After

I dream, half awake, in slo-mo pixelated lag time, era frozen and bodies fluid, the curve of his cock sunburn hot against my palm, his youthful shyness golden as the darkening wheat in the field outside our window. He is unsure, the way he always was in the end, his skin jump-twitch responsive the way it never stopped being, his heart banging its vulnerable thud between our bare chests the way it did in the beginning.

I am there but not, in the way only night-fantasy remembrances allow. The place foreign but familiar, the details blurred into sharp relief.

I know, within the dream, that I am neither exploring past nor wishing present. Time has no meaning in dreamspace; or rather, Meaning is found here only the existential profundity of out-of-time surrealistic sexual detail. His clear lava, burning volcanic in pre-cum eruptions, burns pink the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, its blue-veined cool a counterpoint to soft-rain pelts of fingertips over lightning-hot hard.

Desire is an unfurling. Coiling arousal tight but unwinding.

I wake — fading in and slowly out by halves — my fluttering lashes shutting out the gray-dawn bright of 4:00am, sensitized nipples puckering hard against sleep-shirt cotton, erratic heartbeat vibrating un-rhythmic inside my swollen clit.

Why did I dream of him?

The question occurs to me only after –

after the damp-slick sliding of pressure-perfect pleasuring fingers coax the memory of your mouth, soft-hot and suckling, pulling elongated contractions shivering through my core;

after the memory of your penetrating demand curling deep, twisting in erotic abrasion, invasively snug against my tight, shoots prickling pleasure-pain from navel to knee in drawn-out convulsing completion

– and the question, once posed to myself,
is quickly discarded
in favor of
realization.

It was a dream. And in it – as was once true in life – he was vulnerable to me.

.

.

.

.

.

As, now, are you.