/yesod

Tag: flirting

  • flirting

    Waking from a dream of Winterly, I turn in the bed and shift my position to ease my sore back. 

    And back into dreams I go…

    –

    For some reason, I am in drag. I am wearing a black bodysuit and corset, covered by a long draped coat in ivory. I wear a white bob wig.

    I do not know why I am wearing what I am wearing. I feel self-conscious about my weight and waistline, even with the corset. I draw the coat around me as nonchalantly as I can manage.

    Somewhere downtown at an event, possibly a wedding shower. I am sitting at a round table, chatting with a young woman and  man seated next to me.

    She is dark-haired and has an appealing, if somewhat conventionally contemporary, appearance. Like a secondary charter in a TV drama about corporate attorneys. Not my type and yet I find myself drawn to her.

    Her companion is effeminate and flirting with me as we talk, touching my forearm or shoulder to make his point. I don’t want to embarrass him and, always trying to adapt to others, I return the same flirty energy.

    It’s a pleasant conversation and I am enjoying the back and forth with each of them. I’m even starting to feel comfortable in my drag ensemble. Empowered even.

    When the man excuses himself and gets up to leave, I am genuinely sorry to see him go. Though I am not the slightest bit gay, it’s always nice to be noticed.

    I get up and shift into his seat, turning to the woman. The flirty pose is gone and I am more my authentic self, just chatting with her a little more directly. 

    She is clearly confused. After a few minutes of conversation,  she stops me and asks “What is going on?”

    “What do you mean?”

    She gestures after her departed friend, then back to my outfit. “All of this, I mean, why are you acting like this with me… aren’t you gay?”

    I tell her I am straight and I apologize for the confusion my outfit might have caused.

    “It’s not that,” she says, implying that she finds it somewhat attractive—or, at least, interesting. “I just didn’t think you were interested.”

    I tell her I am and for a moment we both sit and consider where to take the conversation from this new common ground.

    –

    And then I wake up.

  • dark ride

    I am surprised to see a Ferris wheel looming over the downtown district, pale against the darkening sky. As evening descends, we make our way towards the carnival.

    It is dark everywhere. There are no flickering lights, no music — just the mechanical clack and clank of the rides, the muted murmur of the crowds.

    (This seems ominous now, awake. But at the time, dreaming, it did not seem so.)

    Bright rings of neon dart overhead, flying saucers, small and almost toy-like. I remark to my companions that the adult rides are further down.

    We find ourselves in a queue, jostled by children at every side. At the front of the line I watch a kid climb into a small bucket-like car and rattle away on a track into the darkness.

    “It’s a ghost train!” I exclaim. “I love a good ghost train.”

    I realize I’m speaking in a British accent and make a conscious effort to drop the Doctor Who act.

    At the front of the line, two queues feed into the start of the ride. Everyone fumbles in the darkness, taking turns to climb into the little carts. I let one of my friends go ahead of me and then wait for a small child to take their turn.

    As I’m getting ready to take my turn, a fat middle aged couple shove ahead of me dragging their little pig-faces son with them.

    I step back and watch in amazement as they try to squeeze their combined bulk into the one-person cart. An impossibility, so the husband lays down over the cart and his impossibly bloated wife lays on top of him, her doughy face turned up to the sky. Their son scrambles on top of this quivering bulk and the cart spins off as they lie there like starfish with their limbs out for balance.

    My turn. I do my best to fit my lengthy legs into the next cart. It’s a bit cramped and I consider making a joke about having to fold myself in half but I realize that everyone is waiting for me. So I do my best and soon enough I’m off in my little cart.

    It’s a bit of a disappointment, too dark to see anythIng. I rattle along, vague shadows passing by.

    There is a little pause at a station, where a worker waits before sending me on through the last bit of the ride.

    This point in the ride is staffed by a young woman with long dark hair, her pale skin glows in the semi-dark and her soft voice has a light English accent.

    She flirts with me for a moment while we wait. I feel awkward and self-conscious all folded up in my little cart. And she’s too lovely, I can barely look her in the eye.

    It’s a relief when the ride moves on — the final sequence is a rolling section of track, a child-sized roller coaster. The ride opens up and the sky is lighter now. I coast through a landscape of unkempt hedges and stunted topiary animals as the ride comes to a stop…

    . . .

    The morning after the fair, I wake in a hotel suite overlooking downtown. The sky outside is pale and the light is cold, even harsh.

    The woman from the ride is there, wrapped in a thick white robe. As she passes by the bed on her way to the bathroom, I pull her down to me.

    She protests as my hands slide over her hips, exploring. “I have to take a shower,” she gasps as I slide my thumb into her. I feel her constrict around the base and she closes her eyes for a long moment.

    But then she pushes off of me and heads to the shower, leaving me there to throb with frustration.

  • lounge act

    Woke early this morning with a handful of broken fragments from last night’s dreams, losing little shards as the day progresses, memories and images slipping through my fingers and lost for good.

    Here’s what’s left…

    …a heartfelt farewell from one of my clients, almost paternal in how touching his words are…

    …my wife and I stop off at a local bar set up in a aluminum trailer on the outskirts of town, an absolute shithole under new ownership — the proprietor is a short, pudgy twerp utterly clueless and out of place in his red satin tuxedo. I recognize him from a dream when I was very young, when he had a suave and menacing manner. His name is Kincaid. I haven’t thought of him in thirty years.

    While he vainly tries to chat up my wife, I’m cornered by a heavyset woman in a ball gown. Despite her ragged, bottle blonde shag haircut I recognize her as an acquaintance from my local theater days.

    I barely know her but she acts like I’ve been on her mind every single day of the past ten years. She tells me she’s singing now — the “talent” to keep the patrons happy. I make the mistake of saying that we’ll come by to hear her perform sometime, spurring her into an impromptu rendition of an old torch song.

    She fills each note with so much feeling that I’m mildly impressed — at least until she leans forward, putting her knee on the seat next to mine and. She takes my hand, staring deeply into my eyes as she sings…

    …I wake, a little embarrassed for her and a little puzzled by the reappearance of Kincaid after almost thirty years.