display | more...

I am at a party.

There are lots of people here. It is one of those swank places and events filled with beautiful people, the social elite. Nobody ugly is here. It is buzzing with conversation and low alternative music. The furniture and decor is also swank, dripping with post-modernity; the space is nice and open divided only by a well-placed wall with windows in it so one can see what is going on on the other side anyway.

On the other side of that wall is a couch; it's red velvet. I sit there chatting with a rather attractive young girl. She has straight, radiant brown hair that falls neatly around her face. She looks to be in her early twenties. I cannot recall the conversation but she is into me. The spark that is definitely there, maybe a spark with the potential to become a five-alarm fire, is extinguished by a new arrival.

Sarah is here.

Sarah McLachlan sits on the couch and now the other girl is gone. It is all about Sarah now. She is stunningly beautiful, more beautiful than I ever imagined she would be in real life, her hair, the say she smiles, despite her looking quite her age. I am not surprised by the lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, I am surprised at how gorgeous she looks despite them.

Sarah is very friendly, but in a genuine way; it is warm and deep, not just because she's just so nice to everybody. No, she already values our friendship even though it is still only about ten seconds old.

I am mesmerized by her. But she is not annoyed by this, or doesn't appear to be. She is flattered and not annoyed. Rather, she grows warmer and more engaging. A little coy, even.

We talk. As before, I do not recall the conversation. Except one little bit. I tell her she is beautiful. I say "(something, something) is not as beautiful as you are." She reacts as if it is the first time anybody has ever told her that, even though I imagine that such a thing cannot possibly be true. Perhaps I'm the first person to ever tell her that and truly mean it, but I doubt that is true as well. Still, the way she smiles afterwards, the way she looks at me, it is as if I've just caught her heart in a net and am beginning to reel her in. It's like she is psychic and knows that my sudden affection for her has nothing to do with the fact that I am in the presence of a celebrity, of greatness; rather, she seems to be aware that I am in awe of the wonderful and beautiful person sitting before me, this exquisite human being whose laugh excites my soul.

At some point Sarah and I begin kissing. It is utterly exciting, as any first kiss - or makeout session - with somebody usually is. We kiss as if our lips were made specifically for each other's. At some point I begin fondling her right breast with my left hand; I reach under her sweater and remove it from its bra. I open my eyes to steal a glimpse of its nipple.

The dream does not get any more erotic than that and shortly afterwards it fizzles away into disappointing nothingness.

In my half-awake state afterwards, my guilty conscience added to the dream, the part where I mentioned that I was married and we could do no more than kiss and we probably should not have even done that.

That damn conscience thing tries to ruin everything, doesn't it?

The erotic part of the dream was only secondary and at the tail end. I did not wake up with a "stiffy" as Beavis might eloquently put it. So it was not a typical sex fantasy dream. It really left me with a feeling that I had actually gotten to know that person. I have always been a fan of Sarah's music, but had never fantasized about her in any way. And it's not like I had just listened to her CD or anything before going to bed. I do not know from whence it came, why my subconscious decided to create that world for me last night. But wherever it came from, it is one of those dreams that is so profound I spend a great deal of time dwelling on it in my waking moments, even writing a node about it. I even worry about the first girl I was talking to and how she felt when I apparently ignored her to talk to Sarah.


Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.