4am

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Dreams I've been having lately about. . .

Submitted: February 01, 2015

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Submitted: February 01, 2015

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4am

You and I were on some form of mass transit together at 4 in the morning.  We were all alone and sitting in the very back, you in your deep Navy Blue fancy dress, and me in jeans and a striped T-shirt, leather jacket, sunglasses because the lights were obnoxiously bright . . . and I was drinking a beer and you were sitting with your knees gathered tightly together, riding the mass transit seat like a lady sitting side saddle, a cream colored shrug on your shoulders, boulder-like pearls around your neck.  We were both exhausted.  I was wasted.  and I was muttering to myself because I was pissed about something, stewing about something.  I started feeling really very angry.  My anger was turning you on.  You slid your hand into my leather jacket.  You made small circles over my chest before you reached down and gave my breast a squeeze.  I wasn’t really paying attention.  By that time I was seething, feeling ugly—my lip curled, my eyebrows knitted.  You brought your other hand to my chest and felt me up in front of all the empty seats in that bus.  I remember that my anger had everything to do with something I had created.  I remember you attended some sort of party for me and the whole thing went sour.  I remember you slid down on your knees in this very fancy, very noisy, this very very navy blue dress with its cream colored shrug and your rhinestone tierra and you put your mouth over the beer bottle that I had clumsily tilted until it spilled all over the floor.  I held it over my crotch.  You looked me right in the eye.  It was as if you giving head to my beer was going to make me feel better.  Actually, it did make me feel a little better.  I fucking hated you just as much as you hated me in that moment and it felt good.  It felt right.  I wanted to fuck you up and pour all this hate and disappointment out on you and you just smiled at me like bring it on bitch and I was turned on as fuck.  You want dyke daddy to take care of you? I asked.  You want dyke daddy to tie you up in that very blue dress?  Use the white ropes?  Give your face a natural blush? But unfortunately as dreams often do, things ended in a soft fade.

But let’s talk about the dream I had last night:

We were in bed together at the end of a long night of dressing up and acting the part and all we wanted to do was just relax and we ended up being against each other, like small soft animals flopped over each other in innocence.  And we’re laying there talking, and it’s almost painful to talk, exhausting to talk, frustrating to talk, I didn’t want to fucking talk anymore but I didn’t want to lose you either.  Room was nice.  Very European.  Big tall windows, crown molding everywhere.  It was four in the morning and the room was obnoxiously bright.  There was food.  I think we were wasted but we were both so tired that it didn’t matter that we were both wasted.  You sat up.  Your makeup was flaking.  I thought it made you look so glorious because it made you look your age, another Bowie flowering in middle age, another Pricilla maybe.  Your sad eyes were bloodshot.  I stroked you affectionately on the shoulder and you turned around and surprised me with a kiss.  I remember my polite lie.  I remember saying “It’s not like that” but through all your glorious queerness you were still a boy and it was still four AM and our hearts were not broken yet.  I wished I understood your death wish.  I wished I understood how to counter, but the tidal waves of water signs are something that seem to cut right through my Virgo fields and I was surprised at how little I struggled when you broke through all the bullshit and held the back of my neck in your hand and pressed your hips against me.  It was like I had forgott that I was a woman, that I was receptive whether I liked it or not.  My bravado crumbles.  I can’t believe that it’s happening.  Won’t one of us please have some common sense and stop this from happening because it feels too fucking good for me to save myself but unfortunately as dreams often do, I woke up on the cruel end of a soft fade . . . and it was hard to believe that I was back to living the life I’m living.  Hard to explain to others this hole in my heart.  Hard to explain to others why my guts feel like lead.  All over something that never happened, all over that things my unfettered soul wander into at 4 in the morning.  

 


© Copyright 2017 Keisha Gamman. All rights reserved.

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