It’s after midnight, and after such a long, tiring day I can’t sleep. Or maybe it’s that I don’t really want to. I don’t have the energy for the sexual feats I’ve been engaging in in my dreams. They leave me exhausted some mornings. Not because I thrash and turn in my sleep; I wouldn’t know it if I did. It’s the wet dreams that wear me down. Orgasms I can’t quite control, except in a lucid state, but even then I can’t, won’t. Some are so overpowering, so unshakable that I wake in a sweat, waves of—almost—unwelcome sensation rolling through me. Caught in the throes of such cogent imaginings I’m so sure that the person I’m experiencing them with is beside me. Not always are they the delightful fantasies I muse over when I’m awake and aware. Nor are they always about people I know. No, lately they are dark and foreboding, and so, all the more provocative.
I dream of women, drawing me down amidst a tangle of fervid limbs, lifting me up and over in climax after climax. I dream of men, debasing and being debased, an enticingly tangled web of sexual neurosis. I dream of others-—of neither gender, of—both. Some who flash from one sex to another. Some who only mentally inspire me, claiming me, pulling me through a whirlwind of sensation that has nothing to do with biology.
As dangerously beautiful as these dreams are, they drain me. These orgasms are riven from me, leaving nothing in the aftermath, nothing but lethargy. It’s seductive. Waking, I want nothing more than to return to these dream lovers. Waking, knowing there’s a whole day ahead of me before I can meet them again. It’s that that keeps me up, knowing that the end comes each morning all too soon. But I can’t wait any longer. Desire for release is overcome by the desire for indulgence.
What dreams may come, when I’ve—however briefly—shuffled off this mortal coil?