what it meant for him. For me, the two weeks after, I could still think about him and smile and wonder if maybe, somewhere, somebody, would be right—but, then, You are right, and so I don't know how to be, or feel, or think, or do.

   A few days after being released I wrote him a letter, as well as writing to one of the other nurses who was very kind (but that is another story). I don't know if he got it. But I wanted to tell him at least that for a little while he made me feel something I hadn't experienced in a very long time, and I thanked him for that—and the red jello. That I hoped everything went well for him, and if ever found his way back to the college, he should stop by and say hello.

  I don't think I'll ever see him again, and indeed, even in my mind, his face and voice fade. One day he won't be there at all.

  

Hospital Cure: part one

  
  I  had a very profound experience in the hospital—an experience with another man. The situation I believed impossible occurring at the most unlikely time. Granted, had it not been for the meds, I would never have been so bold, so open—sitting in that hospital bed, once more attached to tubes and wires and poles I felt I was in my own surreal adventure, exotic Persian prince included. 

  It was my eyes he first saw, the rest of me was burrowed down in to a pile of six blankets (one is never enough in the hospital; if you're lucky they bring you a heated blanket; putting the heated blanket next to your cold limbs and feet can be close to divine). His initial remarks about my blue eyes sort of slid right by me. All I could fathom was that it was shift change, and here was the newest stranger that would be poking, measuring, asking, checking me every two hours. A male nurse, what a rare treat; some of these men are incredibly compassionate—Mike, in the ER, for example; years ago, a man named Brian—some are just efficient. But this one, was attracted to me, and I'm still trying to figure what it was. Hair pinned up, no makeup, dehydrated and nauseated—amidst all that he saw something he liked. His hands lingered on mine when passing medication, or beverages, or the red jello he brought me because he knew I was tired of green. 

  He offered to give me a shoulder massage—I can never resist a massage from a pair of strong hands. "You're so hot." "Well," innocently, not understanding, "I have been under six blankets all day." "Oh is that what you thought I meant?" Embarrassingly, yes, I thought he meant that my body was literally hot. That was the first moment when it occurred to me that this man was attracted to me, not just attracted, but that he wanted me, however briefly. He was standing behind me as I sat sideways on the bed, so close I barely had to lean back to be against his abdomen. He leaned over and whispered into my ear "You smell fantastic." Again, shock reeled me. Granted, I had taken a shower just before going in to the hospital, but I would have thought all the saline and plastic and latex would have overwhelmed any scent I might carry. Thank the goddess I had refused to wear that awful hospital gown, instead I was wearing a black spaghetti strap tank with a shelf-bra and a pair of purple jammie shorts, allowing at least a modicum of comfort and, I suppose, a more pleasing view. I began to make the small noises I do when pain and tension are being rubbed away. "Oh my god, do you always make those sounds? I can't believe this is happening. I've got you all day tomorrow, too."

  I said I was certain he showed this attention to all his pitiful patients. He told me to walk through the halls and look in the rooms and find someone else that looked like me. "What about all those cute little nurses and nurse techs?" "No way, not those snobs." Now, I was convinced that I was not the first patient he had ever thought was cute, nor would I be the last that received extra attention; but, at this time, in this moment, I needed, wanted, to experience seeing lust in a man's eyes. He leaned against the wall with his computer kiosk, clicking all the appropriate boxes,entering all the data that was required, all the while looking up at me and smiling, maybe even somewhat sheepishly. The ring on his finger hadn't gone unnoticed. I just kept my gaze on him, so that every time he looked up our eyes met. "I think you are trouble." "Me? I'm the one bound to this bed right now. How can I cause any trouble?"

  In between the administration of medicine and Sprite Zero, weaving around the looks and fingertips, we asked innocent questions. "Where do you live/" "Flowery Branch." "That's a nice area." "I like it."
"Where do you work?" At the College a few towns over. "I graduated from there!" small coincidences that add up to a fated meeting. Of course, there are things I think I said, responses I think he made, but the memory is now dulled by time and a different kind of insobriety. I confessed to him that I thought my face fucked up everything for me—I think he said "Your face doesn't fuck up anything." But I can't remember exactly, or for certain. 

  He asked if I was married. "Not yet, but in October I will be (hopefully). What about you? I see a ring on your finger." Married for seven months. Then what is he doing with me? What am I letting myself do, or letting him do? He offers another massage. "Let me know if I go too far." "It would be hard to go too far in this room; you never know who will pop in wanting to extract or insert more fluids into and out of me." His hands moved down to my biceps and squeezed, then they slipped into my shirt, and squeezed my breasts. "I think that might be too far..." I started to protest, but it came out a wordless breath. I brought my hands over his and removed them from my breasts. "We can't," I whispered, "we'll get caught." Caught by whom was the question. I certainly didn't want another staff member to walk in; but even more so there was You, beneath all of the flirting, I wondered about You and what You would say or do if You were to walk in while I was being fondled by another man, trying to understand the duality of my feelings—for the first time since being with You I was in the presence of another man I wanted fuck. 

  He grabbed my face in one hand and kissed me, once, twice. "I've got to go; but I'll be back later. can I bring you anything?" He looked down at his crotch and shook his head, "How can I go back to work like this?" The erection underneath his dark blue pants was unmistakable and flattering. As he wheeled his kiosk out of the doorway he said "Behave yourself in here," and winked at me. "Of course I'll behave, I'm all alone in here."

Weekend Wax

  

  We sat on the couch, after a day of shuffling and cuddling around the house, making love,watching television, making love—now, through the window a light up on the hill, beyond the trees and limning motion distracts us from our comedic plot. At first, we thought it must be a car, paused at the top of the road, picking up, or dropping off a neighbor in weekend revelry—but the light was too clear and too bright and too clean, and after a few moments still it did not recede— in fact, it was growing more luminescent. You got up, and looked more closely and then, the first sliver of lunar flesh appeared. For the next few minutes I watched her slowly sway across and over the horizon, the trees dancing in her glory and our eyes reflecting her rising delight.

  She was there with us, all weekend, just peeking in the window, over our shoulders, finally awing us, brazen and full frontal as we crested the town hill after washing our duds. She caught us unaware, our chattering immediately interrupted by exclamation. So close and full, a glowing ocherous orb fixing her impunitive gaze upon the land, only wanting to see and be a scene, then demurely taking cover behind gossamer and lace. A very great lady, full of grace.