Dreamt of Sleeping with a Lesbian

Let me start off by saying...

I seldom have dreams that are memorable. If I were to think of all the dreams that had occurred during the hours of slumber, I would not be able to create stories that are any more vivid than an emotion, a brief interaction with a person, or the evoking of a sense that seldom gets aroused during the waking hours.
The happier dreams include my taking a run in an open field or flat piece of land and then taking a leap from the ground that would set me into flight. My arms would not be held forward like the way the old SUPERMAN used to fly (as if he were diving into a body of water). I would just be in the sky (maybe a few feet above some trees). The POV (point of view) would be more like that of Sister Bertrille.
From time to time I dream of the maternal grandmother. She died when I was 18, just after my first year of college. Today I am 64. That means that she has been out of my life for 46 years. Or, I could say that she has only been in 28.125% of my life (and that that part of my life had the early stages which contain NO MEMORY). She was my beloved grandmother and I would sometimes sleep over on Friday nights and observe the Sabbath with her. I was also one of the very few people in the world who loved her cooking.
So how does all of this fit into the title? All of this is my mechanism for procrastinating addressing the subject.
The lesbian was a German teacher. She was in her early 30s when I knew her; product of an all-girls undergraduate college as well as Berkeley in the '60s (although I doubt much that in those days she identified as being what she is or was). I had a sense when I had met her that there was something different than that of other female instructors of the time. The fact that she was blonde and had blue eyes and very pale skin was not particularly noteworthy. She taught German, after all. But she wasn't German. She claimed her family was from Lithuania (and were non-Jewish). She also grew up in California, lived in the Netherlands, and had a mother from Texas.
She never wore make up. Her clothes were polyester (most notably the slacks) and I recall that her choices were mostly solid colors. She drank black coffee from a blue generic THERMOS and she smoked in class. She smoked CAMELs. And she held the CAMELs in a cigarette holder. Did I mention that she was left handed? No, I did not.
The left handedness is a curiosity; sort of like when you hear someone speak English with an accent from 'away'. She did not have any particularly noteworthy pronunciation of English; she didn't sound like a New Yorker, but she sure didn't sound anything like Texas either.
This is one image I might have of a left handed person who is writing. No, this isn't she. She never wore makeup which meant she never painted her nails either.
Her method
had her bending her wrist as if she were making a circular motion. In those days, instructors wrote on a chalkboard. She used cursive lettering. Her handwriting was legible, but certainly not what you would call award winning.
She left the college during my four year stay there. Others left with her. It was at a time when tenure was being given and she was not among the recipients of it. It was a gender-based decision. (Let the record note that I never did anything with German professionally in my own life). So she moved to Massachusetts and to Virginia and finally ended up in Sacramento.
I had cause to reconnect with her many years ago (maybe 20 or so) when I was going back to school in my 40s for a career change. She vaguely remembered me for I was (a) not a female, (b) not a German, (c) not particularly memorable. We have since become penpals. And I have always been respectful of not asking her any personal questions. She did, however, mention how she had lived in fear for many years of being or becoming the victim of the UNIBOMBER. She had travelled in areas where he was known to have been.
So, what thoughts did I have of her. We were both in bed. She was wearing a loose fitting cotton halter top and cotton female panties. (Odd that I would think she'd have on cotton when she was a notorious wearer of polyester). And I had on boxers. We were just lying there. She probably did some talking although--for the life of me--I couldn't tell you anything that she was saying. The dreams don't come with volume control. I couldn't tell you if her breath were flavored or if her hands were cold.
Later, I had visions of her in a room with the bed made. The bed had a bedspread on it and she was wearing Daisy Dukes and a shirt tied in a knot below her bosom. She was not an ample woman. The unflattering term was flat-chested. Mind you, when I was growing up, the flat-chested woman was quite exotic because females of my ethnic background never came in that shape.
I pictured her reading in bed. In fact, if I were to think of her as doing something, it would probably be reading. Any domestic action short of stirring something in a pot on a stove would not come to mind. I never imagined her as being the kind of woman who worried that the three course dinner might not hit the table at the stroke of six. Other than reading, I imagine that she might have played piano; reading music!
Her blonde hair was naturally wavy. It would hit her shoulders. Sometimes she'd have a cowlneck sweater or a turtle neck blouse on. I could see her grading papers, sipping black coffee from a THERMOS mug, flicking the CAMEL ashes into the wastepaper basket.
The image of sleeping next to her did not involve anything physical. And I wonder (in my non-sleeping state) just what a white-faced, blonde-haired, thin lesbian might consider to be passion. My own level of passion borders on the vanilla. We're talking about a singular dabbing of the tongue in another person's mouth as the ultimate form of orgasmic arousal.
Anyway, that was a one-time thought. Sex with a lesbian is not something that passes my mind in daily living or in dream-filled evening hours.