Treats from The Treat
Copyrighted by Lorna Tedder. Originally published in Third Degree of Contrast.
Ye Gods, but that man is hot! He just wanted to remind me of that amid a very difficult week when raw sexuality has been the last thing on my mind. I guess he knew it would make me smile.
Last night, in a meditative dream, The Treat was front and center again. He’s been really busy getting his new life lined up, but I’ve felt him on the periphery in the past week. Close by, like his presence is next to me, concerned and watchful. He knows—or at least I’ve told him—that it’s his mental machinery that sets him far above all other men. I really like the way this man thinks. But last night, he wanted to remind me that there’s more to him than his mind. (Like I didn’t know this.)
One of my favorite memories of him took place during a particularly difficult time for both of us. I used to frequent a little restaurant—very close to his office— about every one to two weeks with friends. My friends and I met there long before I realized he was in the parking lot more than I was. We would almost always sit in the window or, if the weather was nice, sometimes outdoors.
On one spring morning, I looked up in time to see him pull into the parking lot, just out of speaking distance. Maybe it was my imagination, but I don’t think so, and neither did my lunch-mate. Instead of grabbing his fast food lunch and hiking into work quickly, The Treat verrrrrrrrry slowly walked around to the passenger side of his car, retrieved his bag lunch from the passenger seat, and stood there for the longest with his back to us, letting us get a good long, appreciative look at his physique. Then he slyly looked over his shoulder in our direction and smiled before heading inside his building. I burst into laughter. It was very sweet, sexy, and … seemingly calculated for maximum effect. Yeah, he got my attention.
Sort of like in last night’s dream….
We are in some kind of campsite. I realize later that I’ve been dreaming of this campsite for a couple of weeks. It’s in the woods, unknown territory for both of us, and we are not alone. There are other people with us, friends or acquaintances of his, I think. Maybe business partners. We’re all sharing this new territory, bringing baggage with us from our past in neat little suitcases because the newness of this territory is only temporary. The lodging is more like a cabin with cots, cement floors, closets, and a TV that’s off. The TV has a metal antenna. Mostly, this place is sparse right now, but we know it’s temporary. However, it’s not small. In some ways, it reminds me of a double-wide trailer. There is plenty of room, but it doesn’t have many modern conveniences. And we intend to be here for a little while, sharing this new space together, and perhaps with others he knows in the same space or most definitely close by.
He has a backpack and a computer case with him, now on his cot. My small red suitcase is in the corner of a space I share with him that has a high and wide window above dark paneling. It looks exactly as it did a few days ago on the floor of my old bedroom in my mom’s house, exactly where I left it during the funeral with clothes just thrown in, mostly skirts and sweat pants because I was so disconnected when packing that I forgot to pack shirts and ended up with nothing but my “You Had Me at Hell No” shirt and a sleep shirt that said “Love Goddess.” Our things are neatly packed, and my messy suitcase is closed. I open it and go through my old wardrobe, can’t find what I want to wear, and pile the leftover clothes on top, but they’re still in a neat corner.
He is himself, full of energy, a little nervous, not quite knowing where he is or where he’s going, interacting with these friends I don’t know well, joking a little, but really not saying much to me directly. He doesn’t really know what to say right now. But his presence is strong and covertly sexual. I keep stealing glances of him because he just looks so damned good right now.
We mill around the living room and he jokes about watching something low-brow on TV in the afternoons. Tabloid TV, I think, to see how people interact with one another at the basest level of society. It’s dumbed down TV, yet he puts a psychological spin on it and I’m hoping to curl up on the floor and watch TV with him.
We have to go somewhere. I’m not sure where. A meeting or something. We have to change out of our traveling clothes. He goes to shower and change clothes and when he comes back looking professional, neat, and (ahem) hot, he seems irritated about…my clutter. He didn’t realize how much I had. My thought is that he must be disgusted with it and I go to clean up my suitcase while he leaves temporarily to take care of business. He’ll be back to get me. I shower and undress to change clothes, wearing only lingerie and eventually a short kimono wrap I don’t often wear. My wardrobe from the funeral suitcase is still piled where I left it, thought definitely it’s been pulled out and looked over thoroughly. In the living room, I find more suitcases I didn’t know I brought with me. I don’t think I brought them. They’re just here. They are full and open, with my clothes pulled out and strewn all over the floor. I cannot step without landing on this dress or that dress. Who did this? It looks like my closet exploded!
I am so embarrassed. I’m not the packrat I used to be, but there’s no denying that these are my wardrobes, though from the past. No wonder he thought I was so messy! But is that what he thought? Or was he uncomfortable that he has old baggage of his own to wade through? Perhaps issues with his own parents that aren’t too different from the ones I’ve been working through with mine? I don’t know because whatever the reason for his discomfort, he keeps it close to his chest and quiet.
While he’s away, I start picking up the clothes that are strewn around the living room area. These aren’t in the bedroom. They are definitely in the living room. I pick up a dress that Mama made for me in college. One I’d forgotten about. It makes me smile. I pick up another dress from underneath it. It’s a cocktail dress I wore in college. Another is a business suit I’d thought was special. Dress after dress that I have forgotten, long ago outgrown or outworn and watch go out of fashion. Old wardrobes long ago put away and not worn since. I look at each piece, no longer in disgust for the mess on the floor, but with love for each and what it meant. I honor each and carefully fold and put each back into the suitcase. People move in and out of the building as I work through each suitcase, and I pull my kimono closer though it sometimes gapes.
At last I have looked closely at each piece and put it away neatly. My suitcases, even the old ones I didn’t know were there, have been repacked, closed, put away. The floor is no longer littered. Nothing is messy now. But I still have to change before The Treat comes back for me.
I look down and realize I’m dressed. I’m wearing a long, beautiful kimono-type dress, light blue and cream with some pink in it. It’s new and every bit my style. It’s perfect.
When I stand and turn around, The Treat is walking back into the living room. And all I can think of is how hot he looks.