Why in the hell does my brain enjoy on doing this to me?I'm lying in bed, in my bedroom here, on my back, in the dark. There is a lady there with me, and it is someone I know, but with whom I've never slept in conscious life. We've just gotten out of the shower. I know, because our hair is damp and our bodies have that warm, damp, steamy feel that skin has after a nice warm shower or bath. It's a very warm night and we are enjoying the feel of the cool air breeze on us coming through the vent in the bedroom. Both of us are in our underwear. She crawls onto the bed to my left. I lazily stretch out my left arm beneath her, and raising up and rolling toward her I pull her toward me, inhaling the warm scent of her freshly washed skin. I kiss her ribs and her skin is soft against my nose and lips and I can't resist nipping it with my teeth and tasting her and working my way down her side toward her hip. Oh, now I'm intoxicated, and cooking. I reach up and put my hand on the small of her back near the waistband of her panties, and that's when her body stiffens and she lets out a kind of keening moan that is not pleasure, but the kind of frightened sound that a person makes when something has gone incomprehensibly wrong and they are too freaked to even think or move.
Alarmed, I ask, "What's wrong, Hon?"
"Someone besides you has got a hand on me!" she says, in a small voice that sounds like it is being forced through a constricted throat, and it raises the hair on the back of my neck.
Taking stock of the situation, I realize that on one hand, I am still a bit disturbed and concerned, but on the other I am also somewhat relieved that she's not having an appendicitis or heart attack, or an aneurism or something terrible and painful like that. I am reasoning that there cannot be anyone else in the room, because we would feel the weight distribution on the bed and besides, the room is not that dark. Nobody could possibly be in here. I stroke her back and begin to tell her to relax, that there must just be something in the bed that merely feels like a hand to her. I resist the urge to add, jokingly, that if it is a hand, since a person couldn't possibly be in here, it would have to be a severed hand. My senses of empathy and tact gang up on my impulsive sense of humor and sap it into unconsciousness before it can get hold of my voice to utter such a damned fool thing, and as I start to speak something soothing, I hear a sound like the short sharp little violin shrieks that played against the shower scene in the movie "Psycho."
At this point I slip into that "meta-dream" state where I am fully aware that I am dreaming, and I get extremely annoyed at the cheesy sound effects and the general course this wonderfully sexy dream is taking. Usually I get much further than this before waking up. I don't spook easily in dreams. Usually I am able to keep cognizant of the fact that I am dreaming when I'm dreaming. On one of the rare times when I wasn't so aware of it, I was having a nightmare and woke up shouting Crystal's name and I threw my left arm over her to keep her from being hurt by something — I don't remember what. Coming to half-consciousness, she gave me a couple of annoyed lines of her displeasure and went back to sleep, as my fear and disorientation faded. Anyway, most of the time, if things aren't going like I want them to in a dream, I will try to change it. When I was a kid, I learned how to do some really neat stuff, which people have told me is unusual, like walk through walls and teleport myself, although I am extremely lousy at flying, and have almost never done that, no matter how much I've wanted to do so and tried before. Well, I'm just about ready to put the full nelson on my subconscious until it agrees to put this story back onto a track where I eventually get laid, when I realize that the cheesy violin shrieks are the beeping of my stupid alarm clock with the loose switch contacts that rings at its preset time in the morning, often whether I want it to do so or not.