Theme Park at its Darkest

I have recently begun to dream about fucking you.

That’s surprisingly late, given we’ve been spending time together now for the better part of six months. Initially, I’d dream about you every night, in the last hour before waking.

I would dream little scenarios of us together; shopping, eating, driving. Sometimes, I’d even dream of sitting in one room reading and listening to you go about your business in the other. 

Then, I began to dream about us in a beach-side shack in South-East Asia at dawn. There was a persistent, susurrant rhythm underscoring it; I’m not sure if it was your breathing, your heartbeat, or the tide.

You straddled me, rapt attention registering in your hands where you spread your fingers across my chest, your hair covering your face.

Those dreams have become more detailed the more you touch me. I saw you stretching from the chin up bar a few days ago, the full length of your body hanging in the corner of my eye, throwing its own silvery light.

Last night, I dreamed about you sitting on the edge of a chair, naked, me driving up inside you while kneeling between your legs. Your body is stretched out beneath me, like the pale expanse of a lightning bolt.

The flat curve of your belly rises to the chest where nipples stand small and dark and hard and above them your eyes hold multiple points of light like a still pond holds the reflection of the midnight sky.

Your breath is ragged in your throat and your mouth is open, partly for breathing, and partly in an ‘O’ of lust and surprise. I know I have drawn this image from when we are face to face, when I am teaching you to box.

Even though I don’t have an olfactory element to the dream, I know what you smell like. I know the fecund, earthy smell of your sweat and the way it helixes around the smell of the essential oil you use to cover it. It is lodged somewhere and informs and enhances this somnolent reality.

One foot is on the floor, toes gripping the carpet for balance, while the other heel is hooked into my hamstring to pull me forward when you want me forward.

Between the guiding pressure of those two legs, I find my rhythm. Your hands are moving over me like stars, mapping out the constellations of my neurology.

It’s not until the dream switches and we are lying down, me on top of you, both of your legs pulling me in, arms garlanded around my neck, that I suddenly come, and then awaken.

Your name is always in my mouth.

May 2, 2021

This entry was posted on November 26, 2021 at 8:40 pm and is filed under Love letters with tags Goddess. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.