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Page 4.
Chapter 3. First Delicacies
 As we drew near, the men were all huddled over the condiments table, holding paper plates brimming with tangy delicacies. Seeing a row of silk clad behinds, I looked at Fanna who kept pace beside me. I studied her flat, Nordic (I think) pale features, so pretty and exotic.
"Can I?" I asked. My voice was a whisper. That was the closest I'd come to shaking and trembling once again—with desire, maybe even anguish, but not anything self-bad.
Her full mouth twisted into a knowing grin. "Not too hard. Don't hurt them."
So I walked along the row of men, grabbing their tight little buns with both of my eager, hungry hands. There is no describing it, since nobody has ever done such a thing (that I know of) in the waking world. The guys didn't even seem to notice. Their buns felt tight and muscular. Some were bigger than others. I liked the smaller, bunnier ones you could get into your palm and squeeze your fingers around. All those muscles, so compact and sweaty. Probably hairy under those jogging shorts, too. Some of them had these cute donut asses with a dimple on each side in the middle of the muscles—great to hold on to, but I was more into yelling WHEEEE and running down the line grabbing each bunny butt one by one.
"Easy on the balls," Fanna muttered through her teeth, into my ear as she swerved behind me. "Take your time. No rush. There are—what?—about twenty of them. That should last you a while. Their balls hurt if you accidently knock them. The buns are lovely, aren't they?"
"Oh I want them," I said in a hungry tone. After a lifetime of denial, I was like a starving animal.
"Remember the old saying," Fanna told me. "Don't spend all your buns in one store."
"Tell me again," I said. "I need to hear it just one more time to be sure."
"Don't eat all your buns in one score."
"Thank you." I hesitated, just a fleeting second. "Will I not be mortally embarrassed forever by what I get myself into here?"
Fanna shook her head slowly, and made a face as if I were a slow learner. "Rosemary dear, remember: what happens in you dreams stays in your dreams."
I stood holding a man's mountain oysters in my starving little paw, and looked at Fanna. The man was busy discussing baseball with another man, while they dipped into chicken bits and barbecue sauce, and he didn't seem to notice or care. I wanted to grab his shaft and make it hard, to see if I could arouse (no pun intended) his attention, but I wasn't that far along yet. My healing process would have a way to go. Also, that barbecue sauce smelled divine—just the right amounts of sweet (brown sugar), sour (vinegar), smoke (woodsy), and salty (sea salt). I was more hungry for men than for chicken tits. Actually, I was more hungry for this new feeling of freedom. It was like being drunk on fresh mountain air. Talk about oxygen.
"Repeat after me."
"I am a kid in a candy store."
"No, Rosemary, that's not what I said." She was having trouble not bursting out laughing.
"I know," I said, punching her shoulder lightly with my free hand. "What happens in my dreams, stays in my dreams. I just want to keep telling myself over and over again, in case I lose my nerve."
"Or wake up suddenly," Fanna said. For a second, a dark cloud shaded her bright eyes.
I took warning from that, and let the poor man strut away holding a tasty, drippy chicken breast aromatic with tangy sauce.
Everything has its boundaries—even here. Of course, that makes it all the more spicy.
"You like it so far?" Fanna asked me. Somehow, a fizzy vanilla shake had appeared in her hand, with a squiggle of whipped cream on it, and a red cherry on top. You get used to this in the dream world. You can wish something, and it's the next thing that happens. Continuity isn't what you are used to in the waking world. One minute you're in the office, eyeballing Mr. Perfecto. The next minute you are in a hot tub at his mountain ranch, both of you stark naked and holding margaritas while curling your toes together. In the waking world (we don't say 'real world' to avoid confusing the issues) it would happen differently. There would be a lot of confusion, mixed signals, bated breath, hopeful sighs, will he or won't he. Then there would be an hour of traffic jams and who knows what else. Here in the dream world you simply float (not lurch) smoothly (usually) from wish to fulfillment, from desire to fire.
Fanna's ice cream was in a parfait glass, one of those heavy old-fashioned ones. She sipped from a straw. Her lips had gone from snow-pale, almost bluish, to glossy red the color of that cherry (her cherry, I suppose, if everything in dreams has Freudian meaning). Anyway, about her lips—quick makeup job, huh? I wondered if I could get stuff like that; maybe a makeover, pampered by a sweet gay man who could not stop talking about his darling Roger or whatever. It is with gay men that straight women experience relief from men who prefer hen.
"Yeah," I said. "I am totally experiencing bliss. And anticipation."
"What are you anticipating?"
"Whatever happens next."
She blinked both eyes shut with contentment while holding her glass in both dreamy bluish hands and sipping. She was enjoying the hell out of that sweet drink.
"Something crazy," I said. "Show me the possibilities."
She blinked again, this time in acquiescence. "Okay, Rosemary. Something whacky. Here goes."
One instant I was standing there talking with her, and lusting after her milk shake.
Oh, I forgot to say that in dreams, you can eat or drink anything you want. You don't gain an ounce, and if you drink too many shlupps with your pupps there is no hangover.
The next minute, the whole scenery and everything had changed. Like wow, wowowowow.
That's how it goes in dreams. There are few transitions. Everything flows into the next.
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