I had the strangest, best dream. Sex. It was as fine and good and well as anything else I've felt, like flying with only the gravity of one other person. Within the liquid language of vision things change fast, sometimes too fast, and sometimes make the impossible leap from some things to some things else, things impossible. Objects morph into anything they choose, few things hold meaning or form once you've left the stream of nepenthe, the carnival of abysm.
There was a lovingly familiar women in the dream, as an amorphous girl again. She entered effortlessly; we transformed into the elastic duo-dream apparition, our eyes were one. She was very receptive, we slid along with the unconscious flow of neurons. We made love again, her and I. It did not seem to be a dream at all. It was the love again, trickling into my memory of us.
I woke up as the sex improved. It began to tickle my morning startup parts. It was not a nocturnal emission, though my body seemed prepared if that was the true intention of my psyche, working in conjunction with my physiology to land a surprise on my recline lap.
I was close to the moment of loss. Had I touched the thing it very well might have spat seed back.
I've never had a wet dream. Some have suggested that if I stop jacking off so much then it might happen for me. They must think such a program is worth it: deprive yourself of your conscious will and wishes, then wait for your unconscious to try to have sex with the sleeping version of you. People are crazy, and yet their advice is always perfect.
Some friends have relayed that wet-dreams can be emotionally painful and might only occur at times of intense heartbreak. This makes sense to me. If my mind is ever going to take midnight control of my cock and balls then the invasion must rightly come under the banner of pain and darkness.
You, dear readers, would never believe what I've done with my genitals. Some, might call it art, others maybe waves of mutilation. I've permanently destroyed certain functions but have retained the perfunctory set. Trauma.
I had a chat with a woman tonight. She and I were considering sex with one another. It was the most fun I've had in a while, flirting. Perhaps that is what brought the dream on. Who knows.
I guess I do have a "type" because my dream counterpart was perfect, the lily of the field, perfect in every unreachable detail; all of the sweet endearments that can let one swim or fly through the molasses of desire.
For me, it drifted slowly through the unexpected story, but my god did it feel good to push myself into her and hear that little feminine whisper upon initial thrust - uh, oh uh, ugh - once you become one and assert the fact of attraction, delivering it directly to the receiving department.
My ear seemed right next to her mouth when it happened, her whispers and gasps at us becoming an intimate. I kissed her again and again, I pushed because the pushing was wonder and intention all at once.
I woke up suddenly with an old arch friend between my legs, a tower that needed attending to. It demanded action and ideas. I spewed as if I was still half sleeping, or could return as a result.
She, was still there, of course, floating though I could barely feel her, yet could not bridle the thoughts of her. The sheets of my bed seemed as sails to some better place.
I relieved the ache again, just to be sure. I closed my eyes and tried to beckon her body.
What a curse it is, this kind of thought, a poor substitute for feeling wanted within, the imaginary lover that has vanished back into the crevices to which one only has ritual access. She was there, but it was not the she of the dream, where I could love her again without absence, distance, or delusion.
She often worries about her weight, now she's lost every bit of it. Her body has turned into a miracle, a reverie. I can still feel the echoes of her there within me, as open, inviting, and willing as any thought would have her be.
.
