This post is rated PG-13 for purple prose, brief nudity, some sexual situations, excessive commas, and several instances of sentences starting with conjunctions.
Ok. To preface, I don’t have sex dreams. EVER. I had one dream as a teenager where I was kissing a girl in a camo bra (This was long before I’d actually kissed anyone in real life) and a couple of nightmares containing things that could be interpreted as sex, but I’ve never had a real sex dream.
So, anyway I was at a woman’s place. It was vague, the way settings in dreams are, maybe a house, maybe an apartment, it didn’t matter. Not anyone who actually exists, as far as I recall.
Red hair, pale skin, sharp cheekbones, nice smile lines around her eyes. Maybe early 40’s, a bit curvy. There was a toddler there, presumably hers, who she was going through the nightly rituals of putting to bed. I was patiently waiting, trying to help, but mostly getting in the way, which she tolerated.
There was the sure but unstated knowledge that, once kid was properly settled in, adult fun time would ensue, its onset was eagerly awaited by both parties. And had been a long, long time coming.
There was no dialog. Things were communicated and understood, but in a silent film kind of ‘pause and look’ way.
So, eventually, nightly chores were done, kid was safely settled in. Some more waiting, less patient now, as we both puttered around, adjusting things that didn’t need adjusting, waiting. Looking at each other.
Without quite staring.
And finally, we were standing, facing each other. Very close, but still not touching. Whatever silent deadline we’d been waiting for had just passed. Her eyes narrowed as she smiled a beautiful, dangerous smile. Expectant, pleased with herself, almost sinister in the best possible way.
Too serious. I pushed her back gently, and she offered no resistance, falling backwards into an impossibly plush couch that I’d somehow not noticed before, with a surprised little shriek of laughter. She giggled threw back her head and kicked up her bare feet playfully, causing her big blue skirt to flare up, just for a moment. Exposing pale, shapely skin, and the barest hint of scarlet.
I scooped up one of her feet and lifted it to my lap as I settled next to her, one hand cradling the soft skin of her calf. She smiled up at me again, no calculation now, all joy and expectation. I brought both hands to the sides of her foot and started to massage it . . .
And everything that was fluid and yielding was suddenly harsh and resistant. She looked at me, smile gone, in a way that very clearly, without words, demanded to know exactly what the hell I thought I was doing.
I responded, also without words, that I had been pleasuring her, as should have been apparent, and I was unclear as to what was wrong. My touch had become distasteful. She removed her leg and covered it with her skirt.
Another look. Colder. Apparently, I was meant to just jump on top of her and get directly to it. She had no interest in, or patience for, any effete strokings or other silly games.
I looked back. Surprised, and more than a little offended. That is not how I operate.
A flat, contemptuous stare. I was no longer welcome in her home. Or in her presence. She does not operate any other way, and my absurd actions disgusted her.
And then, of course, I woke up. Not aroused, but irritated, yet amused in spite of myself by the bizarre, art-movie twist at the end.
Worst. Sex dream. Ever.
I wish I could say this was a joke, but it’s not. Actual dream.
So, apparently, even my subconscious can’t stop cracking stupid jokes long enough to get laid. Not surprising, really . . .