Yesterday, I woke from a nap with a sex dream. In this one, as in almost all of my sex dreams, I was masturbating. Rarely does my unconscious gift me with dreams of extracurricular activity. It likes me to rely on my own devious devices. It’s a shame, really. I’d like a dream about Jack Bauer manipulating me to orgasms of world domination with his little electric wires and rough silk voice.
(Perhaps if I’m very, very good, my unconscious will send him to me, and in the privacy of my mind’s four expansive walls he can have his 24-hour CTU way with my cunt.)
Yesterday, while in my nap my unconscious placed me in the center of a large Japanese room with tatami mats and shoji screens and yellow light like butterfat, like lemon ice, like béchamel.
I was seated on the mat, my feet in socks but not shoes, my legs bent like two “vee”s, the right knee bent so that my heel curled up under my pussy. I rocked back and forth over my heel, grinding my clit into the voluptuous curve of my heel. I’m rocking back and forth, trying to find a surreptitious purchase on my heel, trying to get my groove on, and aware that I’m trying to do it without anyone seeing me do it.
I’m acutely aware that someone, somewhere, is watching, even though I can see no one. I can feel eyes on me, and I feel ambivalence. The twin hydra of wanting to be watched and fearing to be watched, the wish fulfillment and the fear.
I feel frustrated and aroused, there in the middle of that pale yellow room, riding my heel like a parochial school girl. And then as dreams do, mine shifts kaleidoscopically and there I am squatting in the middle of a broad wooden planked table, its shiny planes warm under my bare feet.
My thighs are wide open, and I am naked. My left hand parts my labia and my right middle finger works furious circles on my clit.
Watching me are three people, two women and one man. I don’t know them; one of the women has red hair like Julianne Moore. They seem to have a polite and not prurient interest in my proceedings. They might be holding clipboards, but that detail may be something my mind has furnished now, after the fact.
In front of them, as they peer at me with curious intent, asleep in my bed, I come, a tiny orgasm.
A cute little orgasm. An orgasm canapé. An orgasm petit four. Small and perfect, a miniaturized tidbit of an orgasm is what my unconscious gives me, and a quiet “oh” in my sleep breaks the surface and wakes me.