In dreams we wander far from home – geographically, emotionally, physically, temporally. In my dreams – the ones I prefer to remember – I am young again and my body is firm and tanned and strong. I feel invincible and dream of liasions with old lovers and sometimes faceless men who seem familiar, where the dreams feel as real as life did then. When I dream of my beloved it is from those early days when we could only think about getting to bed or other places to fuck ourselves senseless.
And when I dream of other men (and don’t reveal such dreams, sometimes only faintly accepting them myself), men I loved and desired and recall only too well, I wonder – do they dream of me and think of me in that wistful nostalgic way? I know they have aged, wrinkled and paled. I wonder how many I would recognise in the street? Would they know me?
Perhaps it is better to recall them in dreams, conjured from nowhere to remind me of how gloriously carnal we once were? Perhaps it is better to wonder about past lovers and not to know of the current reality? I’d rather resist the urge to ‘google’ them and be forever disappointed.
No, far better to indulge in erotic dreams of past lovers, hug the dreams close, let them warm and remind you of what Apollos we all were, once upon a time, when it was always summer and the world was at our feet…