the play's the thing

I can't sleep. When I sleep my dreams continue to be strange and overly literal. Somewhat hilariously, the dreamed-him is sometimes far shorter than the real. Just about my height, in dreams. I'll settle for dreaming him diminished along with me til I can dream myself embiggened.

I dream I'm sitting across a seminar table from him; it's my university and not his, but his subject not mine.
(But I shut 'em down all the same---including him.)

I dream we're at a hotel, I think it's a ski resort somewhere in the American West. Big Sky or Jackson Hole, or somewhere in Utah, places I know he has never been. He is there with wife and friends, I am there with friends. This is some sort of arranged yet secret meeting. He won't stop touching me in public. He takes me by the hand and fucks me standing against the wall in a corridor with many people walking by.
Her friends won't look at me. I can't withstand the pressure of all this hatred beamed at me by these women. They don't talk to me, they lecture him. He doesn't stop taking off my clothes, but he talks to them and not me.
I am a prop in some performance.
He seems to like this attention and his audience, so long as no one tells her.

I dream I'm looking in my mirror. I see her in the mirror, reflected behind me in this room.
Turning towards her I lift my face off like a mask and hand it to her.
Take it, I tell her. It's all I have.

When she puts it on I know it will sink under her own skin, vanish into her. She'll have it forever secretly.

She smiles.

And since you know you cannot see yourself,
so well as by reflection, I, your glass,
will modestly discover to yourself,
that of yourself which you yet know not of.


sex, shakespeare ,sexblogs, mask, dream, imposter