Resolutions are a joke, wet dreams are not. For now cleaning up my closet has taken precedence over getting rid of the bulge. You see, last night I had an erotic dream that painted me in a compromising position with another man.
Although I woke up just before I was assaulted by the graphic pictures of anal penetration, I did find my middle stump unabashedly excited.
I was shell-shocked, appalled and confused, but mainly bowled over that my heterosexual integrity is, nay, was, not a completely resolved matter. In fact, my initial reaction was to bolt in the opposite direction and shag the first accommodating trollop.
Then I thought, perhaps I should bombard myself with a deluge of gay porn just to check if it would have the same lecherous effect while I was conscious. As you can gather, I felt like someone holding a key for which there is no door.
My confusion was akin to that of a cricketer who dreams of batting for the other side, or a chaste woman — whatever that is — who is appalled to have a wet dream in which she is consensually deflowered by a group of priapic male studs.
And to confound matters further, such dreams — especially those that involve involuntary nocturnal emissions — exact an unhealthy psychological hold on the dreamer that makes it embarassing or imprudent to talk about them to anyone who is not a psychiatrist.
Speaking of shrinks, haven’t they already conned us into believing the gospel according to Saint Freud which states that (profane) dreams are nothing but the portentous Trojan horse of repressed wishes and desires? Hence, any attempt at dream analysis is deemed a dereliction of duty if, as the penetrating essayist Gore Vidal aptly noted, “no Freudian cliché is left unstroked”.
According to this school of thought, a woman who dreams of herself being raped longs on a subconcious level to be violated. In fact, such is the sneering assumptions of the Freudians that they will allege that my compromising wet dream is not a mere a freak of the mind, but the unimpeachable symptom of my “latent homoerotic inclination”. Which is to say, in plain English, that I am a closet moffie!
Any attempt at denial will be met by the smug retort that nothing happens in a vacuum. Thus, I will be compelled to come to terms with what professional opinion terms my “homosexual feminist compulsion” — I cried when Mufasa died in The Lion King; have a kinky predilection for being squashed into that posture of defeat during the missionary position; and I am guilty of curiously wondering how it would feel to sleep with another man.
Also, this compulsion will be used to explain why, despite my caveman pedigree, I was quite understanding — and not forceful — when, in the heat of passion, my partner suddenly decided to substitute sex for a cuddle.
By extension this compulsion may, perhaps, explain in a roundabout way why I court women who fall into the untapped market category because they do not register a blip on the Cosmopolitan radar — due to either corpulence, ugliness or melanin-charged complexions. Apparently, rather than deal with my “latent homoerotic inclination” I am compelled to prey on women with “issues” as they are not spoilt for choice and tend to accept any proposal that comes their way.
Technically speaking, the cavalier sentiment of the smug Freudians does not hold water. For, just as a person is not deemed to be either suicidal or a hunger striker after missing one meal, one does not automatically qualify as an alcoholic after gulping one beer. A priori, one queer dream does not promote or degrade — take your pick — me to homosexuality.
Allow me to digress. Consciously, I would say that I am about as attracted to other men as a magnet to wood. To wit, I refuse to be drawn into the jejune arguments of whether Denzel Washington is sexy or handsome, or to pass judgement on the kneaded posterior mound of Brad Pitt.
Anyway, was the dream a revelation, a fantastical manifestation, or the kind of confession you get in a nightmare of what you have done in the past? I imagine my mind was just mimicking the smut orgies of pornographic flicks, but I do not know for certain.
What I do know for certain is that dreams — like drought, cancer and Robert Mugabe — are not sentimental. Indeed, trying to find rhyme and reason in these phenomena is tantamount to trying to find a corner inside a rondavel. In that vein, I have resolved to take this dream like a man by dismissing it as a disagreeable blur before I court psychosis and end up like those poor sods who continually receive “winning” Lotto numbers from “the gods” in their dreams.
And correct me if I am wrong, but isn’t sleeping about making your way to actualities by waking up to the arbitrariness of things?