An Arabian prince in a magical flying palace kidnaps my girlfriend and me.

We cruise over oceans. The prince woos her. And ignores me. I'm not even a rival to defeat. I'm just invisible.

She plans a getaway. A BroomHilda cartoon in the morning paper inspires her method--Broomhilda's trapped in a flying castle, but she slides down from her high tower on a rope. At the end of it's a witch's broom... or is it a small plane or glider, vintage World War One? Here in the castle, time passes fast, then slow. Maybe it is 1916. Or 1516, and witch's brooms work.

So my girlfriend appears to give in to the prince's seduction. Lets him fuck her. Then, in bed, she says "Now that we're lovers, you must help me escape." He's reluctant, he likes the palace, but he has to admit that Romantic Convention requires him to help his Beloved. So he grudgingly agrees to distract the guards while she escapes lowers the anchor-rope.

No wonder he was reluctant. Her plan risks his life! They both shinny down that long rope... and fall in the sea. Luckily the water's warm, and they're near an island. They tear off some clothes and swim to the beach.

She only has strange Victorian underwear left. Stiff with salt, it's uncomfortable, but she can't just peel it off; that'd be indecent! They can still manage to fuck, with care. They tell a friend--not me--all about their sex sessions, but report it in Victorian third-person sex language, as stiff & strange as her underwear: "She arched her back. His Albert crowed..." Albert is penis, crowed is orgasm? I guess.

Their tropical island Victorian sex vacation is all very nice, but what about me? Well, the flying-palace staff never wanted me much anyway. Eventually I just hop off when they anchor and restock in a coastal town. It's a pretty dismal place--political factions are quarreling. Over mostly mud.

Whenever I get caught between their factions, I defend myself with my only magical trick: I can turn myself into a truck tire. Pretty hard to hurt. Trouble is, some of the locals can USE a spare tire...

I'm worse off here on the ground--ground into the ground, and gravel, and tarmac--than I was back in the castle--trapped in the Arabian Nights.

NOTES IN THE MORNING

• Girlfriend: I'm single, and too sick to date; unlikely to find love any time soon.
• Arabian Nights castle: romantic fantasies? Rigid gender roles? That corset suggests so.
• Rigid victorian corsetry/sexuality: family & societal brainwashing about romance. I've shed the outer layer, so sex is now possible, but an inner layer remains.
• Stuck in a dreary, factionalized town: my workplace! Worse than my impractical family, all castles-in-the-air...
• Become a tire: I get 'tired' & sick as a way to withdraw when hurt--I don't fight back.
• Get used on gritty roads: Acting tired and withdrawn doesn't work. My boss knows I won't protest, so it's safe to ignore my needs!
• ACTION 1: Peel off that remaining Victorianism!
• ACTION 2: Either raise a stink when wronged (which I do find exhausting), or save up my pay & leave. No more of this 'sick and tired'. It doesn't work.

DECADES LATER

Did I peel off the Victorianism? Yes. Long delayed by illness that delayed/limited sex, but eventually, yes.

Did I save up & quit working for bosses? Yes. Around this time, dozens of financial-advice dreams warned me to see employers as exploitive, expect no raises or bonuses, save up every penny, and get out as soon as I could be independently poor--not rich, not even middle class, but with investment income no boss could touch. I did, and never regretted it.

A NOTE ON THE ART

I posted this dream partly because it's so early in my dream-art career--before I had skills, energy (I was QUITE sick all that year), or even art materials--it's fadable felt pen that only survived because it was stored away from UV light, on fragile notebook paper. Most illustrations of my early dreams were done many years later; this is all I was capable of at the time.

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