this morning i dreamed that i was sitting in a friend’s three-level apartment, petting her small shepherd dog — neither of which she has in real life — trying to remember the events of the night of march 16, 2011, the day before st. patrick’s day. some bar was kicking off festivities at midnight, and i’d gotten really drunk, and experienced a gang bang in the parking lot. stroking this docile pale yellow vulpine looking thing, i was struggling to remember what men i had spoken to, and which could have made their way between my legs. the strongest memory i could muster was of a feeling — indifference. ‘sure, you can fuck me, and without a condom, i don’t care, it’ll be a funny story later.’ i started remembering men, strong but doughy, with the kind of ruddy face that comes from alcoholism in adolescence. ball caps. thick, vibrant sweatshirts. in this aftermath, i felt remorse. not because i’d been promiscuous, but because what i’d done was risky and not in a way that was worth it. my health could have been in danger, i obviously hadn’t been selective about my partners, apparently choosing men that i wouldn’t have felt even superficially attracted to, and i likely hadn’t even enjoyed myself. i got the distinct impression that it didn’t matter to these men that i was beautiful or charming or intelligent; they were doing it for the story that would emerge later, just as much as i was. 

i woke up very happy that none of what i’d dreamed had happened, as i often do.