Dream, Interrupted

I woke up around 2 a.m. from a dream that felt unusually detailed and annoyingly unfinished.

The setting was Hattiesburg—but not Hattiesburg-me. It was Hattiesburg with the body, mind, and self-awareness I have now. A woman I knew in high school was throwing a birthday party for me at a bar. In real life we’ve drifted far apart into very different worlds (her MAGA, me reality), but in the dream she was cheerful and oddly thoughtful. A former colleague from Vermont was there too, along with several other women I half-recognized. All women…except for one man.

He stayed close to my old friend most of the night. He had curly dark hair, stylishly cut, and tight jeans that made it impossible not to notice his round, compact backside. His mannerisms were just slightly gay, but also comfortably masculine—like someone who knew exactly how he looked and didn’t mind being seen. I assumed he was her date, so I only allowed myself to notice him in that distant, respectful way reserved for attractive men you think are taken.

He seemed shy around me, though, and because he was younger, I didn’t imagine he was paying me any real attention.

We were all gathered near the bar at one point—she facing the counter, me turned sideways—and he stepped into the narrow space between us, his back to me. Then the crowd shifted and he was suddenly pressed right up against me. His backside brushed my crotch, not accidentally but not entirely on purpose either. I put my hands on his hips to steady him, expecting him to step forward.

Instead, he leaned back more, fitting himself against my chest and stomach like it was the most natural thing in the world. He even made a small sound—soft, surprised, and not entirely displeased.

After a moment he said, almost teasingly, “What does it take for you to notice me?”

I told him I had noticed him, but I thought he was with my friend. That’s when she turned around and said, “Oh no, I brought him because I knew he’d be your type.”

He smiled and added, “And you are most definitely my type.”

Dream logic took over after that. Somehow he was from Chicago. Somehow he was in graduate school in a department I couldn’t quite pin down—English? Engineering? Architecture? Polymer Science? Somehow my high school friend and my grad school friend were the same person. None of it made sense, and all of it felt completely reasonable.

I told him I didn’t think someone like him would be interested in someone like me—older, with a dad bod, less hair than I used to have. He told me that was exactly what he found attractive. I told him he was exactly what I found attractive. He wasn’t a twink, but he had that twink-adjacent energy—probably late twenties, the age I was back when I was in grad school.

Eventually the party moved from the bar to a house—everyone came along. It was the house my grad school friend used to live in behind her grandparents’ place. Later in real life, I actually rented that house myself, but in the dream it simply made sense that we were there.

At some point I was sitting on the couch. I motioned for him to come over. He sat down on my lap, straddling my legs and facing me. Everyone else seemed to fade away. It was just the two of us, knee to knee, chest to chest, crotch to crotch, close enough to feel each other’s breath. We kissed. Hands began to roam. Clothes began to shift—shirts half unbuttoned…

And then my brain, like a cruel editor, cut the scene.

I woke up annoyed, amused, and very aware that my body had been fully invested in the story. I went to the bathroom, then typed out notes about the dream before going back to bed, hoping it might resume where it left off.

It did not.

Normally I wouldn’t bother recording a dream like that, but I knew I’d forget it if I didn’t. And since I was off work today for a Botox appointment at noon, I figured I could afford a little extra sleep…even if my subconscious decided to leave me suspended in unresolved tension.

Amazingly, Isabella did let me sleep until after 5 a.m.