Getting Away Dream

A few nights ago I had a vivid dream which has stayed with me. These are the details:

I am an adult student or an employee on a vast college campus situated upon rolling, green hills. The sky above is incredibly blue. There are tall redwood trees further down the hills. The trees cover a chasm at the base of the hills. I sense that the chasm falls further down than even hell. No one ventures close to the trees down there lest they accidentally stumble over the edge.

The headmaster is a tall man in a formal, gray suit with a red bowtie. He wears a black, medieval, plague mask over his face. He walks around the campus trying to snatch up people he has listed on his notepad. These are the people whom he has deemed to be slackers for one reason or another. I sense that I am on that list, and so I am careful to hide whenever I see him coming my way. I anxiously duck behind walls, or hide inside unused classrooms, and then watch him through a window or a crack in the door as he walks passed where I had been standing just a moment before. I am terrified beyond measure with every one of these close calls. I watch him from my hiding place, until I lose him in the crowd. Then, when I step outside from where I have been hiding, I am again forced to find a new hiding place before he can find me.

I finally leave the campus. I am on a path that winds away from the rolling hills and into a dark and humid swamp. Night descends over me, and the humidity in this murky place is so high as to be almost unbreathable. The path is gone, and I find that I am wandering through a thick forest on the side of a gooey, algae infested lake. Red moonlight bleeds through the leaves above me, but otherwise the world is incredibly dark and haunted by menacing shadows.

I walk up to an abandoned car repair shop on the side of the lake. Although the door is locked, I find a window opened just enough for me to crawl inside. The shop is cluttered with machine parts, partially stripped vehicles, and stacked tires. There is a kitchen with large tubs of car oil and animal grease. I huddle into a corner in the kitchen in order to go to sleep, for I am exhausted. Before I can fall asleep there, a woman unexpectedly steps out from the shadows. She is a small, thin, Asian woman with a nondescript expression on her face. She has a boyish haircut and is wearing a skin tight, leather, cat woman suit that shows off the barest hints of a feminine figure. She is not particularly sociable, but neither is she hostile. If anything, it is as if she has known me for aeons and really does not care one way or another if I stay there. She does give me something to eat, though, for which I am grateful.

It starts to rain outside. I hear raindrops hitting the corrugated iron roof. Now and then, there is also rolling thunder in the distance that seems to be getting closer. As the storm increases in intensity, the lake laps up against the outside wall. The Asian woman turns on the only lightbulb. It hangs from a rafter at the center of the shop, and when it flickers it casts eerie shadows off of the machine parts. If we speak it is very little, and yet as the night goes on I sense a growing comfort between us. Perhaps, there is even a romantic desire bridging us to one another, and yet if so it is very different than the romance that normally develops between a man and a woman. Sexual chemistry is at best secondary to an almost ravenous passion to explore what we each see in one another as a foreign entity. She may be more alien or robot than human, and I sense she thinks the same of me, and yet we want to know what makes the other one tick. This will occupy our time together in this dark place, while the storm gathering outside strengthens to the point that escape is impossible for both of us. It is impossible for me to tell how long I am in that car repair shop. Neither the storm nor the night ceases. Only my growing familiarity with this mannish, expressionless woman implies that there has been a passage of time.

The woman hands me a laminated placard with various sexual positions illustrated on it. This is her unspoken way of indicating to me that she intends to instruct me step by step how to be sexual with her. I want to oblige, but even more so I realize that I really do not have a choice. I step under the flickering lightbulb and check over the laminated placard in more detail. All of the illustrated sexual positions have to do with a man stimulating a woman. There is a picture of a woman’s hand massaging a man’s prostate, but she is also gripping his erected penis with her other hand in such a way as to stop him from ejaculating. I look over at her. The look in her eyes says unequivocally that I need to do each of these sexual acts with her now and without further hesitation. She lies down on the kitchen floor, and pulls aside a leather strap that covers her vagina. As she tilts her head up to look at me again, I know that I had better get on my knees and start to give her oral sex immediately. Literally, there will be hell to pay if I do not.

As I give her oral sex, she remains motionless and silent. She could be a mannequin at that moment, and yet I hear what sounds like gears clicking into one another. Something inside her flesh is responding to me. It is mechanical and otherworldly, but it is very real.

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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