Dreamed 1984/3/27 by Chris Wayan
I'm in the heart of a great city, but I'm alone. Alone in my room--the only room I can fit in. I'm ten times as tall as the local people! My suite takes up ten floors of this skyscraper. They think I'm trapped here, since my floor's ten floors above the street. They've been using me as a threat in their local political games, and I'm sick of it. I'm not Gulliver... or King Kong. As long I think like them, I wouldn't DARE to jump a hundred feet to hard pavement, but when I tell myself "I'm no giant! They're midgets!" I see it as just ten feet--perfectly safe if I stay relaxed. I do it--open the window, hang, and drop to the street.
I get in my gravel truck. It's my size, of course--it fills a whole Midget parking lot. Tiny cars squeeze under mine, risking Godzilla-size oil drips. Anything for a parking spot downtown! I drive off, heading for Oakland, though I'm not sure why. Soon I'm back in normal-sized traffic--what a relief! Then I turn off and park in a gravel pit in South Oakland. Huh? Why am I here? Then I realize... I'm still under the remote control of the Midget City Public Works Division! Are they telepaths, or did they plant electrodes? I dunno--I mistook their impulses for my own. I sense their urges now, though--they want me to fill all the robot trucks stacked like toys in the bed of my trucks (a hundred or more, big ones for midgets). And though I think I can break the compulsion, I go ahead and fill their toys and send them back. This way, the Public Works guys will be lulled when the first load arrives. They'll send back their drone trucks for a refill, and by the time THOSE don't return, I'll be long gone.
I drive toward downtown Oakland through shabby streets and park by the pawnshop. The store's full of jewelry--silver, red shell, turquoise and jet. The owner's a Hopi silverworker. He's my secret spy contact. The only one I trust--because he's my lover. We can't live on the rez because we're gay. Had to move here to the Bay.
We start climbing up the rooftops, dancing on parapets, singing a duet as Fred Astaire music fills the soundtrack. Through that old movie magic, the red-brick buildings become for a moment the mesas of home. We dance silhouetted across a ridge-top...
Down the face of the ridge is a cliff, that to city-folk manifests as a wall. A wall with a closet door. THE Closet! The door opens, and bugs swarm out. Gay bugs. They've had it too! They're coming out of the closet! They're tired of being bombarded by shit-eating flies. Millions of gay bugs climb the walls of the sky. They storm the walls of Heaven, attack the smug, fundamentalist flies. I think of the heroic migrations of our people in the past, up through evolutionary worlds, from the Third World to the Fourth... the great change is happening again. From Closet World to Sky World; they'll never go back again.
So... my love and I are lying on the lawns of Heaven, in Golden Gate Park near the De Young Museum, with a couple of lesbian friends. One of them isn't human. I'm not sure which World she came from, but she's built on a slightly larger scale, and her skin's the colors of redrock canyons: violets, oranges, reds--her nickname's VOR, in fact. Her spirit's just as bold. Loud, some say, but I think she's beautiful. I finally get my nerve up and tell her so. She's massaging her lover's back with oil, and offers to do me too. I get immediately turned on, though I think of myself as pretty strictly gay. But I enjoy it and refuse to hide my erection. Start rubbing oil on her too. Back, stomach, thighs, ass, crotch... At first I just massage, especially around her cunt, but then I realize she's as turned on as I am. We're both committed elsewhere but we can admit this, enjoy this... as long as we don't upset our partners. Then I notice a third hand massaging me. And a fourth and fifth. We all slide together, oily and hot, my hand on her red ass, my cock up inside her, her lover stroking my balls, my lover's finger up my ass... I let go and just feel wonderful. Not just from all that squirmy delicious skin, but... being accepted, being loved WHATEVER I like, boys, girls, purple aliens...
A hand tugs my arm. The store-man says "This takes priority." I leap up, furious, and say "Not from now on. I thought I've been waking up from sex dreams out of over-excitement. Now I know--it's been you, hasn't it? Saboteur! No wonder I haven't been dating, either! You don't think I'm ready, I don't deserve to! Well, I won't help with YOUR problems till you apologize and quit sabotaging MY business."
The store turns into mesas and red rocks, and I climb up, away, out of his world.
Oh, I'm sure he'll be back. He's that type. But I mean it--till he quits sabotaging sex and romance, I'm on strike.
Because Creation's full of them--flies, clerks, mind-controlling midgets. On the rez, in town, at work, in heaven, in hell.
You don't owe them a thing. Brush them away. Or swat them.
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