I awoke in what I took to be a Skinimax porn house except no. Upon reflection it was in truth an unpretentious clapboard house such as one finds in every unpretentious city or town between the Rockies and Atlantic. It was in California though. This I sensed infallibly and I'd confidentally guess that it was in San Luis Obispo or there abouts on the central coast, not so far north as Steinbeck country. At the front door I opened to find a large beach concert in perfect 90's MTV style down to the very look and grain of the film. The Scissor Sisters were playing. It was 'Take Your Mama' because I find their newer shit to be too conventionally pop and without distinction. Still they were playing 'Take Your Mama" in this new pop style of theirs and this saddened me, made me feel my age in a way the 90's of the film did not.
It was then I looked down to find that I was pantsless, I slammed the door mortified in the classic dream trope because it was a papal-sized crowd outside see, at least two stadiums worth. A white bro asked me who needs pants when I'm having fun and then disappeared.
A woman had been following me this whole time. I knew this but didn't consider her important enough for acknowledgement until I acknowledged her now. "Who needs pants when you're having fun right?" She was wearing a red shirt and also no pants. Her face was at least a near-clone of a woman I've seen in waking life. One who I have never spoken to and have never felt any attraction no frustrated repressed or any other attraction except now I looked up her thighs and thought of the smell of sweat upon the bodies of past lovers, and as I kept looking up to find her vulva the tenderness was such that it was like I was cumming already and I don't know. It's as if I was my penis at this moment in time as in seeing through the eyes of my penis but that's impossible even if it's true. It's just too preciously spiritual to be true even if it is true because I am a very serious thinker and writer you see. James Baldwin was never his own penis through all temptations of Paris fluff.
I woke up, anyway, without dreaming through the actual rhythms of having sex, neither flustered or aroused, as if I had dreamed of nothing or penicillian.
I see the big picture now. I'm melancholy in June because I know there will be just a handful of days with enough silken warmth to still be loving at 4 AM. While in earliest January I am energized by the sun being out for not quite a minute more each day, growing stronger as it comes home from Argentina. Summer at any rate can be gross and fetid, which in certain moods makes it hard to find bodies attractive because I take only dispride in being a body. Winter on the other hand is clean. The bloodsuckers are all dead and nothing smells like anything. It's clean. You've heard the romance of warmth spoken of but I tell you I never feel more aroused then I step out of the shower on a frozen wan noon. On these days I want nothing but a kitchen of pots boiling distilled water in preperation for nothing. I want the smell of new paint pristinely white on the walls seven coats worth except dry though and I want the mother-goddes what's her name from Metropolis to have my way with. If I were a mad billionaire I would waste the earth's water on perpetual showers, giving prostitutes however much extra was required for them to follow the winter with me from pole to pole or camped in the most foodless highlands through fall and spring.
If one more discerning were to suspect some racial element to all this I'm afraid that I cannot tell you for a certain that this isn't so. It might be and if it were somehow proven so I'd feel bad. My own guess is that, while I'm quite confident, very much so, of having transcended all that cultural virgin vs. slut nonsense; the more ephemeral notion of 'purity' has evolved into a different form within me that shall probably live for as long as I do. There's no such thing as being o.k.