I had a dream last night that I went to some sort of gathering with people I didn’t know and a few that I had not seen for many years. I found myself the centre of attention and the focus of much romantic ardour. There were women I had known who were now mothers who were keen to know me again. They were older, as I guess I was also, but while they had been settling down becoming mothers I had been out in the world somewhere. It seemed I was physically attractive to these women, which I took in my stride; and fascinating because of my absence, and perhaps even my mysterious exploits, though they were never elucidated. One or another of the older women made a play for me, but I was uninterested. I remember in the dream one took her clothes off revealing her body naked to me while her daughter was there. She asked me to massage her for she had a sore back. I did so, reluctantly, while the daughter looked on.
All of the mothers had different memories of me which they shared with their daughters while I was in their presence. I don’t remember the stories, but in every one of them I came off looking good, a man of wit and adventure.
I watched as their daughters, beautiful all, though different in nature, turned to me in the course of these tales and looked at me with the same desire as their mothers did. I was much more interested in them. Strangely, I was the only male figure in the dream.
I had another after taking the events of the dream before and turning it into a story. It was as if there was a clear follow-on from the previous dream where I stayed overnight enjoying the hospitality of the house. I did not dream this directly, but as a story I wrote in my dream. In the story I was woken in the middle of the night when a naked woman slipped into my bed in the darkness. There we made love though I did not know who she was. In the morning she was gone. I went out and the joined the other’s wondering who of the women there it might have been. There seemed to be three contenders, two of them younger women, and a third being the most attractive and alluring of the mothers. I looked for signs in the women to indicate who it might be. I saw things in each and realised if I looked long enough I would find anything. I tried then to assess who it might be from my experiences with her in the night, my hand upon her skin, the curve of her body beneath me, the heft of her breasts, the wetness between her legs, her murmurings to me. But that gave me no greater inkling. I wondered finally if it might not be a case of mistaken identity. By now another man had appeared, and it was possible I supposed, though unlikely, that my visitor had intended to be with him.
I woke happy to have had these dreams. Dreams such as this are always fun. Strange as it may seem I found myself believing that the desire these women had for me in the dream was not an unreasonable reflection of reality. Perhaps it was time I simply accepted that. And of course I thought of Chekhov, and his famous story The Kiss, which shares a similar plot to my seconmd dream of the story.