I Daydream of Weenie

zara's picture

While I know a good number of people who vocalize loudly that they do not dream or at the very least concede to the fact that they don't remember their dreams if they're indeed having them, I dream a lot. I dream vividly and the subject matter varies depending on a number of whatever thoughts have been running amok through my self-conscious.

The other night, I had a dream in which I was in a salon, getting my hair done. There was a woman sitting at the station next to me, talking boldly of her recent book publication. She produced a copy of this self-lauded tome for me to peruse while the dye sat soaking into my strands.

It turned out to be a book about the men that she had dated and included intimate pictures and details of what they were like, from personality to sexual performance. The weird thing for me was that the men featured were all friends of mine. None that I had ever dated or even had the most innocent of dalliances with. Just friends whose sexual exploits I would not have cared to read about.

I awoke from the dream feeling a bit dirty. Soiled, not aroused. I'm not exactly sure why this was my reaction to the dream, it just stands that this is what I felt about it when waking up.

There will be some who will attempt to help me analyze that dream, but that's not really what I'm here to write about. I have little to no control over what my mind puts up on its mental film projectors to blast on the backs of my eyeballs as if they were mini personalized movie screens. A stressful day might lead to a dream of chaos. Or conversely, all the worries might melt into my own Willy Wonka candy room where I lick iced toadstools and nibble on giant gummi bears.

The thing that I prefer to do, the thing that I have excelled at for as long as I can remember, are my daydreams.

With a daydream, you don't have to worry about the people involved or any potential negative outcomes. You can pick the players, the scenery, the soundtrack. A daydream can be something as simple as thinking about winning the lottery, something I imagine that most folks do on a regular basis, rendering it too mundane for me to waste my daydreaming hours on.

In my job, I drive a lot. I drive a regular path during the week, rarely deviating from the same roads day in and day out. This provides a certain amount of safety for myself and my passengers. It is rare that I encounter traffic or certain road obstacles aside from the infrequent road repair. The speed remains the same in each zone. Therefore, as I do an hour's worth of driving in the mornings and the afternoons, I have ample time to allow my mind to wander into the forest of enchanting daydreams.

And most often, I think about sex.

Much to the chagrin (and yet acceptance) of my boyfriend, my daydreams feature different players and sex acts that aren't commonly on my menu. The restaurant my mind feasts at is immense in its diversity. Often I think about having sex with women, famous women, those who have stripped for the camera so that I know of their freckles and delicate curve of the underside of their breasts. Why I daydream about sex with women with a fair frequency is beyond my comprehension. I have dabbled with bisexuality and find it more intriguing in concept than in the follow-through.

Most often, above my mind imagining nipples hardened and poised for my mouth to suckle on, I think of sex with men that I know. It is a circus sideshow affair, often featuring disturbing images of screwing my former bosses or an employee who bags groceries at the local market. I wonder what these men look like naked and vulnerable. I try to visualize where they feel their prowess lies. Is this a man with a large uncircumcised penis? Does he fancy himself the cunnilingus black belt for the Ventura County area? Will he be timid or bold? How will he touch me? What will he do first?

I daydream about scenarios that I know will never occur. I believe it is easiest and most arousing to do this because my imagination is my greatest tool. I can satisfy myself with my thoughts faster than many other things. The old adage that women are wired through their brains more than their anatomy seems to be my rule and not the exception.

On occasion, I do think about having sex with people that I know better than the bag boy at Trader Joe's. These daydreams are most confusing to me, knowing what information I do about these men, having had more personalized interactions with them. I know where they would most likely start. I've either overheard or can sense what they are most sufficient in or believe themselves to be the master at.

It is unsettling to think about having sex with people that you know and not have daydreams about the person that you go home to after work. I texted my boyfriend one day, posing the question of whether he daydreams about having sex with me during his work day. His response was joking, telling me that he would only make mistakes on the job if he did. We know what the entree tastes like. We have had our desserts and know the flavours of them.

As much as it was a childish ego smasher to ask that question of him, it was unfair. I knew what the answer would be, if not the exact phrasing of it. Why daydream about who you can physically be with later on?

I think often of multiple partners, although this is something that I have dabbled with as well and understand the ramifications of enough to know that the fantasy always outmeasures the reality. But it is easier to picture myself in that Chinese finger trap if only in my mind. In fact, it fuels my desire more for one-on-one sex and the pleasure that outweighs the novelty.

If anything, the thing that should disturb me the most is that while I am conducting my mundane work activities, I think of the one thing that I dare not approach in my workplace. I tone down my sexuality to nil when working. But my brain, I cannot stop. My thoughts remain. In my internal cinema, I am XXX-rated.

My waking subconscious is relentless. I dare not stifle it, even while I pause to question it.

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