I Dream About You
‘…nothing one does in bed is immoral if it helps to perpetuate love.’
Gabriel Garcia Marquez,
Love in the Time of Cholera.
I dreamed that we were on an Italian beach at sunset, sitting on the sand. We watched as night passed over the ocean and climbed the cliff face as the sun withdrew beneath the rim of the world, leaving the heat of the day to radiate from the earth as the echo of its passing.
**
There was another dream where I took you to a party at the Torture Garden in New York. I had trained you for it, same as I trained you for the lingerie shoot. There was no story; just a couple of scenes, but it went on for hours and was mostly concerned with resonances of the feeling of being together.
We hung out at the bar, watched the performances, did drugs in the toilet and danced all night, rubbing up against one another like alley cats.
You wore the black latex catsuit I’d had tailor-made for you with strappy heels and a choker. I wore PVC pants and a collar. We did some lines in the bathroom and when you sat down to use the toilet, you held my eye with a smile as we listened to the musical tinkle of your piss in the water.
When you stood, I unzipped the catsuit to below the navel and held you to me, that damp triangle of skin pressed against my chest and stomach. We were united by heat, sweat and electricity. Your heartbeat arcing through my chest and knocking against mine.
Lots of kissing. Lots of tongue.
And then, taking you back to the hotel afterwards to peel you naked except for your choker, licking every bead of sweat from every crease and crevice in the edifice of your miraculous, holy body.
After, you sit naked on the corner of the bed, legs open, so I can stand between them. Holding my gaze as you did in the bathroom, you slide my cock in and out of your mouth, exploring and caressing the veins and other features of the shaft as you read it with your tongue. Your gaze shifts as you absorb the detail, similar to the perturbated black line of the seismic graph that is the intaglio of the physical phenomenon of the earthquake.
Seated like that, your cunt is open and I can smell you. It’s the same savage polarity as the smell under your arms, beneath your hair and at the small of your back.
I lay you down and pursue that smell with my mouth.
You pierced your nipple as an act of devotion. It’s visible through your latex catsuit, and even when you wear a yoga bra. I take it in my mouth as you’re riding me, my hands gripping your ass as the whole wet, glorious mess of your orgasm unravels in my lap in phases of screams and cries.
**
I used to fantasise about our relationship progressing from the gym to my apartment. You’d park in the side street, sneak down the alley and we would spend the day wrapped in a single perpetual moment of rapture, fundamentally intersected at the heart.
My fingers inside you; massaging the secret switch that not even you are aware of until all of the fears, insecurities and responsibilities gathered there unravel into water in my hand.
I cycle through the positions; most often face to face and heart to heart but also doggy, cowgirl and queen.
There is also kneeling in front of the dressing mirror. I can see my body projected onto the screen of yours in sensation and reaction, both of us confronted and enraptured by the reality of having each other. Sensation as the literal meaning. Undeniable, ineluctable, ecstatic.
Your sweat, your saliva, your come.
Fact.
**
The larger organ of the tropical jungle respires around us.
Wet.
I lie awake, tugging idly at the end of the long, gossamer tension that organises my universe, held taut at its opposite end by the body whose sleeping inertia is bearing down on the mattress beside me.
I slowly pull back the sheet: you do not stir. I admire the open foetal shape of your body.
I admire the arc of the snow-white belly that touches mine, photographed a thousand times but known to me the way the intimate features of the desert are known by someone who lives there. The softness of your flesh where it is slackening at the hips and lower back, the legacy of your children’s passing.
You are dreaming. Your face composes itself around the phantasm and then surrenders into blankness. You’re asleep, but you roll into my shoulder and resettle against the bed with sounds of happiness and comfort.
I touch your nose with my nose. You smile against my mouth and kiss me. I kiss your cheek and then your brow, pushing your shoulder with mine to roll you onto your back. I spread your legs with my knee, rubbing my nose along your nose. Your eyes remain closed.
Outside, the susurrant whisper of the rain in the jungle.
I kiss your mouth, your cheek, your hairline. I whisper your Chinese name in one ear, your English name in the other. I push the head of my hardened cock where you’re hottest, wettest and softest and the petals of your cunt yield to me.
I hold it half an inch deep and when you roll your hips to swallow it, I withdraw momentarily to tease you before driving upwards into the labyrinth of secrets that is arrayed beneath the rose of your heart.
You breathe me in as a long, rapturous sigh that sounds like fear.
Your bucking hips, your first orgasm. I subdue and then discipline your rhythm with my weight and strength, building you towards your second. You settle into the rhythm and as you come again, you dig your strong, square-ended fingers into my back.
I kiss my way down the knotted rope of your body; chin, jaw, throat, breast, sternum, belly and hip. I shift your leg, reaching deep inside you with my fingers, massaging your g-spot until you come, ejaculating heavily onto the mattress.
Then, I lie on my belly in the soaking mess and draw your cunt into my mouth, licking and sucking away every last sacramental drop until you come again.
Now fully awake, we fuck wrapped in each other’s arms, face to face and heart to heart, kissing and embracing and loving until the wave of my orgasm goes crashing into you, triggering yours the way an echo sets off an avalanche.
Exhausted, we lie entangled in the ecstasy of one another’s limbs.
‘The mattress is soaked,’ you say.
‘I’ll get a towel,’ I reply.
**
When you read this, you arrive at the place where your nervous system arcs across to mine. And you can always come here to find me. This instant, we are together.
And I am inside you.
Theme Park at its Darkest 
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