Dream Big, Baby: Part 5

DREAM BIG, BABY: PART 5

 

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Dream on.

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Two days later, I’m thawed out on drugs, restless from too much sleep and too little movement, looking for a getaway vehicle to take me away to the morphine peach fuzz life of slumber. Unable to discard my shaky shell of a body, I must inhabit the hollow, my mantra the only way out is in. Reaching under my bed for my slimmest toy, vibratey and insertable, without bending my spine, I roll over onto my right side and resume spine-straight fetal position, pajamas around knees, knees pointed toward tits. Minutes later, I’m coming restrained, buckling and clenching, arms bracing self on side, support stakes tethering me to the mattress like back screws buttressing my vertebrate alignment.

Drifting off to sleep, I stroll into a panoramic dream about Andrew in some multiplex architectural wonder situated in a hotel housing a restaurant-slash-ballroom, among other hideouts, everything in high-res Technicolor.

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He, sprawled out on the contiguous stage of a dancefloor with some girl who appears to be a composite of two girls he’s slept with in real life, one hot one not. This one, objectively pretty though not my type: blonde, leggy, shapeless, the girl-next-door glitzed up, glam. I lie down across from them on the waxy woodpanels, observing. Their bodies both oil-slicked, to capture the bounce of the stagelights? To glean like a sidewalk sprinkled in water on a high-budget movie shoot, accentuating the background-foreground contrast? To sharpen his reflection when he admires himself passing in each and every freshly squeegeed shoppe window? Aggressively stylized, he appears even in the buff, almost airbrushed. The roll-on Smells Like Teen Spirit body glitter of adulthood, just my scent. All the phoniness beaded up on the surface. Unless it was meant to serve a purpose? As a purse, is how he wears the woman, slung across his slender body, draped and undressed. A status symbol and social currency, an accessory to mask his insecurity. Propped up by the implicit social proof of his conversation piece, the expansive sea of stage provides an apt setting, as his entire life seems to be a staged production, his bright-lights social media presence deliberately divergent from the mild-mannered man. Frail and lackluster in real life, meeting him for the first time I felt as if I had pulled back the curtain on the Wizard Of Oz. Though I had bargained for a pompous peacock, gratefully I accepted a sparrow small and sweet, preferring the person to the persona.

He began groping her, a superficial window display of an act. Appalled by his insensitivity in expressing physical affection in front of me when clearly he knew I still wanted him, I scowl-scoffed. Then shifted my weight to get up and extricate myself from the situation. Sensing my agitation, he forbade me, wait, it’s not what you think. Then preceded to get up from her, drape himself over me, and grope me the same. Oh, I was being canvassed for a threesome. Why of course! I could not be any more tickled by the prospect. Overjoyed! She was no Emily, this one, but she’d do. Reconciliation, at last! Like when my college boyfriend bought me lady porn as a getting-back-together slash sorry-for-accusing-you-of-cheating-with-a-girl gift.

I was a little surprised Andrew wasn’t disgusted by my enthusiastic reception, considering he puffs up at the prospect of women fighting over him. Sharing is soo much sexier, and even the most pathological of narcissists realizes this. I excuse myself to the bathroom to go “freshen up,” the proverbial pre-sex pee or in my case bowel purge: evacuate shit to make room for peen. I step over the girl on my way there, and see her mouth words snappily across the woodpanels, “Waaait, wherrre is she going,” scolding Andrew for what she presumes is a failed conquest. He tells her not to worry I’m just going to the bathroom, and she invigorates with the idea, instructing within ear-shot, “Get the camera out NOW, let’s start filming while she is in there.” So I speed things up, wanting to shoot the shit before film is rolling. Some things are private! Others are not.

Concerned by this creepy, predatory set-up, I should be, you say?

All I’ve ever wanted is for someone to affirm my desire to be watched, that exhibitionism is attractive and not the narcissistic nadir of desperation. From a woman, it’s the ultimate acceptance, confirmation that I’m not a piteous, past-my-prime slut.

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Approaching the sink to wash up, I detect rumbling behind the mirror ornamenting the overhead cabinet just left of the doorway. Pivoting on my tippie toes, I turn ninety degrees, slide the glass door along its track frame and see up the pinhole of a ceiling shaft that there is an attic, like in an old abandoned house. An elusive thing just an arm’s length out of reach, he’s up there fumbling with a camera, trying to play subtle and camouflage his flamboyant feathers against the grain of the cupboard. I part primp for him—them, part prep myself, and part play to the camera. First plumping my lips with gloss, dragging the gooey tip of my index finger over my poised pucker, sleek and velvety on application. Next drawing a line down my chin, through the valley of my tits, past the speed bump of my belly button, and into the tense waistband of my underpants, which have magically appeared for the affectation of resistance—provocation theater! Given my vehement refusal at self-restraint, my panties bluff coy, mostly to entice me. Swollen and goopy, I give in and give up the charade only when my breath thickens husky, rasping for him. I reach up errant into the overhead void, push the camera aside with a swipe of sloppy fingers; jumping back a bit, he startles, astonished that his ruse is up. “I know you’re up there,” the adult version of ready-or-not-here-I-come. He doesn’t budge. “You can come down now,” I say, sweetly sinister, as he pokes his over-sized head out, bashfully. “I’m Into It,” I assure, all caps and smirk. Bashful, befriend Dopey.

Climbing down through the unlikely cabinet portal, he approaches me from behind, wrapping his arms around my tits, sliding them down slowly, seductively. Me, all smiles. He bends my top-heavy torso over to one thirty analog clock, pads of my hands propping me against the wall. Rolling spit on the head of his cock, he draws his body into mine, pressing gently until my pussy parts, and we pick up momentum. First thrust send shivers up and down my spine like a mallet running over a xylophone key-by-key then in reverse. Recovering, I look clear and straight ahead, noticing myself noticing myself in the camera lens. Self-conscious, I smile, laughing at my own joke. Not a shy, blushing, demure self-consciousness; rather one of being jolted back into the recurring reality of vision clouding sensation, the overcoming aura of recognizing my face and reconnecting. And I exhilarate, What a thrill it would be to own my own body. What a thrill it would be to come into myself, as someone fucks me senseless—defenseless.

Air pulling in and sucking out of my thorax, my eyes squint and glisten slipperily, watching my bottom lip quiver and ripple in the perpetuity of reflection, as the rumble between my legs builds upon itself… picks up steam and plows forward into profusion until the put-put of the tea pot teems and turns into a whistle. Fading in and out of focus, mine, his, peering over my shoulder, my head cocked back, mine, his, with every thrust we contort in sync. He cups the undercurrent of my tits and slides down my torso, wrapping his long limber fingers around my inner thighs to brace me, as if hoisting me up by my own breeches. Sensing the imminence with which the clock will strike twelve, I will melt into jello and forget my own legs, he holds me in place, enabling me to dissolve and receive, assemble into a rippling pool of pleasure. Ceding to my rebel yell, released throaty and conjured from deep inside my chest cavity, he thrusts his pelvis even further into my butt crevice as I tense around him. Halfway between levitation and physical restraint, I lose track of whether I’m spread and spread again or tense, approaching or retreating; he’s supporting me entirely, slip-sliding down his cock, my fanned-out lady lips slapping against his full, flappy balls.

Our euphoria reaches a critical mass of weightlessness, he carrying my load before he shoots his. Except we settle down slowly, he swings the bathroom door open and leads me by the pinkie as if I’m the effeminate one and he is about to twirl me off to our next adventure.

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We crawl up the cast-iron spiral staircase paved with plush red carpeting—the luxe version of the rickety tin cans he has strung together in his apartment, leading at a sharp angle from basement kitchen to ground floor bedroom, a firepole of footholds condensing square footage. Clawing our way to conquer our prize, we stop at the second landing. And there she is, gleaming and fully clothed in cocktail attire. In a booth—sipping on a swizzle-sticked classic martini across the table from a blurry-faced, identity-interchangeable, exquisitely dressed suit—obviously on a date. For romance or “business” it is unclear.

She asks Andrew how it’s going and he asks her the same, all the while ignoring The Other Man, face a blur. In front of me it unfolds, the kind of interaction reserved for when you are at a bar with friends and one breaks away from the group to land a guy. Before leaving with Him, giddy and teetering on too-tall heels, she checks in with you and you inform her you’re going to stay put and mingle, chase the night into morning. On her way out, over the clanking of glasses and rustling of outerwear, you bid her, “Have Fun (Wink, Wink).” Use condoms. Text me tomorrow to let me know you’re still alive. Divulge all the dirtiest deets. It’s a sorority girl handshake, two girlfriends pre-gossiping before shit goes down.

Andrew nods at Composite Girl in dutiful acknowledgment, Have a great night, and we continue the climb without our precious cargo in tow. Confused by whatever he knows that I don’t, I stalk his lanky length up the stairs, following him reflexively around the gentle cast-iron curves. And I’m distracted by the corporeal reality for a bit, crawling behind in Jungle Book succession, nose and tail in air, lusting after his long lean lady legs. All I can think of is leg worship, Raylene the drag queen who hostessed my queerest of the queer 18th Birthday party at Lips, how he could fulfill at the wet and wanking gender bending dreams I had in high school. Bet I could even get him into the infamous flamingo pink ass floss thong. A preacher’s son, he told me he doesn’t have limits. Sooo tempting to test. Rearing to continue, I am, hindquarters as red as a baboon’s are blue. Roses are red, balls are blue, Genie is such a romantic…

jungle book

We ascend steadily, and just before Composite Girl and Blurry Man are out of sight, I tug on his extended leg slightly, sputtering perplexed. I ask what the situation with that girl could possible be, why hadn’t we collected her, what is the deal with that guy. And the whole thing makes little sense to me considering in real life he seems psychotically jealous, projecting his insecurities by pretending the women are the jealous, needy ones. He admits it, matter-of-fact: “She is my patron.” And I know exactly what he means, this patron-prostitute relationship. Because the previous evening, in real life, I had read an article in Salon about the importance of writers being transparent about the source of their funding, whether it is being born into money, marrying into it, or more unadulterated forms of whoring. Not to discredit anyone’s talent or effort, but to admit to the leisure life that allows them to exercise it with more facility than their financially burdened or otherwise responsible peers. Reading this expose on creative “arrangements,” I gloated roguishly, How I Would Love To Own That Boy. Keep him well, I would. Not sufficiently convinced that I’m a piece of shit person?

Before I grew impatient with his ignoring me, we had this conversation:

Andrew: I hate to say this but I think I need to get a job.

Me: Besides fucking me?

Me: Let’s hang out tomorrow.

Obviously I was joking.

Andrew: If I fuck you better can you pay for the sessions? I have too many [travel plans] next month and I haven’t worked since April.

He was too.

But once he started ignoring me I got so turned on by the prospect of payment. What it would be to purchase a man. He couldn’t fuck me better, it was practically perfect as is, but I could pay for him to be mine. Whether it would be more degrading for him or me, who knows. Who cares? For both of us, it would be sex.

Back in my dream, Composite Girl is his sponsor, almost, and I admire that he owned up to the origins of his success, his ability to accrue experiences and catalog them. Apparently he sexually favors her sometimes as a courtesy but it isn’t primarily a sexual exchange. She dates, goes to events, sleeps up herself. Mostly he is a plus one for hire, and I always saw him as the epitome of that. Since my idea of a good time is attending an upscale event, preferably one including “ladies” who tormented me as a child, and seeing how socially inappropriate I can get away with being without chancing ostracism. He’s just gauche and unrefined enough for that job: just new money, name droppy, and opportunistic enough to be trashy; just self-conscious enough to be self-promotional; just pretty boy emaciated enough to scarf down unpronounceable appetizers with abandon. Though if someone wanted to do some serious Society Seeing, he would have to be groomed and vetted as to avoid committing a conspicuous and unforgivable faux pas, like bragging that his second-tier liberal arts college is more impressive than his high school girl friend’s top-three or like insinuating that well-to-do teenagers start having sex younger than their low-SES counterparts. Tonight his de facto employer is on a date, negotiating her own social ascent, and he is off the clock, available for my enjoyment—at my service!

We tunnel through a series of corridors, a plexiglass sleeve of a train car, and surface at the next open landing: a glass-roofed spa resembling an indoor arboretum, walls lined with signature hotel robes and slippers. Looking past the 80’s peach reception desk, wafting the chlorine on the other side of the revolving door, it is time for us to get down to business. Except he’s resistant, suddenly aloof and alarmist.

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He blows me off, anxiously eyeing the out-of-date waiting room mags, distraction props, like fixating on the duration of the 50-minute hour in a tense therapy session. I ask him what’s up, and he’s not into it. The sex.

“You must be kidding me,” I say, exacerbated.

“Seriously?” he winces, as if sharp from sucking on something sour.

“YES, seriously,” I escalate emotion quickly. Hot and bothered!

“I don’t know why you bothered teasing me, got me all worked up. What you thought would happen. But if you’re not gonna help…” echoes the sentiment of the summer, of his ignoring me and my growing increasingly flustered. (Now I’m twice as horny and four times as stressed out, someone put me out of my fucking misery!)

“No, it’s not that. I want to,” he explains, feebly, “Just not here.”

I nod, forehead furrowed, rolling my right hand toward myself in the universal ‘get on with it’ motion.

“Let’s go someplace more private,” he offers, finally, and gestures past the reception desk.

“There are people in there.”

“So?” what’s your point?

“Well, what if they see us?” questions Captain Obvious. Siggh. Yawn.

“So what if they do?” I fondle his cock and it jumps in my hand. I’m ready. Want him to be too.

“Don’t.” He restrains my arms at my side, toy soldier style. As if he were about to bust and wanted to stop me before he jumped out of his skin.

“What do you mean, don’t?” this again, “Why not?”

“I’m, uh,” he hesitates, “I’m shy.” His final word. My question meant to be rhetorical.

Disgusted, I sneer, “Okay, well then you don’t have to be involved. Directly. Just watch me.” Lowering my eyes suggestively, “I’ll touch myself… instead.”

“Please don’t.”

“WUT!” I exclaim, accusatory. “Am I not allowed to touch myself?”

“You are…” he trails off.

Clipping his thought, “I need to get off.”

“Seriously?”

I’m, uh… I’m shy. His words ring true reverberating in my head because he behaved as such in real life, much to my surprise and disappointment. Also a funny thing to petition me with because so am I, shy, given my characteristic inclination to sink into myself. Unbridled, I had been relying on him as my self-monitor, my sexual custodian. He, self-consciousness embodied.

Surely we can compromise, I decide to accommodate. I want him to lunge into me, not cower. We walk in reverse, this time me leading him, back through the plexiglass sleeve of a train car. He pulls down the Murphy bench propped against the wall and sits confidently on the sliver of ledge, gesturing for me to hop on his solid stick shift of a cock, also gesturing for me. I ride him in the hum-hum gallop of the train, knees pressing his hips together, rocking back and forth, my pointy chin pressed up against his freckly forehead, jubilant tits cradling his neck.

Between my fleshy thighs, my whole body rumples and wilts, his rooted thrust propping me back up. My glove-tight grip stiffens, torso propelling itself, sucking him all the way inside me up to the flared-base of his body, and I lean back on him, elastic suspension, like a slingshot loaded to launch. Squealing, flailing even further back, I’m a spooked horse rearing on hind legs—unpredictable, untamed. (The same configuration as I came with The Dutch Man, only titled back 90s degrees. More “pounding the spot” than “dominant goddess,” as featured in the top pic, except with knees bent and feet pinned behind butt.) Only I don’t fall over backwards off his lap, because there is no gravity in dreams!!! Convenient! Well, there’s just enough to hold him down on the sliver seat and attach me peg-in-hole. Yet, not quite enough to slap me silly, flipping me feet-over-head as if I’m leaning back too liberally in a computer chair.

Pounding the Spot

Pounding the Spot

Dominant Goddess

Dominant Goddess

Thirty seconds of recovery later, beaming, both of us, he pulls his plump knob out, smoothly and methodically, scaling my endless internal walls. His incremental retreat, me still aflutter in post-orgasmic butterfly wing quiver inciting quiver, it feel like vagina for days. Our fantastic finger-and-fuck not over yet, he pumps his pretty cock along my stomach, his jumpy balls jostling against my gushy, galvanized lips. Spurt after spurt, sparkly streamers of semen shoot out. Our eyes aglow, glistening in glory, as we bathe and bask in the delight of fluids we produced. Slathered, a mobius strip of shimmer and shiver, reflecting pools collecting between our tummies, connecting us. Sighing in joy and relief, it is so simple, he who cums inside me owns me, and he already did, our relationship cemented in semen. I pet him, adoringly, brush a loose curl behind his ear, and whisper, “You are so beautiful.”

We are back to where we were before, the last time he fingered me. When I smiled so sweepingly that his instinctual eyes grinned back reflexively, in mimicry. And I laughed at myself, sheepishly, recognizing my face reflected in his inlaid mirror, a flash of euphoria externalized.

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Grateful and glowing, I wake up in real life with my stomach trembling in a tangle of smiles originating in the soft spot between my legs. I reach down through the elastic band of my panties, swipe through the valley of my lips, and feel contented by the pulse and wetness of the wank I went to sleep on. Now fused with him. Splendid and sweet, it was, as was the sex with him in real life. Unlike the escalating violent fantasies I had after he cut me loose.

And for once I feel unified with myself. Like now that my back is finally screwed together the spell he cast on me is broken. I have a brighter future, even if it only consists of my reconstituted ability to acquire experiences through which to publicly embarrass myself. Every time I get cut open, I feel like a virgin—shiny and new. Propofol and penis: the secret agents of welcomed memory erasure.

That’s all I ever wanted to think of him, that he was so beautiful—lovely, really. I never wanted to follow in his footsteps, to become one of those people who vilifies sexual or romantic partners when things go to shit, who belittles them to bolster themselves. I didn’t mean to transmogrify saucy sexual fantasies into deranged, violent provocation—though those got me off, too. I only wanted my life to be improved by semen. SELF-CARE! And he had become my de facto rubrik of all things fuckworthy. In any incantation, making me come.

I’ve been haunted by it this whole time: That hypocritical bitterness thing. The shame of resentment eating away at me, knowing full well how horrified and turned off I was by Andrew’s bent on harboring grudges and seeking revenge against those who let him go and those who aided and abetted. Not to mention the words The Minnesotan said to me, foreshadowing his disappearance. About how he was concerned that I talked so poorly about past partners, he didn’t want to someday turn into one of them. As if I spun gold into shit, broke everything I touched, in my head at least.

My residual hatred for Andrew: mostly good ol’ fashioned SEXUAL FRUSTRATION! He rubbed me really wrong weeks before I insisted on some conclusion but never touched my trigger points. Trouble yes, psychological warfare no. Until he refused to render his services. Then I wanted him to rub me and run me into the ground.

There were a lot of serious objections I had to him all along. His demand for undeserved adulation and refusal to engage with my accomplishments and aspirations. The air of arrogance and retribution inflected into his hero/victim self-narrative. His insistence on communicating with the condescending sweetie this, honey that. But with sex he got everything right. More right than I even knew was possible. Why couldn’t we just have that? Why did he have to take it away from me? He provided me with the impetus to be unscrupulous and I’m not sure how to reproduce that urge and replace him. He was that good. The way he drugged me with bucketsful of semen. I can’t even image anyone else I’d WANT to have unprotected sex with.

Each and every time I have shitty, standard sex—auxiliary affirmation of my status as a human carcass—it only serves to amplify my fury. At Andrew for showing me the ropes and then abandoning me mid-course with no safety harness. For leaving me longing for that prelapsarian period before submitting to the temptation to pull back the curtain on tidy sex. When the tension between exposure and circumspection still remained. Before I felt the relief and humanity in being fucked raw.

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