Transvestite dreams (without transvestites)
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Sports statistics, the interior logic of a series of books, the hated political sentiments of those who disagree: most of us have something that fascinates us (and pity the poor person who merely marks the space between arising and going to bed). At work I'm often distracted in so many directions - remember to order small press comics, price books, talk to the Yellow Pages people - that I fear I do a half-assed job. Home is equally full of routine matters. When I sit down to type here I become my hobby. Double edged: it can as easily fall into a vicious spiral as self-awareness. (And spin a great deal our of very little.)
I've rarely had sex dreams. Not merely dreaming about having sex, but dreams with a distinctly erotic theme. In the last month I've had four transvestite dreams, all romantic-erotic. No sex was had or attempted but sex implicitly present, an axiom or given that didn't need to be made explicit.
Transvestite dreams: that is how I remembered each one when I awoke. None of the guys were en femme. No makeup, just soft guys wearing loose comfortable clothes (one of my fetishes: comfortable clothing is sexy). The guys were the mix of wild and gentle that I hold most dear. Stated exaggeratedly: guys capable of bitch-slapping me then collapsing in my arms.
Why? My romantic imagination has imposed much of my idealism on the ambiguously gendered. They don't deserve it. No one does. But they merit mine as much as any subspecies of mankind. If I wanted to I could imagine myself a member of a special minority (the elitism of the alienated). Like everyone I'm a prisoner: Eros is. The sexual instinct would've been the primary survival quality that connected the first reproducing cell with our assorted biological prefigurings before we stood upright and move into caves. I'm so far off on this tangent I'm about to fall off …
Anyway, living much later we're lucky enough to translate evolutionary imperative into more interesting sexualities. Oh hell, where was I … ? Unreasonably I've invested what I've sometimes called the gender transcendent with personal attributes best left to imaginary folks like saints.
Strongly unhappy with parts of my life, I dream of them, recreating them in terms of my own hopes.
I fear that too often of late I think it would be easier to just die. I'm not so much miserable as tired. Too many battles repeated too often. I'm not so much in pain as tired. Tired of being understanding, forgiving, accepting.
My mental calendar has a couple of dates marked. Days when the time has come to look on my life starkly, clearly. Days when I shouldn't let myself feel that honesty isn't cruelty. Days to be true to evolutionary destiny when living is better than an accepting death.
What folderol. I'm doing it already. I'm talking about a day when I'll have to pack my bags and walk out the door.