All Players Enter Here

Last night I had a dream about someone I know in the sorta-kinda-but-not-really way. I hadn't expected to run into him, and he was working behind the counter at some greasy dive restaurant barking orders and waving spatulas at lesser employees. He was short and very rotund and had big bushy eyebrows, and I remember thinking I thought he was thinner... In truth I know this person to look completely the opposite of how he did in my dream. In reality he is sleek and lean and sophisticated in presence; yet when fat and jolly, he still had the same eyes. (Oh, those eyes!) Which leads me to wonder just what subconscious fare was at play creating this imagery.

It was more than the standard "don't think you know everything about a person" thing. Despite his rather engorged state (I generally like people to be of a healthy weight, but this dream-version was well beyond that), I still desperately wanted him. So then I'm left questioning why it is I want him so much, and how he's managed to weasle his way into my brain without showing any effort. But I know why I want him so; because I can't have him. It's an impossibility that were I capable I would render possible in an instant. But this time, it isn't my choice. Dare I say, I have no control over the situation. And that is not something I'm used to.

I don't mean sexual control, but that I have no control in the process. The hunt. I love being hunted, to be quietly stalked and seized and rapturously devoured. But I'm always willing prey and try to make the hunt enjoyable for the channel of my imminent doom. An erotic game of cat and mouse, with me playing a masochistic little flirt skittering here and there to make the cat behind me stay a little more on guard than he's used to. But this cat, he's just sitting there and watching me. Doing nothing but flicking his lithe tale 'cross the ground and cleaning his whiskers (as cats are wont to do). And here I am, playing the daft shrew popping in and out of my little sideboard hole, running errands around the cat in hopes that he'll get up and chase me. I'm not used to this, it's throwing me off my game — which is exactly what he wants.

So I lied, I don't have the patience of a rock. I've tried that route but it never takes me far. I'm greedy and like immediate results. Were I to have my way, instead of chase the stage would clear for him to play Petruchio to my Katherina. Alas, for it is not to be. It would seem truer to say that all the world's a stage and all the men, well, the men show no interest in this flow'ry play. Too bad; I was quite looking forward to writing the next act.