My dreams fuck with me.

I woke up this morning with a vague sense of relief and satisfaction.  I’m not ashamed to consider the possibility that it was my new alarm music — Taylor Swift’s Shake It Off — but it’s more likely because The Neighbor railed me with his magic cock all night long.

Dream Hy and TN were intertwined like lovesick teenagers; we couldn’t get enough of each other.  His pale skin glowed in my mind’s eye as he buried himself to the hilt inside my warm, wet, and willing body.

I sighed.

It’s been weeks, if not months since I dreamed of what I used to have at my disposal.  I no longer pine for it, nor do I fear its absence thanks to a couple of lovers since who’ve assured me with their own cocks that cosmic sex is possible outside of just me and him.  But I do miss it.

And I just plain miss great cock.

The difference between great cock and good cock is great cock makes me do things I never knew possible.  It makes me mewl and cry, it makes me jerk and beg.  My body reacts like dry tinder to a flame when great cock touches it.  The Neighbor had great cock.

I admit — and I think I always admitted — that I was a slave to it.  It felt special.  It felt like a cold trough of water after a lifetime in the desert.  I didn’t want to leave it.  I often wonder how much his fantastic penis accounted for me staying with him.  It’s probably a lot higher than what I’d like to admit to, frankly.  I’d like to be more than just a primal drive to get some, but maybe I wasn’t.  Maybe I was just a cock-hungry animal.

My dreams taunt me in other ways.

The other day I dreamed of a man who ignored me when I took an effort to see him.  I huffed off.  He found me in a room filled with light and peeled off my clothes.  He shone rosy and pale against the all white linens.  I told him I was angry at his rebuff.  He apologized and as he was about to touch me a fire alarm sounded and we were forced to evacuate.  My breath left my body and I resigned myself to the missed connection.

It likely represents my adult romantic/sex life in general lately, a collection of missed connections and opportunities, feeling generally ignored by and unimportant to a consort.  Dreams aren’t about the actual characters, but what they represent to you, how you feel about things.  I certainly feel invisible most of the time and this one captured it perfectly.

My dreams fuck with me, but I welcome the watercolor world.  I like how they help me sort my shit out, realize things my waking brain refuses to accept.  And I really like how they keep me laid on the regular.



A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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