A new variation on an old dream: I am about to have sex when my father comes and stops me...
I'm in my
dorm room, in
bed with M. (I've known M. since I was four years old. He tried to
kiss me when I was 14. I didn't let him.) We're both
naked, kissing. Then we stop, he seems done, as if in his un
experienced
horniness he couldn't conceive of anything further. I start to tell him about what a
slut I am, about the tally on the edge of my bookshelf (red marker on unfinished wood, marking off how many people I've fucked). He says he's never actually spoken with anyone after
hooking up with them before. I get annoyed, and say, "After tonight I don't expect you to call me or anything, but if you pass through here without saying hi, I'll
kick your ass."
It's
warm. His skin is
smooth. I'm reaching my hand toward his
penis.
Then I realize, my bed is covered with
furniture. All of the furniture in the room in stacked on my bed. I think it's been put there by the
police, who have stormed my room, and may have been ransacking it, looking for something. Now, I won't be able to have sex until I put it back on the floor. I laugh over this with M. So I get out of bed, still naked, and start replacing the furniture.
Then, my father knocks on the door. I put on a
towel, and, about to open the door, say quietly to M., "You may want to pull the towel up over your head." (My father knows M., and would recognize him.) I open the door. My father sees me wearing only a towel and gets
angry, "You're not ready yet?!" "No, I am," I say, then say something about my
kitchen. I let my father in, he sees M., who hasn't pulled the blanket up over his face fast enough. "It's OK,
son," my father says. But my father challenges me regarding the kitchen, he doesn't believe that I have one.
But I do have a kitchen, I take him to the back of the room to
prove it to him. There is a refrigerator, and counters and cabinets. He demands to see the cabinets, I have to carefully hold my towel closed while reaching up to open one of them. He wants to see
appliances, so I bring them out, but there are only two- a
coffee maker and a toaster. He says that this isn't a real kitchen, because I don't have any more. I respond
sarcastically, "I'm
sorry, I guess I should be asking you for things."
We exit the kitchen, he's on his way out my door. M. has emerged from under the blanket, but he half sits half lays on the bed, naked, with his face to the wall. My
best friend (no one I recognize) is squatting on the bed, clothed, holding a bucket of thick
paint and a paintbrush and painting designs on M.'s back. My father says to him as he was leaving, "I know who you are."