When I was eight years old I had a life-defining dream, a dream that still roots itself in my deepest psychological drives. I've never spoken about it in therapy, to friends, or even written it down, until now. In my dream, I was a princess. My school crush at the time, Jason (short cropped hair, blue eyes, kind face) knelt at my feet. He was begging for my love. His soft face twisted in agony. The thing was, he was the sixth boy in a long line of boys to do this, in my dream. We were in a great hall, with an echoing, vaulted ceiling. Marble was everywhere, and it was all mine. One of his competitors had dark curly hair, round cheeks, and a sharp chin, and you could tell he was the smartest boy in school, and Jason's closest rival for my heart. They all wailed and capital-b Beseeched me. Some brought gifts. Some threw themselves bodily to the ground. The air became humid with their anguished panting and tears. As I turned each of them down, I could feel a delicious tightness in my chest, a pleasure growing and swirling there. Even after I woke up, I would for the rest of my life chase that addictive twisting heartache sensation. I love narratives where men do their utmost without the promise of anything in return, where they act on compulsion, and that compulsion is Love. In any case, I grew up and became, for a wonderful few years at least, a lesbian.