Dreams with at least two or three separate but connected pornographic situations/episodes, or more like explicit masturbatory behavior on my part, publicly, in front of acquaintances or family members. Horrifying events. I remember one specific episode in which my brother and his wife sat watching a drama or more like an aircraft display while I lay supine behind them trying (and somehow succeeding) to masturbate with a common household item made of hard plastic. It was like an old camera or something and despite the discomfort I enjoyed it, working toward that familiar light behind the eyelids, intensely aware of my surroundings: a dim planetarium with real (but small) aircraft flying around the stadium (perhaps it was out of doors and the theatre was the world itself), and when I looked up or opened my eyes I saw my brother gazing down upon me over his seat with an expression of ridicule and intense enjoyment and his wife’s expression of satisfaction (not to be confused with nor meant as gratification) for she understood and could identify with perversity despite being wholly rational while I was obviously crazy, purely and openly crazy, and her expression also betrayed a tinge of respect for my having the balls to boldly masturbate around so many people with a foreign object not at all intended for sexual use. I felt extreme embarrassment and the realization that I was caught in the act, my deeds were irreversible and my legacy as a mad pervert firmly cemented, and also that I had painfully shredded some of the skin from my penis during the act and lie there bleeding, mortified. The dream then shifted and I was part of an army and thus had to ensure the safety of the aircraft flying about the theatre, or something like that, which moved the dream into completely different emotional terrain. But for the purposes of this particular moment on this particular page I will adhere to the theme of sexuality, or subconscious masturbation, to be precise. Even aged four years I knew what sexuality was, though there was no word for it, and no words at all, at least those of the read and written varieties. I dreamed often of women three times my age, which made them about 20 or thereabouts, and I particularly dreamed of bare women’s asses. Nothing special about them, no strutting or tail-wagging or any of the other abundant desires wrought of man’s maturity and experience, just women’s asses, bare, by moonlight. Those are the most premature sexual thoughts I can remember having, and I remember they came from dreams and I’d wake up feeling an intense need to do something but not knowing exactly what. Instincts told me that an action had to follow the dream but the act eluded me until few years later. Perhaps those early dreams were a microcosm of or metaphor for all of my dreams, then and now, threatening or otherwise. All dreams force me into one action or another, whether it be choosing to protect a theatre full of airborne aggressors or mutilating my most intimate anatomic module.
Published by TJ McAvoy
I am a thinker by trade and an artist by definition. Primary influences include, in no particular order, Chandler, Voltaire, Saramago, Borges, John Coltrane, Nietzsche, Ricardo Piglia, Emerson, George V. Higgins, Manuel Puig, D.F. Wallace, Cortázar, Denis Johnson, Michelangelo, Italo Calvino, Cormac McCarthy, Juan José Saer, Keith Jarrett, J-Dilla, Roberto Bolaño, and Don DeLillo. View all posts by TJ McAvoy