kärt and anselmo

ONE NIGHT I dreamt of Kärt and Anselmo, her Latin husband. We were at their penthouse in the city. It was late morning and Kärt was sprawled out nude in her bed, engulfed in crisp, white sheets. The sun was through the window on the sheets and illuminating her boughs of wild golden hair. I was kneeling beside the bed suckling on one of Kärt’s breasts while she took part in a Teams meeting via her phone. Kärt is not one to let bedside reveries get in the way of work.

Sometimes though, Kärt did get thirsty and dispatched me to fetch her some water or coffee, which I was only too glad to do. Then Anselmo, that brooding Spaniard, would enter, tying his tie for work. He would take his turn kneeling on the opposite side of the bed, and being attentive to Kärt’s other breast. My breast was her right breast. Never did I venture to the left. That was Anselmo’s territory. Likewise, he never took her right nipple in his mouth. It was my job to be attentive to Kärt’s right breast.

This went on like this for some time in the dream, the jug worshipping, until it was time for us to both leave. Kärt needed to prepare for a working lunch. Anselmo meanwhile had ignored me for the entirety of this exercise (other than to lecture aloud, as if to a spellbound audience, that visitors had to keep their hands above the sheets, that is, only breast licking was permitted in the penthouse and nothing more). At the door though, Anselmo for the first time turned to me and asked, “What do you think, Justin, is it really possible for a man not to have faith in himself?” 

It was a very serious question and Anselmo looked me in the eyes as he asked it to me. To which I replied, “Well, if he has done all that he can and it still doesn’t work out, I suppose a man has reasons to doubt himself.” Anselmo nodded repetitively as if making a series of calculations. Then he called me a defeatist and marched out the door to work.

I am relating this tale to you now because one of my friends told me that I should try to write more about sex. She is a long-time confidant, a middle-aged woman and a mother of three. But she wants to read about sex. Sex involving me? Like what? Positions? Experiences? Advice? 

When I told her that it would be difficult for me, ethically at least, she suggested that I write about dreams instead. “Use your imagination. You can get away with anything in your dreams.” This she said with a wink and was out the café door holding several bags of fresh coffee. 

That dream about Kärt and Anselmo is a recent one and I really enjoyed it because it was so different. Breast worshipping? A Teams meeting? I could never make these things up while I was awake. These kinds of dreams are interesting because they always find ways to surprise you. It’s always a treat just who you wind up with in your dreams, and often you wind up dreaming about people who maybe aren’t so attractive to you in your waking life but are quite thrilling to be with in bed when you are asleep. Then you awake in delirium, feeling as if a great truth has been revealed.

One night, I dreamt again that I was back in Tallinn. I was down by the Linnahall, which had now become a tropical location, with a bright sandy beach lined by palm trees just like in Belize. The Linnahall was overgrown with vegetation and vines, like some kind of ruined Mayan temple, and the waters of the harbor were crystal clear and warm, and you could see your feet below. That was not all you could see, because it was then that I realized that I was completely naked. So there I was, naked in the capital. I managed to steal a towel from someone on the beach, and soon was sauntering through the Rotermanni kvartal wearing my makeshift diaper. 

Of course, when I reached the publishing houses on Maakri Street, I happened to see Linnea, the beloved author of many prominent and revered books, who was exiting some swanky party. When I looked over and saw her shapely form attired in one of her flowing elegant dresses my heart sank. To make matters even worse, Linnea was walking right my way. Soon after, we were making love on a bench on Maakri Street, she in her elegant dress and me in my stolen towel. Then I noticed the photographer from Kroonika had arrived to take a few photos of our scene. Rather than flee, Linnea only pulled me closer into a sumptuous kiss. “Don’t worry,” Linnea said. “You and I are going to sell lots and lots of books.” Her words soothed any remaining concerns. And soon after, the city was full of the sensual sounds of sighing, suckling, satisfied dreamers. 

Who would ever want to wake up from a dream like that?

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