Disorient
You must be dreaming. You must be, because if you were not dreaming this could not be happening. In the waking time, you can never say something like this and get the right answer: you the way you are now have never met, could never meet someone--someone not a girl who said yes--just at the right time, yes.
When you are awake, you don't even talk like this. You are too curious and afraid. You ask only what you must know; you confess only what you can bear to hear. You do not see something on TV and say out loud--
in your own voice--
to the whole room--
"fuck me," and have him say "I'd like to, yes," like he would in a movie or a dream or--and then you are not breathless saying back "let's start with kissing and see how it goes," because if you were awake you would be terrified in the bathroom, hot or throwing up or both.
But if this is a dream, then hey.
Maybe letting him kiss you in the dream is not wrong.
Maybe if this isn't real you won't find some way to fuck up.
Ok: let's start with kissing and see how it goes. So far you are ok. In dreaming you can try not to be like you were the other times, awkward and strange as if your hips knew what to do while the rest of you tried to figure out why it was making them happy. In dreaming he is kind to you, and takes it slowly. His open mouth is the right kind of wet, and he doesn't notice that you are afraid. He doesn't touch you like you would touch you. He doesn't touch you as if he can hardly bear to look. You are suddenly, desperately glad, and that makes you try.
He kisses as if he actually wants it, insistent and gripping, cradling your face. You force yourself to imagine your fingers running through his hair, and then they are doing it. If he can just keep wanting you you can get a little courage. Your hands trail down to the small of his back and then up again under his shirt. Your body is making sense of this, piece by piece. You are not scared. You are not scared.
Don't ask any questions.
He tries to put his hand up your shirt and you make a noise through your throat and teeth: eeeeeeeee. You're not sure how he interprets it but he pulls away for a second and so that he won't look at you, you pull him back. You think, I can take a little more. If this is a dream, I can take a little more. You bite down on his lip as his hand runs over your breast, trying to make no more needy, frightened sounds.
Don't think. Don't think.
You are living and breathing through a hot haze of Him, of the thoughts you've been having for months, of the whole world running through your mind at once. It's not real, of course it's not real. In a real world he would never even look. In a real world you would look but not touch. You don't even notice when your pants come off.
And then.
In the real world, you had always been careful not to really look at his hands, because then you could never really imagine them touching you. As long as you lived without exact knowledge of those knuckles, those fingertips, you would be safe. And yet now, in the dream, it seems to come across perfectly because of course, if his hands are there you can't see them. You can only feel them and his hands hands his hands you've been fantasizing about for weeks so that even just talking to him sometimes had you wet they're there
there
there.
Dammit, says some distant voice in your mind, now he's seen you cry.
And here you are, in the bathroom after all, hot and throwing up because you remember too clearly, how you gasped and rocked and keened, and how good it was and how perfect and how tender he was and how in the end a man really is a man and you really are so terrified it's physical. Because even in a dream, you couldn't give it back.
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I'd dearly love to hear any comments. cutter_tekka@hotmail.com
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