Don’t panic. This is actually a post about a dream. I know, I know. Posting what you dreamed last night is one of the worst Faux Pas in blogging (even worse than posting pictures of your cat or having ‘ramblings of’ in your blog description) but indulge me. This one shook me up for days. It was beyond realistic (I have a detailed memory of the apartment’s floor plan and its decor).
I was with someone. We were undercover except she was the real deal. She’d been a prostitute for years and was every bit a pro whereas I’d just pretended, to get their trust. It was now midday and I was just showing her around, as she would be taking over. The apartment had an expensive nightclub feel to it, done out in rich fabrics, dark purples and blacks. The hallways was an inverse T-shape with a room to the left and a sofa to the right. The sofa stood against a feature wall. It was a standalone type wall with gaps to walk around it. It was painted a deep maroon.
click here for a floor plan of the apartment
Behind the feature wall stood a pool table which was overlooked by a small bar. The bar wasn’t very long but it was cozy and small lights illuminated the area just underneath the edge.
My friend and I walked toward the bar area and I noticed a number of women in party clothes and make up, slumped. I didn’t know whether they were drugged up or dead. I wasn’t feeling too comfortable, in the dragon’s lair as it were and just wanted to show my friend the place and get out. I hadn’t expected anyone to be here so was startled by someone behind the bar asking us what we wanted to drink.
Playing it cool I asked for a glass of red wine and some guys started up a game of pool. They invited us to join them and although I wasn’t feeling happy about it, I had a facade to maintain. We both smiled and laughed, pretending to be playful and flirtatious and having fun.
As my friend made her shot, a guy beckoned to her to follow him. ‘Uh Oh‘, I thought. This is a little more on-duty than I had in mind, but I smiled and laughed and moved to take my shot. At that point someone gently put his hand around my wrist. Oh God. Not me. Please not me.
He led me round the feature wall. My mind was racing: what do I do?! I don’t know what to do! I noticed my friend, already naked and on top of a man on the sofa. Oh God. This confirmed what was expected of me. I was scared but pretending to be cool about it all. I kept up the smiling facade.
The man led me to the room opposite the front door. It was a bedroom and I was surprised to see someone in there, on the bed waiting. I assumed he was the owner, as he seemed to think himself important and the man who had my wrist was just the errand boy sent to fetch one (me).
I had no way of getting out of this. I had to stay in character and did my best. I climbed on top and looked down at him. I tried to pretend he was maybe someone nice. Then I tried just not looking at him (c’mon girl, fake it better!). I tried to think of it as just an act: an anatomical game, nothing more. I now understand what women mean when they say they put themselves elsewhere and it’s not them doing what they’re doing. You distance yourself. You become like a puppet. The smiles, the flirting, that’s just the puppet doing its dance.
I could tell whatever I was doing was having no effect on him. He wasn’t turned on at all and I found this really distressing. I wanted this over with. Just come and then I can leave. What was I doing wrong?
He suddenly asked me what I had been drinking. I could tell by the tone of his voice I was in trouble. “Um, just half a glass of red wine” I confessed. I thought he objected to the alcohol but he was annoyed because it “makes you breath smell like a rag. Why can’t you drink Benedictine or something?” (I say Benedictine because that’s what popped into my head at the time he said it. He actually named a different drink I hadn’t heard of and so can’t remember it. It sounded similar, though).
He told me to go throw it up. At least I think that’s what he meant. He used an expression I wasn’t familiar with so assumed it was that, but I was confused. There was a sink in the room but now? Here? I looked to him for some sort of confirmation and he got angry “Are you crazy? you think I want you doing it in here?! Go to the bathroom!” and he threw an orange towel at me. He moved toward me and I flinched away, doing a sort of simultaneous hop and run backwards out of the room.
I didn’t know where the bathroom was but I saw a harsh light shine out from behind a large mirrored door. It slid aside to reveal a bathroom.
I looked in the mirror. I noted what great eye make-up I had. A sexy kitten look achieved with false eyelashes at the edges and some liquid eyeliner. I looked great but felt wretched. How do I throw up? Do I really? what use is that? Maybe he meant something else. He was so angry. I didn’t want to go back. I felt sure he preferred violence over tenderness. He’d already treated me like dirt. More was to follow I’m sure and I was scared.
I thought about escaping through the front door. (sorry to say I didn’t give a second thought to my friend, but then I was in no position to help anyone, anyway). Although I was naked I didn’t care (not one of those dreams, then). But I pictured the beefy security on the door. I’d never get past them. This was planned and they were probably primed to stop us leaving. This looked hopeless. What do I do?
then-snap- I was in my bed. I couldn’t believe it! How did I get here?! It wasn’t like waking up from a nightmare.This was just a ‘ping’ back to here.
Waking up from nightmares usually involves being chased by something and then, just as the blind panic becomes unbearable, you wake up all adrenalined up. This was different. Although I was in mortal danger, it was inferred. I was calmly thinking through my options when I snapped to here. The awfulness was not the fear of him or the violence, it was what I’d been doing. The grottiness of sex with someone you don’t want to have sex with. I remember him clearly. He was a little stocky, average height. Black, with good skin and a face that was very square but proportioned. Not an unattractive man but not someone I wanted inside me . I was still shaken.
Not long after (less than 10 minutes) the alarm went off and the Sous Chef woke up. I told the Sous Chef about it but he didn’t get it. “aaaw, it was just a dream” he cooed dismissively and I burst into tears. Yes it was just a dream but it felt like I’d just come back from something real. The time passing felt realistic. the detail and cohesiveness of the apartment. It wasn’t a “So I was at home, right, and then suddenly I was on this stagecoach in the middle of Old Trafford” sort of dream where scene changes happen without question. This dream was indistinguishable from reality and had made me feel horrid. It wasn’t the helplessness or the fear, it was the sex. It was so bad. I hated it. I was repulsed by what I’d been doing. All the while smiling and being all flirty and available. I was now struck by the repugnance of it.
I felt used and like some sort of commodity. I had been looked upon as nothing more than an object and had behaved as one, too. The men at the scene didn’t care that I was a person with feelings and a mind. I was a thing for their enjoyment. It made me feel horrid. It made me feel horrid for people who actually live that life. It also made me think about how easily these things can happen against your will (and better judgement). And about how convincing the act has to be. How the smiles and flirting is all a lie no matter how it looks. Men who go to brothels should KNOW this, but they don’t. They don’t want to think about it.
I told the Sous Chef “whatever you do, don’t ever go to a prostitute” which is quite an offensive thing to say to your boyfriend (as if he would) but I meant it. I don’t care if we’ve broken up or I’ve died or whatever. He mustn’t. No man should. It’s a hideous thing. Hideous.
