Cute Hoors by Jean McLarney

In the dream I’m partying with Ivan Stefanovich. This would never happen in real life. Ivan has always been nice to me, but he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing: he molested his cousin when he was twelve.

We’re hours there. The hostess is not a woman I know, but to call her ‘someone I don’t know’ is wrong. She’s so attractive. Her body has this gradient pull. Dark hair, red dress… I stay until late.

Ivan and his male friends leave. I’m there with the hostess and another woman who’s lying on the floor. The place is one big room like a lodge. I don’t really know it, but it might be a modified version of the DiscoVA. Consciousness does that sometimes. Combines things to make something new.

The hostess and I flirt chastely. It’s very late now. I get up to leave and, as I do, I sing a song I don’t know. The hostess stops me abruptly. The song offends her somehow.

I don’t understand. She tells me a story about a famous woman who saved slaves, and who burnt all her letters. This is meant to correct me. We’re talking about race. The energy changes; the room suddenly feels cold.

I realize I’ve been making too much noise. People are ‘asleep downstairs’, she says. We smile.

I go out onto the street, and I’m at the top of St. Clair on Yonge in the heart of the city.