Saturday Night Fever: Cream

I wake, curled warm and body-hugged under blankets, with vague impressions of phallic dreamscapes painted in blurred remembrance behind my eyelids.

A man.
Two?
Who, doesn’t matter. He is faceless.
He is not, however, useless.
I use him.
Again. Another.
Penetration.
Deep. Stretching.
Heart race.
Slow wake, body responding to the fantasy/memory of pleasure.

Pictures composite, still-frame, fade. The night-sexy details are obscured by daylight.

There was sunshine and water, naked dark flesh flushed in the warmth of sunlight and desire.

I sit with the feeling, holding it clenched between my thighs, braking the speed forward toward waking, delaying the opening of my eyes to daylight. I hold the pulse tightly clenched until it throbs, the fullness of release beckoning me toward morning.

They come more frequently now, these dreams.

Just as I’m waking.

Rarely are they specific. Never are they about anyone (or anything) recognizable.

Sometimes there is one man.
Other times there are… More.
Yet others I am alone.

Varied: rushing river water, damp green grass, the scent of ionized air after rain; hot sun, lake water, the texture of sunscreen sheened by a layer of sweat; warm room, dim light, fire lit, the vestiges of sunset coloring its rays through windowpanes.

Identical: arousal, desire; heat, need; penetration without pain.

For the third morning I wake to the memory of these dreams — calm, aroused, warm, ready — and recognize the (un)familiar dampness of a wellspring thought near dry.

Penetration…

?

Whether I will manage it is questionable. Whether I *want* it is not.

I decide to try.

And led by the impressionistic memory of dreams…

…I cream.

.

Saturday Night Fever is my personal weekly posting project for 2021. Click the badge to see what it’s about (or see here for all SNF posts to date), and feel free to join me here on Saturday nights if you’re looking to add a bit of warmth to your weekends.