I've invited Derek over for a party and we're both excited because we're going to get to be kissy and huggy. Only, we don't seem to get alone. An old man, someone of Derek's friend's father, needs comforting. I do that. Derek's friends keep dropping by. Finally, I sit on the couch with him and cuddle. I kiss him twice on the cheek and he gasps like, "Oh, my God, it's starting already and I'm scared." I smile at him reassuringly and he takes the plunge and kisses me and we neck. I feel his gut twitch from his gut pain. Now there's another interruption and I get up to help the old man, and I look in a mirror and see foam stuff foaming up on my head under my hair. I am embarrassed. Maybe I shampooed with the wrong stuff. I lean over the sink and turn on the faucets and I take handful after handful after handful of the foam off my head. More seems to be foaming up, never ending. Now Derek and a woman like Neila are arguing. I go to the back bathroom and continue the washing process. It's taking forever. Derek comes back and leans on the door. It partially opens. I try to keep it closed because I don't want him seeing me all foamed up and with wet hair. He's upset, so I let him in. It's kind of comforting and intimate. He sits on the step to the door and watches me, concerned. He say, "I've got a book we should read. They pretty much recommend you talk it over with the woman pretty much before you fall in love," meaning the sex manual for sex with a para. He smiles up at me and tears come to his eyes. In frustration, he pounds himself on the stomach and legs. He says, "A friend called. He wants to come by and visit. I know you like Sundays and want some loving connected time." He's afraid I'll be mad at him. I smile at him and say, "Don't you understand? I already feel loved, just being near you." I see I'm pulling strands of hairs out with the foam. "Oh, my God," I say, Now I'm going bald too." Now the woman counselor friend of Derek's, called Jane, comes in and is very upset. She has hair things, barrettes and hair clips and rollers in her hand and accuses Derek of stealing them. He's denying it. I turn, wet hair in a towel, and put my hands on her shoulders to stop her from leaving the room. I say, "We can work this out. Let's talk. He didn't do this. I know he didn't." She's pissed at me for blocking her and doesn't want to talk. I have a vague sense of distrust; maybe Derek did take them.