I will be the first to admit that I don’t understand the neural theories and science behind memory. I suppose I could spend years studying neurological chemistry, but that’s not going to happen. So I cannot understand why certain information is extracted and then played out in our sleep. But I have come to one conclusion: It is in these moments of rest that memories come together to form that which we inherently desire.
Sexual dreams are a candid reimaging of our memory bank being played out in a private one-time-only showing. They are sly and uninhibited, constantly sneaking in and out of the room without even leaving a memory. But occasionally, these moments of sexual drive in their infinite forms jolt us awake, and in these moments, we are left with a reflection of uncontrollable lust. Sometimes we find ecstasy, other times, terror.
In waking moments, I am left to ask, do I really desire that which I dream about? Because sometimes my sex dreams are so inconsistent with my waking desires, I can only conclude that sex dreams are nothing but random pornography extracted from my nucleus accumbens. I can’t know for sure. My dreams are completely out of my control.
On occasion, a single dream will show up again and again that is impossible to ignore. For instance, several weeks ago I woke up, hot and bothered by Ice-T for the sixth time. It is the only recurring dream I have ever had. It started in the beginning of high school, well into my family’s addiction to Law and Order: SVU, but he isn’t detective Tutuola in my dreams. No, he is an intellectual man with a slicked back ponytail, diamond-studded ears and a witty sense of humor.
He seduces the shit out of me at a high-bar coffee joint next to the Guggenheim in New York. I look up from my copy of “The Sun Also Rises”, and notice his leather jacket. He sits down and compliments me on my literary taste. A round of Americanos follow. Eventually, one thing leads to another and I’m pressed against a window in a stairwell that overlooks the back of a Sbarro pizzeria.
This moment exemplifies all that I do not understand about sex dreams. While I am all for getting seduced in a New York City coffee shop, there is no part of me that wants the dude behind me to be Ice-T. Regardless, the dream keeps happening and I keep enjoying it.
Does my sexual desire extend much farther than I allow myself to think? Yes, of course; otherwise I wouldn’t have had this dream five more times.
Whether or not it is Ice-T that I truly want, he exemplifies the fact that there are sexual desires I have and am unwilling to acknowledge. Which raises the most major of concerns: Is there more pleasure to be had that only my dreams can help me access? Sex dreams open the floodgates holding back conscious sexuality and leave me with a choice: to heed or ignore the extent of my desire.
As for the content of sexual dreams, occasionally they should be taken with a grain of salt. But allow yourself the time when you wake up in the morning after a dream of passion to contemplate the boundaries of your own sexual desires, because we all may be a little freakier than we allow ourselves to think. And that possibility is just too damn interesting to ignore.
