I don’t know where this came from, precisely, save for the fact that yesterday I sported a Snoopy pin on my maroon-colored shirt, a long-sleeved affair given to me by an ex-gf and which has her father’s first initial and last name etched on the surface around the label that presently, along with the man’s name, touches the back of my neck.
I think of it now, though, and seem to remember Schulz dying just days before 9/11, the 21st anniversary of which beckons. The confluence of the sartorial flourish (the Snoopy pin) and perhaps some passing mention in a news blip of an anniversary of Schulz’s passing brought that dream to fruition, to crystalization.
Whatever its origins I woke from that dream, and from 4 or 5 others now forgotten, with a bones for all times, for all ageas epochs and eræ. THis fucker (if only) would not quit, did not relent, and refused to let me sleep in peace (not that I ever do sleep in peace). With this benevolent tumescence I could have fucked some of those new galaxies seen by that NASA gadget. Instead, as my dreamscapes progressed in their usual squalid sprawl, I limited my fuckprint to willing humans, and they were abundant. With my status as a recipient of Schulz’s final announcement my powerful potency became all the more pounced upon. The cunts drew to me like rats to the trash, which in time became not just a suitable analogy but a reality, as I became nothing but a stick of garbage.
I don’t know what explains the nocturnal erectitude but who has time for assplinations? I had galaxies to penetrate, universes to feel wrap around me and tighten, squeezing me into a tiny diamond as the black hole of time devoured me.
I ddi consume more food than usual yesterday. More variety. Diet is usually the culprit in these episodes. There is a particular cheeseburger I order once in a while. Without fail I sleep with a solid but not painful boner any time I consume that burger for dinner. Last night’s experience bordered on painful but did not quite reach that point. I think the dreamsland might have distracted, or syphoned away the mental anxieties that help fuel these experiences.
…
I am wearing pants that fit, which is not entirely new to me but these past months have seen me grab the pants from 30 pounds ago. Never appreciated having a bulge, not since the 9th grade when a teacher repeatedly and unmistakably glanced at my crotch during lecture that was, for me at least, endless. She thought she had such a sly, undetectable technique, like Johnny reading his cue cards.
But I could tell. I knew. At that age I didn’t know what to think or, more insidiously, what to do. Should I adjust myself? Cover it with a textbook? Grab it and move it in a way that makes it less visible? That would only draw more attention. It would up the ante, making me a willing participant in this strange dance between a woman of authority and whatever status I held in this situation. She was a guest lecturer, an esteemed doctorate of music and the only woman in the university’s history to achieve such a degree. None of that impressed me, as I recall. To be a “doctor” of anything other than medicine sounded pretentious to me, and somehow that sitgma has lingered even though I should know better.
She had a droll, sloping mouth, the lips thin to non-existant. They moved only as much as necessary, closing the instant of her last syllable, not even waiting for the closing punctuation. That mouth made my crotch quake, and shiver, every time those eyes glanced at my bulge. The entirety of her face, towering over me as she lectured from the 6-inch lifted pulpit, made my cock and balls feel horrible, like some kind of ghastly creature stared at not for its desirability but for its absurdity, for its inapproriateness. It made me feel that it should not be there.
It was genuinely unpleasant. I have foggy memories of thinking this is what it’s like. This is growing up. This is The World. Adult woman twice my age will look at my body like this. But what was she thinking? What went on behind that craggy, toad-like face? What words and thoughts flipped through the words she spoke outloud, with happened to be a brief biography of Igor Stravinsky? Did she want more than a look?
(Stravinsky, I would later leran, was proud of his huge penis).
In addition to pants that fit I am also wearing new thermal socks. These are important to me as the temperature drops because they allow me to keep wearing my favorite pair of Teva sandals. Sandals in the winter. It’s not winter yet or even close to it but I stocked up on fresh thermals anyway. I do not wear sandals sockless. As a Transylvanian woman once remarked, “It’s because you’re white.” White people don’t like their feet. I mean, that’s what she said. She was openly promiscuous and flaunting of her body parts but I guess she considered me more more demure, at least when I knew her.
