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.
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.