Dream #___, male
Jan. 29th, 2005 11:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedarksiren2I had been at opera rehearsal for what seemed like days. Stephen, our conductor, was more prissy than he had ever been, shaking his butt while directing us, dressed in his usual jeans and a t-shirt, only he had a fuschia and purple feather boa around his neck.
Henry, our stage director, kept saying the word sex, over and over again. He held my fan, the one that he character I play, Marcellina, uses throughout the opera, and began to rub it, and told me, "See? It's just like giving a guy a hand-job. Not too hard...well, so to speak," and his assistant, Becca, giggled in a squealy tone that I might have shot her for.
Just as I was listening to them, I turned about quickly and twisted my right knee. Becca stopped laughing, and pointed me to the door.
I walked outside into an all but abandoned Athens. It reminded me of a tundra, and I began humming Lestat songs in my head. I walked down a main road to a drug store which looked abandoned. A memory of tumbleweed flew by the place, and a light rippled through time, causing me to double-check my balance, and my knee screamed pain.
When I walked inside, it looked more like a doctor's office, although nicer than Hudson Health center. I remember the smell of antiseptic, like a nursing home. There were a bunch of women standing in a clump together, not seeming to be doing anything important, so I walked around them to the sign-in sheet. Another woman was filling in her name, so I waited my turn patiently. When she finished, I started to move but the clump moved more quickly and I got some really nasty stares.
"I'm sorry, were you next?" I asked a woman politely. She glared at me...they all did, and crickets choked on their chirps - a horrible sound, at best.
I moved aside, and waited in line, just outside the clump. While waiting, I heard a familiar laugh - Jim P., my old client. I turned to go find him.
We talked for a moment or a dozen, and as we walked down a hallway toward the front of what looked like the 4th floor of the school of music here at OU, I entangled my fingers in his distorted ones, and pushed him down hard to my right. I was going to recoil, to bring him back up in a fluid motion, but his arms didn't work like most human slinkee arms.
He said, "Ow!" with a thump, our fingers still entwined, only he was on the floor, half-fallen into a bedroom that would have been the elevator shaft. I looked at him, and felt fear rising in me. I looked up the hall - other clients such as Michael K. and Natty were in the main lobby, bugging some students at a table for coffee and cookies. Jim tried pulling his fingers away, but I tightened my grip.
I knew I would be in trouble, but I really didn't mean to harm him. It was just a natural reaction - people have slinkee arms, and i love slinkees. I knelt beside him to see if he was OK and apologize (even though some darker, numbed part of me wasn't sorry at all) and noticed his nose was running. Soon, it turned to blood, and I called for the nurse, who came running to the rescue. I looked at Jim when she asked him what had happened, scared he would tell her I'd abused him. He began laughing his high-pitch siren-like laughter, and said, "I'm not a slinkee, you idiot!" His long eyelashes winked at me, reassuring me all was all right, and I walked back to the doctor's office.
I don't remember seeing the doctor, but I had a prescription to fill so I walked to the pharmacy where girls in leather fetish outfits waited, smoking cigarettes and drooling red lipstick. It almost seemed to melt from their lips, taking pieces of them with it as it touched the carpeting below.
I walked up to the side door, which was more like the side of a partition wall, and tugged on the white sleeve of the pharmacist. It was Ed McMahan (sp?), and he was crispy-orange tanned. I also noticed his eyebrows were plucked, his nails manicured. He looked at me and his eyes got wide, "Oh my gawd, honey! Are you doing ok? I heard your knee is really fucked up." I was going to reply, but his eyes got wide as they looked down my front-side. I followed his eyes, only to find my knee in a pretzel-like shape. It didn't hurt much though, so I shrugged and handed him my prescription.
He began fanning himself with it, and said, "Honey, I am being SO BAD!"
"Why do you say that, Ed?"
"That choreographer, Stephen..."
"Oh, you mean our conductor?"
"Yeah...choreographer, conductor, whatever...oh my gawd! I want him so bad! I feel incredibly bad, just so...bad..."
I laughed, and told him I felt Stephen was the bad one. He smiled a sweet, too-white smile through his orange, seemingly too-tight skin, and said, "You're a doll. I'll have your scrip in a minute," which meant ten years, but I had nothing better to do.
I stood back in his work station for a while, looking at all the white and red everywhere. When I looked up, there was a window - the Pharmacy window I should have talked through - and beyond it, a horribly ugly wooden wall, and upon that, a very bad work of art with bright red swishes across it.
I pondered for a moment if I could get better art in the place, maybe get![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wraptboy to hang up some pieces, knowing Ed would dig them more. I heard a strange noise, and didn't have to even look to know the lipstick-drools were flooding the place. I could smell the rot of those women, and a river of red was rising from the carpeting, meeting with the bad art.
Henry, our stage director, kept saying the word sex, over and over again. He held my fan, the one that he character I play, Marcellina, uses throughout the opera, and began to rub it, and told me, "See? It's just like giving a guy a hand-job. Not too hard...well, so to speak," and his assistant, Becca, giggled in a squealy tone that I might have shot her for.
Just as I was listening to them, I turned about quickly and twisted my right knee. Becca stopped laughing, and pointed me to the door.
I walked outside into an all but abandoned Athens. It reminded me of a tundra, and I began humming Lestat songs in my head. I walked down a main road to a drug store which looked abandoned. A memory of tumbleweed flew by the place, and a light rippled through time, causing me to double-check my balance, and my knee screamed pain.
When I walked inside, it looked more like a doctor's office, although nicer than Hudson Health center. I remember the smell of antiseptic, like a nursing home. There were a bunch of women standing in a clump together, not seeming to be doing anything important, so I walked around them to the sign-in sheet. Another woman was filling in her name, so I waited my turn patiently. When she finished, I started to move but the clump moved more quickly and I got some really nasty stares.
"I'm sorry, were you next?" I asked a woman politely. She glared at me...they all did, and crickets choked on their chirps - a horrible sound, at best.
I moved aside, and waited in line, just outside the clump. While waiting, I heard a familiar laugh - Jim P., my old client. I turned to go find him.
We talked for a moment or a dozen, and as we walked down a hallway toward the front of what looked like the 4th floor of the school of music here at OU, I entangled my fingers in his distorted ones, and pushed him down hard to my right. I was going to recoil, to bring him back up in a fluid motion, but his arms didn't work like most human slinkee arms.
He said, "Ow!" with a thump, our fingers still entwined, only he was on the floor, half-fallen into a bedroom that would have been the elevator shaft. I looked at him, and felt fear rising in me. I looked up the hall - other clients such as Michael K. and Natty were in the main lobby, bugging some students at a table for coffee and cookies. Jim tried pulling his fingers away, but I tightened my grip.
I knew I would be in trouble, but I really didn't mean to harm him. It was just a natural reaction - people have slinkee arms, and i love slinkees. I knelt beside him to see if he was OK and apologize (even though some darker, numbed part of me wasn't sorry at all) and noticed his nose was running. Soon, it turned to blood, and I called for the nurse, who came running to the rescue. I looked at Jim when she asked him what had happened, scared he would tell her I'd abused him. He began laughing his high-pitch siren-like laughter, and said, "I'm not a slinkee, you idiot!" His long eyelashes winked at me, reassuring me all was all right, and I walked back to the doctor's office.
I don't remember seeing the doctor, but I had a prescription to fill so I walked to the pharmacy where girls in leather fetish outfits waited, smoking cigarettes and drooling red lipstick. It almost seemed to melt from their lips, taking pieces of them with it as it touched the carpeting below.
I walked up to the side door, which was more like the side of a partition wall, and tugged on the white sleeve of the pharmacist. It was Ed McMahan (sp?), and he was crispy-orange tanned. I also noticed his eyebrows were plucked, his nails manicured. He looked at me and his eyes got wide, "Oh my gawd, honey! Are you doing ok? I heard your knee is really fucked up." I was going to reply, but his eyes got wide as they looked down my front-side. I followed his eyes, only to find my knee in a pretzel-like shape. It didn't hurt much though, so I shrugged and handed him my prescription.
He began fanning himself with it, and said, "Honey, I am being SO BAD!"
"Why do you say that, Ed?"
"That choreographer, Stephen..."
"Oh, you mean our conductor?"
"Yeah...choreographer, conductor, whatever...oh my gawd! I want him so bad! I feel incredibly bad, just so...bad..."
I laughed, and told him I felt Stephen was the bad one. He smiled a sweet, too-white smile through his orange, seemingly too-tight skin, and said, "You're a doll. I'll have your scrip in a minute," which meant ten years, but I had nothing better to do.
I stood back in his work station for a while, looking at all the white and red everywhere. When I looked up, there was a window - the Pharmacy window I should have talked through - and beyond it, a horribly ugly wooden wall, and upon that, a very bad work of art with bright red swishes across it.
I pondered for a moment if I could get better art in the place, maybe get
wraptboy to hang up some pieces, knowing Ed would dig them more. I heard a strange noise, and didn't have to even look to know the lipstick-drools were flooding the place. I could smell the rot of those women, and a river of red was rising from the carpeting, meeting with the bad art.
