by Tyger Valverde
(02/07/07)
Last night I dreamed I kissed Oprah Winfrey.
Not just a quick, friendly peck on the cheek, but a deep down, tonsil-tickling, sloppy-wet lesbian kiss.
Now I am plopped down on my bed, musing over the strangeness of it all.
It happened at her open house party, amid, say, fifty to a hundred of her friends from the upper crust of society. Why was I invited? I'm not a famous author yet. Did someone tell her I was?
It wasn't a bad kiss really, but still, I mean, Oprah Winfrey? Of course, I admire her accomplishments, but she doesn't exactly rock my boat. Of all the famous women I might have fantasized kissing, Oprah had to be bottom of the list.
I don't find money particularly attractive, and everything about Oprah reeks of currency and coin. She lacks that certain down-to-earthness I find so attractive. She successfully washed off the smell of poverty and left behind every trace of sweat which distinguishes real folks from tabloid fantasies. Yet in my dream, she was as real as you and I.
Gracefully, she moved from table to table, chatting with her guests, in the manner of rich folks, but without the airs. I watched her, fascinated, hoping to learn something. I am not gifted with social skills.
I stretched out on a cushiony mat, taking in the scene without participating, an observer, uninterested in small talk. Oprah spoke with my mother, who suddenly appeared at the nearest table. And my mother, the natural-born critic, nodded, smiling agreeably.
Careful Mom, don't become a yea-sayer, suddenly in your old age!
Old age? How odd. There was not a gray hair on my mother's head, nor a stray wrinkle in her face, and I distinctly remembered seeing them yesterday. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Yep. Still salt-and-pepper hair, although longer than I remembered.
Suddenly, I felt hands on my back, shoulders and buttocks. Gentle hands, rubbing with feathery strokes. I lay perfectly still. A nibble at my right ear chased chills down my back and quickened my pulse. Full, feminine lips pressed against my bare neck and shoulders and wandered up to caress my cheek and temple. A supple body urged its contours alongside mine. Surprised, I turned my head, encountering deep brown eyes in a smooth, wide face, and recognized my famous hostess.
I touched my lips against hers, amazed at the softness of her mouth. My lips parted and I probed gently with my tongue, testing her intentions. She yielded, her delightfully opulent form still nestled against me. I explored deeply along her moist, sensuous tongue, the roof of her mouth and her wonderfully lush, warm lips. I kept my eyes open while we kissed, and committed the contours of her face to memory. I drew in her sweet, womanly scent and wondered what it would be like with her.
"I didn't expect this kind of response," she said, when I finally released her.
I smiled. "Surprise, surprise..."
I noticed my husband then, who sat nearby on the floor and watched with a gleeful light in his eyes. I knew where his imagination was leading.
Suddenly, I remembered my mother. How was I going to explain this to her? I had never told her that I go both ways sometimes. I looked up to find her. Like everyone else, she was staring. It was the last thing I remembered before I woke up, the oddly physical sensation of almost a hundred pairs of astonished eyes grazing over my skin.
