Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

I’m attending a reception for a graduate seminar on Roman Polanski. I’m with Polish cinema students in a casual backyard setting, setting up a long table and chairs as more attendees arrive. I’m nude. I don’t belong to the group and didn’t attend the seminar, but I’m allowed here. I have a leather-bound legal pad, a pen and my phone, which are nearly identical to those belonging to the students. Their materials are piled around the lawn as people free their hands to help. I hold my materials as I want to take notes on the students’ thoughts so I can learn from the seminar I missed.

A student engages me in sharing his thoughts. I write them on the leather cover of my notebook, thinking to save paper for later. His thoughts are well formed and expressed, though he’s distracted by attaching an umbrella to the table. His colleagues suggest he give up as it’s not needed, as I wait to hear more opinions. Finally, as the group settles down, I try to keep the conversation focused on Polanski, without interfering in their more relaxed camaraderie. I’m impressed by what they say when they return to the topic. I note these observations: “Who knew the old man would have thirty more films in him after the scandal?” “He’s more respected in academia than commercially.”

The yard is surrounded by a wooden fence covered in vines. It sits behind a mid-century modern house, which I’m told is owned by Polanski and run as a center for studying his work. The reception will move indoors and I’m invited along. However, I feel awkward about my nudity and misplace my phone. Many of the students have brought chargers and backpacks. I’m impressed by their forethought though I’m glad for my decision to attend nude. It’s getting dark and I wonder how I’ll return to my hotel barefoot, nude and without money. I worry about finding my phone. Then, I woke myself and realized this was a dream. I didn’t need to find my phone. Relieved, I closed my eyes and returned to the dream.

The reception is moving indoors. I find a large shirt of mine and put in on, struggling with the buttons. I demurely turn my back on the others as I dress. I go inside and look around. The décor is very swinging seventies with a sunken living room, study area and hot tub. I want to explore but I’m invited into the hot tub. Others are nude so I take off my shirt and join them. An older woman who knows the place addresses those of us in the tub. We’re approached by a ghostly cat moving as it sits in a plastic canister. The woman tells us this is just a cat, nothing unusual. I’m intrigued by the creature.

It’s time to go. Someone offers to call me a cab. I agree, though aware that I have no money. I really don’t know where I am. I’m taken to a dispatch office, where I’m offered a choice of champagne or coffee. I take the former from a fountain. My nudity seems more unusual in the office, though the dispatch agent is kind and solicitous. I wonder if I should sneak off and try to find my way to the hotel. Or maybe I can go to my room once we arrive to retrieve the fare. 

Fleshbot and Too Much, Too Little

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot takes a little extra sum’n sum’n for added spice. Too much, these bloggers tell us, ain’t never enough.

Speaking of too much, those of you who enjoy stalking me may have to make do with too little. Unless I’m missing something, I didn’t get laid in anyone else’s sex blogs this week.

This astonishing turn of events may be attributed to two factors. First, I was on vacation for the early part of this month, and so I was beyond the reach of most who blog the nasty. Second, upon my return, I found that many of my friends were holed up for all-nighters with another fellow—a certain bespectacled Brit with a wicked dueling scar. He’s very engaging, I am told, and so I might worry that I would never see my friends again were I not reassured that he’s good for a solid twelve-hour marathon but then, well, its over.

I took heart to find I was not altogether shunted aside, for Maymay offered thoughts on my request for reader responses in advance of my upcoming sessions at Floating World. (Those interested in attending should note that a schedule of sessions has now been posted on the event website.)

I thanked Maymay for his thoughts. A few days later, I met him in person. He was naked. In fact, so was I, for we met on a nude beach—a first foray for your pale interlocuter.

I bussed his cheek and enjoyed the cool wetness of his skin as we touched. It was a warm summer afternoon, and he was fresh from the heavy surf—“bottoming to nature,” as he put it.

I set up my blankets with Maymay and friends. I had already about been naked with about half the people in this group of ten—naked, you know, when we had sex. The folks who were new to me were certainly easy on the eyes, and were gladly added to the roster of “naked people with whom I have yet to have sex.”

(No special emphasis on the “yet.”)

With my first experience with a nude beach, I resolved one anxiety from my youth. “What happens if you get hard?”

Here’s what happens: you get hard. No big deal.

I had a find time sunning with friends, new and old, in some measure thanks to the blessings of sunscreen . . . and a surreptitious handjob from a well-tanned mama.

That was too much.

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