I have had another dream. In a way this was the most upsetting one of all, although, thank goodness, I was not compelled to reach further into the past and talk my infant self out of his diapers. No, this dream was a freak, one that I suspect I wasn't supposed to remember (and if it were not for the garbage truck almost backing over me at five thirty this morning, I suspect that it would have passed ungrasped through the still fingers of my sleeping memory).
I was the visitee this time, and was visited by a bearded me some five to ten years my senior. He came into my old bedroom at the Savanna while I was asleep; I woke up when I heard him going through my dresser drawers and closets. I said, "Hello," and he replied in kind, and asked me how old I was. I told him, and then asked him if I were still living in San Luis and if I were still working for G-----. He said that he was not.
I tried to think of other questions to ask, but the dream playwright cruelly disallows the presence of mind that it would take to ask the better ones -- Am I happy? What would you do differently if you could start at my age again? Do you have any advice for me? I was lucky to have been able to ask what I did. I tried to remember what the young selves I visited asked me when I came into their lives, but all of the previous encounters blurred into an indistinct collection of memories I knew I owned but could not summon.
"Turn over," he said, and I did. He went straight to the bedstand and pulled out a tube of skin lotion that my girlfriend (who was not in the room of the dream) uses. I felt his knee push the mattress down. He pulled back the sheets and unceremoniously slapped a generous handful of cold lotion in the general vicinity of my anus. Before I had time to even wonder he was on top of me, heavy enough to make breathing difficult, and pushing in heavily with three painful thrusts.
I am a fan of (and no stranger to) penetration, and in my dreams I find it especially pleasurable, but this was no party. The older me was thrusting into me with a rape-like violence that I could feel in my spine -- it was a mean-spirited fucking that I never considered myself capable of, and that I could not imagine enjoying. Over and over, he was saying, "You're a sick fuck," or "You're a really sick fuck."
Is this really representative of the person I'm going to be years from now? Or, as in the classic time travel motif, is this just one of many possible futures, Ebenezer Scrooge, and I can choose another? Or is it merely a man tormented by the same dream night after night who is no longer able to feel the least bit of sympathy for the however-cherubic demons of his nightmare imagination?
What crimes has he committed in his sleep? What tortures is he capable of, each one remaining somewhere in his memory as the perpetrator (and in this one case at least, the memory of the victim), and building upon the last, until the victim and criminal are morally separated only in time -- the punishment is the crime, but why? Some perverse William Burroughesque nightly turn of the karmic wheel -- an impassionate natural law gone bezerk visited upon me by chance or by divine fiat, like original sin or the condemnation of ignorant heathens, dropping bewildered from death into the inferno.
He was having difficulty reaching orgasm, and had by this time varied his mantra to "You're a really fucking sick fuck." I was pinned by his weight, and by the general inertia of dream world coenesthetic tunnel vision, could do little but time my breathing, and feel the ripping of my anus and compression of my prostate and ripples of pain and pressure up and down my lower back.
He finally came (by then I had become "a really fucking sick fucking fuck"), and was probably transported out of his dream, although in mine, he was a sleeping dead weight on my back, dripping semen, blood, and skin lotion down my upper thigh. I moved slowly out from under him, and went out into the living room, where an animated, well-dressed crowd was engaging in ballroom dancing to the accompaniment of a big-band style orchestra. I just wanted to get some orange juice, but I wasn't wearing anything, so I snuck around behind potted plants and the grand piano (thankfully not catching anyone's attention). When I got to the kitchen, there wasn't any orange juice left in the refrigerator, and then the garbage truck spit exhaust all over my sleeping bag and I woke up and remembered it all.