Bizarre Dreams

FOREWORD

“Ralph…”

“Now what?” It’s two in the morning. He sleeps while I lie in bed next to him, folding and refolding my hands.

“Can I ask a favor?”

“Tomorrow, okay?” He presses a lazy upper lip to my bare shoulder, his tired approximation of a reassuring kiss.

“Would you mind,” I ask, disregarding his request, “if I brought home a fireman’s outfit for you to wear the next time we make love?”

I listen to the silence, waiting for his response. It is soft, low laughter. The mattress rumbles next to me, then stops. I listen further for another sign. When it doesn’t arrive, I nudge him. “What did that mean?”

He, awake now, chews on a cuticle and sighs. “I knew I shouldn’t have rented Backdraft. I’ve given you ideas.”

“That’s not it, Ralph. That’s not it at all.”

Introduction

The book you are holding is exceptional. You would not ordinarily find most of these writers between the same covers. Some are at home with literary fiction or the fields of horror and dark fantasy; others usually write high fantasy adventure or science fiction or academic books. Some you might find in works of poetry, while others are usually in gay glossies with covers featuring muscular young men wearing hard hats and little else. What has brought them together is the fascinating scope of gay male fantasy.

When we were putting this book together, the question most frequently asked was, “What exactly do you mean by ‘dark fantasy’?” It’s a nebulous term, I admit, but very useful for getting across the other-world, over-the-top quality of certain kinds of sexual turn-ons. For some, however, the term “dark fantasy” remained elusive. John Preston, for example, was confused as to why he was being invited. “I’m pretty down to earth,” he said on the phone. “Basically I’m just a take-’em-to-the-basement-and-make-’em-cry kinda guy.” Exactly. Major fantasy stuff, and dark, as in the dark side of the mind. This isn’t a book about lifestyles. It’s a door to all the half-acknowledged dreams and beckoning desires we’ve only allowed ourselves to think about in secret. It’s a box of bizarre and titillating dreams. A place to take fetish one step beyond.

So, go ahead. Strip down. Open the lid….

—Caro Soles, Toronto 1993