Recalling the dream, I 'm in chest-height water. A hot-tub. Shaded, swirling mists of a light vapor surround, twist and rise. Thin slices of late-morning sun filter across ferns into a claustrophobic, glass-ceiling and wood-lined, intimate space. The ferns drip on beige, Tuscan tiles.
I'm with a woman.
Perhaps a neighbor? Who is she? During a smoking tike-torch welcome-to-the-neighborhood BBQ for myself and my partner, someone invited me to visit. Perhaps it is her? As she handed me her phone number, I recall her, stressing, “When our husbands are gone.”
Not a husband, my partner and I, to save on expenses, while we complete university programs, are house sitting. Sydney's inner-city hamlet, Roseville, is known for gender-various beings; 'pandrogynous' the real estate broker said. Neighborhood myths or anarchic spirits, if true, wife swapping, mate swapping, swingers, and afternoon trysts enliven the seasons.
My back to her, I'm seated, naked, on the woman's lap. Firmly – so I will not float – a strong left arm embraces below my ribs. A firm hand cups my right breast. Glancing down, I see she wears a wide, gold-band wedding-ring. No diamonds. Her nails are polished. Pearl.
Twisting to look, I see shoulder-length blond hair. Eyes of colbalt blue. Larger, half again my size, a bountiful, well-proportioned figure emerges above her waist. She is a paragon of whatever it is that keeps age at bay. Our eyes lock. She smiles.
Inside I am sinking through layers of existence. Although warmed by her body and stimulated by churning currents, because of her voluptuously rounded breasts, I am diminished, inadequate, unworthy. These worsening thoughts started earlier when she walked into the guestroom.
I am about to change into my bathers. Looking in the mirror, I frown at my tiny tits. No knock, she enters wearing heels and nothing more – except a watch – saying, as she reaches, "Would you like to remove it?" She grins. In stilettos, she is tall, a woman in possession with herself.
Turning, I stretch to remove the leather-banded time-piece – a Gucci. Diamonds mark the hours.
Leaving my bathers draped over the back of an Asian-style, silken chair, grasping my fingers in her right hand, she leads me out of the guestroom to the hot-tub chamber.
I don't object as her right hand massages my tummy. This soothes.
Earlier, holding my arm as I stepped into the water, her eyes scanning, she told me – rather brightly – I remind her of herself when she was sixteen and understands my desires.
Composed, almost motherly, I sense her reserve, her patience, her restraint. Yet, my heart is all a flutter, gooey, as I am longing for her to reach lower and finger me. My body cries with desire to please her. I am ready for anything. Yet, I am embarrassed because I haven't trimmed down there for weeks.
I peer again into her eyes. With lips parted slightly, she appears thoughtful, impassive. I want to stand before her, let her kiss, lick and twist my pointy brown nipples. As though a rare, beautiful, disquieted bird, I want to linger. I want her to spread my legs as though wings. I want for her to take me. I wait.
The scene changes. The sun above. I am looking down. A wide, unpolished brass ring surrounds the seething waters. I see the blond woman lifting a girl so like me. Breasts pressed together, she seats the girl on the edge. She steps back, kneels below her, tips her head to one side, and, looking up, smiles with benign grace. Looking again at the slender, pale, boyish-girl, the woman moves forward, finger tips grasping the girl's thin shoulders.
I see the girl's throat muscles tighten. She swallows. Again, I see myself.
With legs still dangling in the water, the woman tips the willing girl back. She reaches for a pillow, places it under the girl's head. Leaning over, holding the side of of the girl's head, like a mother and a daughter, she brushes a wet kiss to the girl's left cheek.
Kneeling again, the woman easily lifts the girl's thin, smooth legs, one over each of her broad shoulders. Her hands sweep her blond hair back as she kisses the warm and smooth inside of each thigh. Each kiss a 'thank you,' an acknowledgment, for visiting when her husband is away.
Looking on the scene, I feel joy and fear, fear as in a murky sea, yet paradoxically unafraid; even a dark current may cast me ashore on a wide, sunny beach. I have inside-out, extraordinary, confused thinking.
With my partner, and blokes before, I am the dominant one, taking the initiatives, pushing them on their backs, teasing with my mouth, then cow-girl above....
I know I look younger than my age, but sixteen!
Who is this older woman? I feel submissive yet confident. Legs held tenderly, arms folded behind my head, I relax. I stare at the glass ceiling. I have no mind left. The tension ebbs away as I wake flushed, raw, a hand between my legs. My hand.
Mid-morning already. The sun, over the nearest roof, stings my sight and illuminates a half-cup of coffee. While pouring a second cup, I yield to an impulsive need. I'm feeling transitory, primitive, scampering images from my dream fester until I dial: “Yes. As soon as ... Relax in ... Of course... May I change in your guestroom?”
Replacing the phone, I am uncertain how to begin or how to proceed, how to find the truth of new desire ... a consciousness, an anguished self-consciousness....
The decision has made its way. My surrender.
Pouring a fresh coffee, seeing the woman of my dream will not expect me for another thirty minutes, I am reminded of high school orchestra practices, of the dress rehearsal the day before the opera. The dream: ... the dress rehearsal. Today: ... the opera, the full performance. I gulp.
Adding more milk, I spoon the surface. Crossing my vision, images of the full performance, like a porn-video, reflect off the creamy swirl. I feel a breathless tension in the reality of wanting to play both roles. In that warm spot, I begin to burn.
In her home I learn the wealthy woman – the woman of grace and ease – the wife of the cool-as-steel banker, who travels on business most days each week, is bored of arranging charity auctions, the moguls, the mock celebrities, the over-dressed, cocktail sheaths and jeweled belts worn by those looking forever bemused. Too many caterers, perfumers and security goons.
She wants hearts alone to communicate. No need for words when the chemistry is right. No words while the heart, even lust speak. Unconscious mind and the conscious convey the adventure of need in this, a Jack and Jill hamlet of compulsory happiness where propriety is on display.
Scoffing at my wailing about my never-unfolding AA breasts, she – in sympathy – tells of herself (in the same way) escaping the early adolescence of girls when nasty, needling, drawing blood in pain-taking ways.
My heart embraces her kindred expressions.
Then in the midst of ferns, beside the tumbling waters, a dish of ripe figs, white asparagus and prosciutto are nibbled. Frankincense blooms the air as her fingers trail with a lightness of touch.... She, as if Queen, and me as wood-nymph, princess-swan, writhing and twisting in delight as the seven-am alarm rings. “Ah” I sigh, realizing, unveiling, a dream in a dream.
Reliving the dreams, adding Mexican Kahlua to my morning brew, in my purse, finding the phone number, I dial:
She is warm, welcoming. We speak at length: “Yes, he is away for three days. Of course, this is a good time for a visit ... So your partner is away too ... How nice ... Darling, before you arrive, I'll warm the Jacuzzi ... A guestroom? There's a double bed? ... Planning to stay? ... Is that why you ask? ... Of course, you may. We'll go shopping.”
I hung up, after having a mutually-dazed telephone-laugh with her. That was when I answered her question: “Just how do you plan to use the guest-bed-room?”
I answered: “As a beginning of my dream – both of them.”
Needing to be ready for the performance, I decided on a comfortable, yet sexy look, close-fit jeans, white-tee, no bra, black thong, and, yes, flowers. Flowers? Innocent white or passionate red? Feeling like a virgin, from my garden, I chose white.
Lip gloss and a touch of mascara, my bathers in a beach-bag and flowers in hand, I face a ten-am sun, stroll past four mansion-size properties before pressing the button at No 121.
A click is followed by, “Darling girl, is it you?”
“Yes, it is.”
I take a deep breath, then another. The gate buzzes – needing lubrication – it squeaks. Slides open.
In her housecoat, she waves from an upstairs veranda. She blows a welcoming kiss.
As we hug and cheeks brush, I am aware she wears little, or perhaps nothing, under the silk housecoat. She steps back, swirls, saying, “Do you like it? My husband purchased it. Hong Kong. It is so divine, I wear nothing more.”