x rated dream

I must confess that I haven’t been dating much recently. As in not for a year. Taking an emotional break, you could say. Yes, I still take care of the sensuality as much as I can – being aware of the senses, candlelit baths, listening to Morcheeba (I’m sorry, their music will always remind me of liquid aural sex). The requisite devices that take 9 volt batteries. You get the idea. Just no men.
All of which has combined to make me attuned to testosterone in a way I’ve never been before. Like a tuning fork. Vibrating. All the time. I walk by a man and get aroused. I walk into an elevator where a man has been—you can tell by the faint cologne left behind—and I get aroused. I watch television and get aroused. Movies, forget it (which reminds me, Chocolat is on tonight!). I’m done for. And putting me in a public place around men is almost debilitating.
Which is why I end up having nights like the one I had last night. It seemed every time I woke up (which was often) there were vague techicolor porn dreams fading away at the edge of my consciousness.
And then, there was the final dream. I don’t even remember that much of it.
I was in a room (bedroom? living room?) and he was there – you know, that faceless guy that loves to hang around dreams. He was in pants and a button-down shirt. And he was drenched. We’d been caught in a rain storm. I walked up to him and unbuttoned his shirt and slid it down his arms. Spending lots of time in between. You know. I unbuttoned his pants and slid them down his legs. Spending lots of time in between. You know.
Underneath, his skin was still damp, slight rivers of water running over his shoulders and chest from his wet hair.
Finally all that was left were briefs. They were soaked through, too. He was hard. So hard. The hardest cock I’d ever seen. It jerked a little as I caressed his stomach.
I knelt down in front of him. And slowly, carefully, licked him from base to tip. He groaned.
And that’s when I woke up.
At the absolute worst times you could imagine, this mental image—the soaked through, the long lick, the groan—came back to me all day long.
A tuning fork, I tell you. I’m simply vibrating.