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Original Short Story: "June's Dream"
A Shrink or Maybe Just a Psych Prof?
June: “Well, that's not unusual. But really, haven't you learned anything in your psychology courses that could shed some light on my dream?”
Sue: “No, I can't understand it. Maybe I'll ask my prof. Or, next semester—I have a course in dream interpretation. Maybe I'll get something in that that will help.”
"I dreamed that dream again . . . "
“I dreamed that dream again last night!” June tells Sue in almost whisper tones.
“Do you wake up moist?” asks Sue.
“Oh, yes, as always,” says June.
“God, what man would ever believe that a woman could have a wet dream?” asks Sue.
“But Sue, it's not really a wet dream, that's why I call it a moist dream,” replies June.
“But it's the same thing.”
“I guess. How do I know, since I'm not a man? And besides you say you've never even had a moist dream. I don't get it. Why do all men have wet dreams, but not all women have moist dreams? Either you are strange or I am.”
“Well, not really. You are just more interested in sex than I am,” says Sue.
“I'm not that interested in sex. I dream about the same guy. Well, I think it's that same guy.”
“Oh, you're not sure!”
“No. But I always feel that same way. It's sexual, but I always feel engulfed in a wonderful radiant . . .something . . . I can't think what it is. It's like being in love, but that sounds too mundane. It's more than that,” says June.
“I don't think there is any more than that. You fall in love, get married, live happily ever after. Unless you get a divorce. Then you're free to do it all over again.”
“Well, see what I mean. You've got to admit that's pretty mundane.”
“Well, it's still just a dream. It's not like you glimpse a hunk on a train, your eyes meet, you tingle down to your toes, he asks you out, and then boom, you know the rest,” offers Sue.
“But when you put it that way, don't you see how mundane that is too?”
“That's just because all I gave was the plot. You know. Your feelings fill it out.”
“Yeah, I know. But none of this helps me understand this dream,” says June.
“Can you see the guy's face?”
"Jerry has nothing to do with this."
“No, at least, I never remember it. I think I see him in my dream, but I never remember what he looks like once I wake up. I just remember having orgasm and then I wake up. I vaguely remember that I'm making love with someone, and it's just the absolute best sex I've ever had. I love him. I know in my dream that I love him. I didn't just pick out a great-looking body to…you know.... But I . . . it's so strange. I always feel so happy, almost blissful—but I can't see who it is. And I can't associate it with anyone I know. You see, I have dreams of having sex with guys I know, and I always know who it was when I wake up. I usually just laugh, if it's someone I like or feel disgusted if it's someone I don't. But I've never had orgasm during a dream like that. Yet this dream always make me come.”
“What does Jerry think about it?” asks Sue.
“Oh, I haven't told him. We don't talk about things like that much anymore. He's gotten to be so conservative and conventional. It's OK. I'd tell him if the occasion ever seemed right. But it never does. And I think I'm mature enough to feel that I don't have to tell my husband everything that's in my head. And that's where this dream is, in my head. If I planned to have sex with someone—I mean really have sex, I'd tell Jerry, and he wouldn't really mind. At least he didn't use to. Of course, with the AIDS thing, he'd probably insist I make the guy wear a condom. Damn, this conversation has gotten off track. Jerry has nothing to do with this. Our sex is fine. This has nothing to do with it.”
“Boy, I wish I had a Jerry. My Jack would not be thrilled if he thought I had dreams about another guy. And he'd kill me if he thought I'd actually had sex with someone else.”
“Well, that's not unusual. But really, haven't you learned anything in your psychology courses that could shed some light on my dream?”
“No, I can't understand it. Maybe I'll ask my prof. Or, next semester—I have a course in dream interpretation. Maybe I'll get something in that that will help.”
“Well, it's no big deal. I ought to be able to figure it out eventually,” says June.
“Yeah, you probably will. I got to go to class. You got class now?”
“No, I have an appointment with a former student. You might know him; he's a psych major too—Brian Wolff—he writes poetry. He was a student in my freshman comp class last semester. When he found out that I had actually published some poems in lit mags, he started bringing me his poems and asking for criticism. He's good. A little rough. But he's got what it takes. He's going to be a great poet. And he's fun to talk to. He's so intelligent. Really tuned in to language. He even gives me some useful criticism on my own poems. I really enjoy these sessions. One hour with him is more productive than all the damn boring poetry workshops I've attended. He's just a dream. Hey, I better get going too. Don't want to keep Brian waiting?”
“Uh, June—you say this kid's a dream. You might want to think about that.”
But June was in a hurry and decided to think about it later.
Daydreaming in the Fields
Funny, Odd Dreams?
What kinds of funny, odd, dreams do you have?
© 2015 Linda Sue Grimes