This morning I woke with a tingling shudder. I’d been in the middle of a sex dream.
Oh, the pain of waking in the middle of a sex dream. I try to find sleep again and pick up the thread of the lost dream. It never works. I find dreams about armadillos, kumquats and salsa, George W. Bush, Aristotle and Bigfoot, but I’ve never yet traced my way back to pleasure.
I was curled into a contorted pretzel on my couch with a high-school boyfriend in this dream. We were wound around each other in a way that defied physics. Our bodies occupied the same space. We were both fully clothed, but I can’t imagine that we could have been any closer even completely naked.
He held my face and kissed me; I dug my fingers into his hair and stroked the back of his neck. As these things go in dreams, I have no idea what we were talking about, but the conversation was quiet and intimate, interrupted only by kisses, strokes and throaty moans.
I was more or less under him and grinding my denim-clad pussy against his leg. He urged me to grind harder and pushed his own covered body on me. The feeling was heavenly.
And then in the dream, my husband walked past, carrying a basket full of laundry. I moved slightly away from my lover and stopped kissing him just long enough to answer some innocuous question the husband put to me, some question about laundry, I believe.
He hardly looked at the two of us, making out in his living room, on his couch. He just trotted off upstairs, presumably to put away his laundry and carry on with his evening.
And when he left, we kept right on kissing and laughing and grinding as if nothing unusual had happened.
That is, until I woke up moments away from orgasm, tingling and shaking and wondering what perverse storyteller takes over my brain at night.
