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I have a recurring nightmare. A fire alarm has sounded in my apartment building in the middle of the night. I’ve evacuated with the rest of the residents and am standing out on the sidewalk as firefighters rush into the building. There’s no sign of smoke. It’s cool out; a light drizzle is falling. I don’t mind however; it’s refreshing.
What bothers me is my gradual self-discovery that I’ve left my bed wearing pantyhose and panties. The red lacquer on my toenails is visible through tan hose’s reinf***ed toes. As I stand there among my neighbors, most of whom are strangers, I try to curl my toes under—make "fists" of them like Bruce Willis in that early scene in Die Hard. I’m ostensibly a man. What will my neighbors think? My mother is among the people milling on the sidewalk. So is my ex-wife. What will they think?
A distinguished-looking gentleman comes up to me. I don’t know him. He’s wearing a commercial pilot’s uniform. He says something like, "I have your ticket for you," and hands me an old-fashioned hardcopy ticket in a paper sleeve. The sleeve is printed on one side with a full-color photograph of the twin towers of the World Trade Center. The sky is blue, the buildings tall and silver. The copy says, "Experience New York!" or something along those lines. I ask the pilot what time the flight is. I get the feeling he’s on layover. He points at the sky.
A jetliner flies over at very slow speed, just above the treetops. The plane appears to be leaking something—fuel? I wonder if the mist we’ve been feeling is actually aviation fuel.
My mother comes up to me. She’s holding a grey blanket. Or perhaps it’s a throw rug. She attempts to d**** it over my shoulders but I protest that she should keep it. It’s raining out and she’ll catch a chill. She insists, however, and it’s only at this point I realize she’s attempting to cover my embarrassment.
I’m "wearing" the blanket now. I touch my head. I realize I’ve also come downstairs wearing one of my wigs. As well as red lipstick. I wonder if the points of my bra cups show underneath the bulky blanket, which is coarse and itchy. A woman runs from the building covered in soot. She’s waving her hands; appears to be screaming though I can’t hear her from where I stand. It’s no longer our apartment building she’s running from but an office building of some sort.
I feel guilty. I should be helping out the firefighters. Instead I’m standing across the street dressed as a woman. I suddenly feel very self-conscious; quite vain in fact. I wonder how I look standing there in my heels, hose, panties, bra, makeup and wig. I sense contempt all around me. I want to say (to the men): "I bet I have better legs than any of your wives. In fact I know I do!" I feel downright haughty. The office building, which appears to be about six stories (it disappears into the low ceiling of mist) is skewed now; tilting to the left. I wonder if it was built this way—post-modern architecture—or if it is facing imminent collapse. I wonder if I should run. I feel rooted to the spot where I stand, however. Is it because I’m in heels, and have never run in them before? Am I afraid of falling? Tearing my stockings up? My knees? People are fleeing the building, meanwhile. Some are on fire, their hair at least. I feel guilty. I should be helping. Somehow.
I ask the handsome pilot, who is much younger now, if he would like a drink. We’re back in my apartment, the emergency apparently over. Let me revise that. We’re in a dream version of my apartment. For instance it has no outer wall; it is open to the elements. Looking out, you can see the fine mist falling in the vapor lights. The pilot, if he is a pilot, points at the ceiling (there are holes in the ceiling, which open up to the sky) and says he should be up "there." I gather he’s missed his flight. He has a beautiful cock: long and thick and circumcised and erect. I can’t wait to wrap my lips around it.
"How did you know I liked girls?" he says. By girls he means gurls.
I say something like: "I could see it in your eyes."
There are several men in "my" apartment. Seated in odd-shaped forest-green chairs with slanting backs and wooden armrests. I get the feeling they’re waiting their turns. I welcome this. Bottoming for a roomful of men? What fun!
The drinks I’m attempting to make for my guests require a mortar and pestle. Mojitos? The term is muddle isn’t it? Muddle? I’m naked below the waist now and my shaved genitals bounce as I vigorously work the pestle. I become conscious of my balls. They ache. I look down. I’m wearing a stainless steel ball collar. It must be 65 millimeters’ tall! I worry that it is too much—too big in diameter for my little balls—and will slip off and fall to the tile, cracking it.
My ex-wife comes over, smiling. She gives my right ass-cheek a squeeze. My ass feels very firm. Very…full. I’m pleased with myself. I must be working out! This is the result! She says, "I didn’t know you had it in you."
I smile. I look down. I’ve inadvertently been grinding my fingers in the mortar. From the mid-joints in they’ve been reduced to…mush. I feel no pain. I wonder how this will make the drinks taste. My ex, I discover, is covered in ash. Soot. There’s a break however between the bulgy flesh below her navel and her dark triangular bush. I finger her in the kitchen. She’s wet. Her wetness is thick, viscous; like molasses. She moans. People are watching. We’re in a public park, by a tree. The backs of my hands are sooty.
It’s not my wife, it’s our adult daughter. She’s naked. Her back is to the tree. Her breasts…firm and beautiful. Ripe tropical fruit. I feel them. I tell her not to worry, not to pay attention to the people gathered round. Someone on a horse rides by. I feel her breasts (they’re as firm as my ass when my wife squeezed it in the dream kitchen), I kiss her lips. People on horses have gathered around. Some are cops wearing blue and white helmets. They’re smiling. It’s a show.
My daughter is on her hands and knees in the grass; I’m on my knees. It occurs to me we’ll come away with telltale green stains. Like rug burns. I lean over—my cock is in my daughter—and ask if she’s on the pill. She says no, not anymore. It gives her…psoriasis. Something like that.
I fuck her anyway. I decide…I don’t give a shit at this point. People are applauding. We’re on a wooden stage. In the park. I cum. That’s what they’ve come for. We rise. We bow. They applaud. Our knees are stained green, as if with paint. I look over at my daughter’s naked body. It’s just like her mother’s, 25 years before. Slightly bigger tits, but…
The sky is raining something. I raise my face, open my mouth to it. I’m parched after the performance. It tastes like cream. Not cream, cum. Not cum but creamer. The powdered stuff. I begin to choke. A jetliner flies over, just above the trees. I know in my heart it’s about to crash. We—
I awake. It’s a Wednesday. I’m pretty sure. Green Market day. The stalls will be filled with brightly colored vegetables from upstate. I look over at the two sl**ping women beside me. My daughter and my (ex-)wife. It’s the middle of the night. Who should I hold? Wrap my arms around? If our daughter my wife will become incensed. If my wife…
I feel guilty about fucking my daughter in the park without a condom. A lady in the crowd offered me one but I turned her down. It was actually an inflated balloon with a comical face on it. She called me an "outcast."
I lie back between the warm bodies of the two women wondering if either will mind that I’m dressed in pantyhose and panties. (My wife certainly will!) I worry. I have a dry, tart, flinty taste in my mouth. Like soot. I close my eyes and see people—women—running from a burning building. Do something!
The fire alarm sounds…