And Then There Were Kittens

This afternoon, I dreamt about a girl the DJ calls our “Russian Princess,” a girl I’ve worked with for two or more years. She’s not strikingly attractive at first, no more so than many of the faces I won’t remember, but her stage set still, every time, has my eyes glued to the effortless way she wraps herself around the pole over and over. She possesses some sort of beautiful devil-magic, drawing her audience in, at once self-consumed and oozing woman-sexy. Not girl-sexy, or in-my-twenties sexy, or eye-fucking-a-customer sexy, but dripping sex in her own world.

And I’m straight.

I dreamt that she and I went fishing for a rare species of leech, and we met a pair of millionaire boys at the creaky, secret dock. When one walked away to talk to the other, we stole the first’s green shirt from a mannequin with some cocky saying on it. A offense punishable by death, they chased us until we found a shortcut to the river, where we floated, motionless and pretending to be dead, past others who wanted to kill us. We passed through curtained-off sections, sections guarded by men with swords, a man who closely watched us float. Two candles on our left, and we sprinted out of the water and up a hill to a white house. Her short mother answered the door, enthusiastically welcomed us in with a thick accent, and set to work making us a feast from scratch: soup, bread, berry cake. We made it halfway through our feast, and fled in fear — to a train station. Train turned to inner-city Chicago rail. We wound up at a dingy apartment, the three of us playing with tiny, week-old calico kittens and an underweight child.

I don’t believe that dreams “mean” anything or have any significance. Still, an odd dream.

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~ by The Stiletto-Shod One on April 17, 2013.

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