During the second dream she didn’t exist in one place. America remained above and around and below me, fragments of her body flashing across my vision like moonlight through tree branches. Still, the storm clouds formed, growing heavier and angrier around my crotch. But I wanted America to materialize, to stop forcing this out of me without making her presence clear, to at least show her face. Before the lightning struck there was a universe of empty, my body at the center, crying out for America’s lips.
I awoke to the applause for some demonstration of a commercial product. I ripped off my underwear and chucked it against the wall, stickiness and all. This new love would have to sit on the floor till morning.
The following Tuesday, Dom Trujillo, one of my Personal Growth & Defense Club homies, presented a way out of this whole dream shitshow. While walking back home from a meeting, the vato stopped our group and said he had something to show us. Still buzzing from a pep-talk about reaching our fullest potential and a lesson on how to disarm a would-be stabber, we circled around Dom while he fished out some folded-up papers from the pockets of his Kmart khakis.
Check this out, he said. Bro gave me these before shipping out last week. Printed them from Danny Baca’s mom’s computer.
Dom was one of those pudgy and unremarkable chamacos with a dead or unknown parent, the type that envisions their world through the idealization of an older sibling or cousin. In his case, it was some hermano that’d managed to graduate high school, play two varsity sports, and enlist in the Marines without owing anyone money or being kicked out of the house.
The images Dom held in his hands paraded everything I thought was off limits with women. It was all emphasized in the most revealing positions, punctuated by smirks, moaning mouths, hands clasping and spreading. My eyelids spazzed out as I tried to hold back the urge to bolt. It seemed wrong—not ’cus I thought we shouldn’t be looking at these pictures, but ’cus they didn’t align with what I’d imagined, even though I hadn’t really conjured anything concrete around naked hynas, only awe and fear. Instead of something holy, it turned out to be no more than flesh, just a little pinker or darker than the rest of their bodies.
I’m telling y’all, Dom chirped. This shit’s gold—better than any swimsuit magazine or MTV.
For what? I asked impulsively, ignoring the filters in my brain that usually paralyzed my tongue.
You fucken serious, foo’? For jerking off!
The whole crew laughed, but not at the level Dom expected or wanted. Everybody sounded as if they were holding back, which made me feel like I wasn’t so alone. For once the punch of being called out didn’t land as hard, not enough to make my vision watery, to make me panic at having no response.
You telling me you don’t jerk off? Dom said, deepening his voice the way we all did to prevent cracks. That’s some pussy-ass shit, ese.
I wanted to shoot the same question back at him, but the heat of a spotlight was on me, threatening to expose my dreams, so I retreated, gave Dom a psh followed by a lie about not needing any of that picture shit to do what I did every night.
Then how the fuck do you do it? he asked, tone squeaking out of its wannabe macho register. It wasn’t clear who among us was most surprised by that. All I knew was that my reply came out much more sure and direct than I’d anticipated.
My imagination, joyo.
Then I noticed that everyone was looking at me instead of Dom’s pictures, each face plastered with the same expression, the kind that formed whenever a teacher asked us to solve an arithmetic problem. The spotlight’s heat intensified, so I looked to the ground instinctually, causing Dom to clamor at regaining the floor.
Whatever, weird ass, he said. My bro says this’s the way to go—don’t gotta worry ’bout always typing n’ looking over your shoulder…
Dom kept talking, tryna build up steam on me, but I had tuned him out as soon as the gears started turning in my head, a recognition forming that cabrón might be onto something. Maybe all I had to do to overcome my dreams was print some pictures. Once Dom’s rambling lost its fuel, I asked, in my best impersonation of a vato who didn’t give a fuck, where you find that kind of shit. Right after he mentioned the name of a website, I shot off into the street, giving an excuse about having to be home in time for dinner.