Dreams to Stories

As I re-explore the blogosphere (in an attempt to rebuild a network of connections and, of course, to re-acquire an audience of readers), i’ve been using WP reader to discover active bloggers.

I’ve been reading a number of blogs with some very good erotic content – mainly poetic but some otherwise. Not classic ‘here’s a sexy story that sounds like penthouse forum’ erotic, but more heartfelt, personal content; at least, that’s what’s reaching me currently.

It’s been quite a lot of years since i’ve written any fiction, erotic or otherwise, but these people – some of whom i’m linking to in my side-bar (or bottom of hime page if you’re on mobile) – are inspiring me to create.

Almost all the writing i’ve done in the last three months has been in the form of life stories for my friend Liz, who only recently discovered that i’m a writer. She was the person who got me to pull Wanton back out and share, then to start working on a revision. I credit her with re-awakening my need to write (as I have re-awakened hers).

But now i’m getting a desire to revisit my erotica skills. I have old (some extremely old) work in an archive I need to revisit, but that will happen later; now, I need to start.

My best writing writing all began as dreams; the vividness of a sexual dream stays with me on waking, and if I can capture the atmosphere of dream, I know the writing will work, because atmosphere is what I do.

I had such a dream last night – a young woman I know vaguely in real life, on a couch next to me, at a large social gathering. She begins to fall asleep, all her masses of long blond hair spilling onto my shoulder as she slumps into me; and I pick her up to carry her to bed, almost the way you’d carry a sleeping child. But as soon as we’re out of sight of the social gathering, she rouses, begins kissing me. I carry her to her bedroom, and – well, as soon as my fingers find my way inside her clothing, I wake. Frustratingly, the scene ends too soon, before I get enough to become a story.

But it may be sculpted into something, later, as I’ve done in the past. I have a character now, and a beginning, but from there I may be able to invent.

Either way, hopefully, i’ll begin something. I’m feeling inspired, but need to find both an image strong enough to move me, but also (and this is the much, much harder part), the time to work.

 

 

dream of spanking

god i wish my head would retain more detail from dreams.

I woke up from an elaborate dream – I was on the phone with you, on my cell phone, but describing a scene to you. I was outside, and it was stormy, with an angry gray sky, the scent of rain and a cold wind.

I can’t recall the early details of the story I told you, but it wound up with you, bent over against the side of an old truck (I think I was describing the scene I was in, but inserting you into it.). You were in an worn, faded pair of jeans, and I was threatening you with what I’d do. Then I bagan to spank you, my hand against the worn-smooth denim, I was whispering into the phone, but at the same tie I was now feeling teh story, hearing your moans and gasps, and then sobs.

When you began to sob, I unfasten your jeans and shoved them down, leaving your panties up. I spanked, and then stroked your bottom, and then began to slide my hand between your thighs, feeling how wet you were. I found your clit, and began to rub.

I could hear lightening in the distance, as I made you come for the first time.

I woke up with my cock like an iron bar, wishing I could hear your voice.

phantom

I had a dream the other night, about a girl I used to know. Not a girl I know in real life, but perhaps a composite of many. But in the reality of my dream, we had long history. We were sitting someplace – a bar, or coffee house. For some reason we were smoking; […]

I had a dream the other night, about a girl I used to know. Not a girl I know in real life, but perhaps a composite of many. But in the reality of my dream, we had long history.

We were sitting someplace – a bar, or coffee house.

For some reason we were smoking; I think because in the noir of my subconscious, it was what the scene needed.

I lit a cigarette and passed it to her; took one out for myself, looked at it, and then put it back. later, I thought.

We talked about memories. I traced table-top scars with my finger, imagining what violence or carelessness had made each one.

This should have been different, I said. But I couldn’t find the words to tell her what I meant. She sipped from a glass of something dark, and brushed her sandy brown hair back from her forehead.

She looked at me sadly, shaking her head.

I should go, she said.

No, not yet.

She stood, and I stood with her; our heads almost knocking together in our awkwardness. I reached to catch her, to prevent a fall that wasn’t actually happening. I left my hand on her hip for a beat, and then two, and then slowly she moved closer to me.

Her mouth tasted like sweet spice and cigarettes. She closed her eyes as we kissed.

I want you, I whispered into her cheek. She said nothing, but I could feel her answer with the confused certainty of dream – It’s too late.

Her skin was warm against my palm as I lifted her shirt; I slipped fingers into the waist of her jeans, feeling somehow if I could touch her, I could keep her, make hermore than memory. I could smell her skin.

Please, I said. She said nothing; she was fading into haze, a ghost of memory.

Wait, I said, to empty, smokey space. I’m not finished.

I woke to pale, cold sunshine through my fly-specked window, the bed empty beside me. I flexed my hand and resisted the urge to put it to my nose. I know no scent would cling.

Who are you, I asked the phantom of my dream.

seething dreams

I woke up, gasping, my heart pounding. I could hear my own voice as some sort of wordless snarl trailed away; raw, white-hot rage gripped me, brutal, violent, killing rage. I sat up, breathing hard, sweating, my fists clenching. Needing to hurt the objects of my rage, already out of reach on the other side […]

I woke up, gasping, my heart pounding. I could hear my own voice as some sort of wordless snarl trailed away; raw, white-hot rage gripped me, brutal, violent, killing rage.

I sat up, breathing hard, sweating, my fists clenching. Needing to hurt the objects of my rage, already out of reach on the other side of the filmy curtain of dream.

even now, I can feel my teeth grind; rage will not dissipate more quickly, more easily, for it’s source being imaginary. Not when that source lives in dreams, real as waking day for only those few moments it has life.

The details of the dream are not important; my sub-conscious mind assembling people and scenarios out of the past, building something rough and new out of them, as with stones from a crumbling castle turned into crude, temporary dwellings.

Small, old hurts and frustrations, angers almost forgotten, dredged up in the dark of night and used to assemble daylight-sharp ‘memories’ of things that never happened.

I can still feel the skin on my knuckles split; I can feel my throat raw from screaming in raw, murderous fury. I can feel my opponent’s nose crack under my fist.

Now, in mid-day sun, what stands clear are the minor, sensory details, not whatever baroque tale my sub-conscious concocted. And I cannot, quite, release the targetless rage with which I woke, sweating and seething.

There is nothing to hit, in the dark, when the dream flees. No target for that impotent rage. Nothing at all.

I lay a while, staring into the glow of my digital clock, trying to let go, or to understand whatever it was that trigged such a dream. I do not know, now, if I got anywhere, but at least, I re-found sleep.


When I woke, hours later, it was to my daughter’s voice – Daddy, I made you coffee.

Some things are better than others at sweeping away night’s cobwebs, That, certainly, was one such.

hot for teacher

A dream I had last night – fading already, because I dreamed it early in a night filled with other dreams. I should have gotten up and written this at two am, when I woke, for it was brilliantly vivid at the time, that kind of taste-smell-touch memory of intense dreams. *                  […]

A dream I had last night – fading already, because I dreamed it early in a night filled with other dreams. I should have gotten up and written this at two am, when I woke, for it was brilliantly vivid at the time, that kind of taste-smell-touch memory of intense dreams.

*                    *                    *

I’d been in a class – some sort of technical scuba seminar, the kind where you study decompression and theory, but not the kind where you get in the water. This is the sort of classes i love in real life – no nonsense, no wasted time practicing skills I already have; just hard-core tech.

There were only a few of us in the class; a guy I remember (dark hair, little goatee, with a self-conscious hipster look about him) and several generic people I have no memory of. The class itself seemed to have happened just before the dream began, because the details of it are nowhere in my memory, only the sense of what it was and how I felt about it. The dream fades in as the class is ending. We’re picking up our things, filling out some sort of papers, writing checks to pay for the class.

The female instructor was the focus of the dream. She was tall, maybe an inch taller than me. Her hair a sort of sandy red. She was slender, but with the right sort of curves in the right places. She looked tan and athletic. Pretty, just short of the kind pretty that makes you stop and stare, the kind of breathtaking pretty that leaves me tongue-tied in real life.

She had that sort of smile, though; you know the kind, the sort of smile that makes you feel like you’re the only one in the room when it’s turned in your direction. She looked ten years my junior or more, thirty-three, maybe thirty-five.

As we gathered our things to leave the small classroom, two things were known to me, in that ‘previously, on‘ way things are assumed to have already happened in a dream joined mid-story. First, that I had developed a considerable crush on the instructor, and second, that the other man in the class seemed to have a similar interest. We were both dawdling as the class ended, letting the other students leave, waiting for our instructor to walk out. A sense of un-spoken rivalry hung in the room between us.

The instructor – nameless in my dream – stepped out of the room, and I timed my exit carefully to step out behind her while ‘accidently’ bumping my erstwhile rival just enough that he dropped his papers. Then I was past him and kicked the doorstop out, letting the door close behind me.

It was just enough – I somehow then had her to myself, in dream-time the minor delay I’d given him stretched out as long as I needed.

“Hey, I got a minute?” I asked her as she walked away. She stopped, looked back over her shoulder, and then smiled me and turned. She seemed glad to see I’d followed her.

I could feel the attraction, an electric spark between us.

“First, I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your class.”

I went on a bit, though I’ve no idea the details; both the topic of the class, and the conversation about it, are gone now, in the light of day. What remains though is her face, blue eyes, a spray of freckles on her nose and cheeks, like Evangeline Lilly, and her look of warm attention.

“The other thing I wanted to say…”

I stumbled here, awkward, wanting to tell her I liked her. I stammered a little, then managed to get it out.

“…I find you really, really attractive, and I just can’t stop thinking, you know…”

She blushed faintly, and looked away, and bit her lip. And then stepped closer to me, across that invisible ‘personal space’ line.

“Oh my god,” she said, half a whisper, her voice gone breathy; “We’re both on exactly the same wavelength here.”

You know the feeling; that spark when someone you’re interested in, someone you’re attracted to, admits or demonstrates returning the feeling. A spark, a thrill.

I put a hand on her arm, and then she was touching me; and right there in the middle of the store or school or whatever public place, we were embracing, and kissing. It had an almost cinematic quality, like I was feeling our kiss, and seeing it. Her hard nipples against my chest, the skin of her waist under my fingers as they slid up under her shirt; the taste of her mouth, the smell of her, the musk of arousal and a faint floral scent in her hair.

At the same time, i could see us; her strawberry-blond hair, her white blouse, now half-un-tucked. Her jeans-clad leg half wrapped around mine and she leaned into me. My tattooed arms, one around her waist, one around her shoulders, pulling her to me.

And behind us, my frustrated rival, knowing he’d lost; raging at his timing, though in truth he’d lost long before I cut him off.

Things blur after this – at some point we are in her car, a frustratingly small honda. She’s half on top of me as we kiss. Her shirt’s half-off, bra unhooked. Her nipples are like fat, pink gumdrops and I want them in my mouth. We need a place to go, but her house is an hour away; we’re debating a cheap motel, lamenting that her car’s too damned small, way to damned small.

We agree on some destination. And then, oddly realistic, for my dreams – we stop to buy condoms.

*                    *                    *

I woke here – as usual, arousal ripping me out of the dream before I can near any consummation. But i was struck, as I lay half-awake – by the unusually narrative quality of the dream. I have such dreams rarely, though at least a few of my best erotic stories are inspired by such dreams. But also, I was struck by the reality of it. My subconscious had placed me in an entirely hypothetical, and yet absolutely true-to-life situation in the scuba-related training class; the stumbling awkwardness I am prone to when flirting with a particularly pretty girl is, while not universal for me, frustratingly real. And the fact that my sub-conscious said condoms is unprecedented. I’ve never in my life inserted condoms in a sex dream.

I wish I’d woken enough to write it down at two am. The dream was so richly detailed, and so emotionally vivid. What I’ve reconstructed here is a shadow of the dream I woke from. But it will have to do.

time and dreams

I woke up from a weird, red-wine inspired dream about people I think I used to know. It was strange, and disturbing, and I think vaguely sexual, though it faded away all too quickly before I could digest who or what I was dreaming about. I woke feeling spacey, though, and not only because of […]

I woke up from a weird, red-wine inspired dream about people I think I used to know. It was strange, and disturbing, and I think vaguely sexual, though it faded away all too quickly before I could digest who or what I was dreaming about.

I woke feeling spacey, though, and not only because of the cold from which I’m recoovering, and last night’s bottle of saddleback merlot.

I woke, though, with with Gillian Welch’s Time (The Revelator) stuck in my head; not Welch’s own version, but my friend Ken’s brilliant cover (about which I’ve written before, though alas, he’s never recorded it, so I can’t link to it), a song of soaring beauty and intensity, at least the way Ken does it, and a song which winds up seeming to mean so much more when sung than the lyrics seem to say when read. Funny how music can do that to words.

I wanted to go back to bed and seek the dream, figure out who or what or where was in my head, but coffee called me and the need to get to work made a return to bed impossible.

Now, nine hours later, I’ve still got Revalator going thought my head, and I still want to go back to bed and chase that dream.

dreaming little dreams

For some reason of late I’ve been having weird – and weirdly vivid – dreams. Odd, since I’ve been sleeping little (or maybe not so odd, maybe that’s why I’m dreaming this way). In no particular order, since I can’t recall when I dreamed these: There was a woman I knew named Laurel, from my […]

For some reason of late I’ve been having weird – and weirdly vivid – dreams. Odd, since I’ve been sleeping little (or maybe not so odd, maybe that’s why I’m dreaming this way).

In no particular order, since I can’t recall when I dreamed these:


There was a woman I knew named Laurel, from my tower days. Laurel was the sexy older lady at the time; she knew Lindsay Buckingham, she sun-bathed naked, she danced like a stripper. I realize now that she was in her early thirties, a woman I’d think of as a sexy young thing now; but I was 22 and she was tan, exotic, and incredibly sexy.

I never did fuck her, for all the times I thought I might; all the times we played grab and tickle, all the times it seemed like I’d have wound up in bed with her, it never did happen.

In my dream, we are riding on a bus, or some sort of large, slow-moving vehicle, and talking about how we never did, and how we should have, but now it’s too late since the people who should have aren’t here anymore.


I am having a conversation over drinks with Buck. But for some strange reason, Buck has hair. In real life he has none, of course, but in the dreamy unreal reality, it is known to be him.

When I say hair, I don’t just mean a few days without shaving. His head is crowned with some elaborately tall, almost sculptural thing, a pompadour, a golden whipped topping of hair, high and blond and framed with mighty side-burns.

I’ve no idea what we talk about. It is important, though.


I wake with her beside me – some girl from memory or sub-conscious. Her sweat on me. I can smell myself on her.

I kiss her bare shoulder, stroke from hip to belly, fingers parting her thighs and feeling the wetness of her bald pussy.

I roll her over, kiss her, and straddle her, kneeling between her things. She’s still slick and wet; we’ve already fucked once. Her pussy smells like her come and mine.

I wrap my hand around the base of my cock, working it fully hard. I rub the head against her slit, working her open.

I push into her, wet and welcoming. She whispers my name. I can feel the inside of her; she moans softly, and I begin to growl.


I’m at a planetarium, or a museum. I don’t know what, or where. Maybe los angeles. Maybe not.

Travis Barker is, first figuratively, and then literally, crying on my shoulder.

He weeps, laments; how could she do this to him, when he loves her.

She’s a bitch, he says, how can she do it? He’ll never love anyone else.

He’s drunk, slurring his words. I attempt to comfort him, but he seems on the edge of crazy drunk, like he’ll turn violent of I say the wrong thing. So I speak softly to him, agree with what he says.

The setting gradually morphs to someplace with a bed, and he’s passing out, still fully clothed, including boots, which are filthy.

I tuck him in and leave.

When I wake, I have the name ‘Shanna Moakler’ in my head, and for a moment can’t figure out why.

In Too Deep

Ah, it’s too deep I’m in too deep Drowning in the fire Burning in the lake Dying from desire, dying for desire Dying from desire, dying for desire Dying from desire, dying for desire      —Matthew Sweet, In Too Deep I know something’s gone off the rails in my head when I start to dream […]

Ah, it’s too deep
I’m in too deep
Drowning in the fire
Burning in the lake
Dying from desire, dying for desire
Dying from desire, dying for desire
Dying from desire, dying for desire

     —Matthew Sweet, In Too Deep

I know something’s gone off the rails in my head when I start to dream about unusual stuff.

One of the big ones for me is when I dream about work. I almost never do, so when I do I know work’s gotten under my skin in a bad way. I have those dreams rarely and not for a long time.

When I dream about friends, it’s usually a good thing. It usually means I’m feeling positive; I dream pleasant things about pleasant experiences.

Interestingly, when I dream about family – and this has always been true since I was a kid – like as not it’s angry dreams, arguing, fighting, dreams of frustration or sometimes violence. I had that sort of dream often about my brother when I was a teenager. I’d dream about fighting, sometimes about hurting, and once in a while, about killing.

Sex dreams about people I know in real life are all too rare. I can think of only a handful of them (and if I’ve had one about you I’ve told you, I always do) but to a one, they’re wonderful, and I wish oh-so-much that I could tap into them more. Sex dreams are one of my best sources for erotica, and sex dreams about real life friends give me this pleasant feeling when I see them later, like we have a secret.

But the ones that sort of puzzle me are dreams about people I’ve never met. I’ve had a few of them, dreams where my subconscious constructs a person from a few photos or a cartoon drawing, a lot of words or a voice on the phone. Alas, almost never sex dreams, though sometimes romantic. Dreams where a person I know and a person I don’t know at all are collaged into a whole with a heartbeat, breath, facial expressions. I’ve had a few dreams like that about other bloggers, and longer ago, about people I knew from USENET. I had one such last night.

Such dreams leave me puzzled and pleased, wondering how far off my subconscious mind is from reality; wondering if the person I invent exists, or if said person is, like many women in my dreams, almost entirely the product of my own psyche.

Last night, however, I also had an entirely new kind of dream.

I dreamed about video games.

I’ve been playing Resident Evil 4 obsessively for quite a while now; I played it all the way through, then, after obtaining lots of upgraded weapons, played again. Being sick around xmas, I didn’t do a lot else but play and play, working up to super-exclusive weapons, beating the game over and over. Last night, after drinking tequila, I played a particularly difficult sub-game and was up well past midnight losing over and over and over to the final boss (I finally beat it, at almost one am).

I’m immersed. I’m, shall we say, a little too immersed. This became clear when I realized I was dreaming about playing the game, and then later, after waking only enough to wonder what the fuck is wrong with me and then dropping back off, I dreamed about actually being inside the game, with a Striker shotgun in my hands.

I woke up wanting to kill something. Which isn’t really unusual for me I guess, but in this case, I woke up wanting to collect the items they’d drop.

I’m not sure what it means. Maybe it’s something in me finding a way to escape. Maybe lines between reality and unreality are getting blurry. Maybe I just need to feel a gun in my hand again (it’s been too long). Or maybe my subconscious is converting lust and desire into rage and violence in a safe, controlled way (Bam! Bam! Bam!).

I’ll tell you though, it doesn’t make me want to stop playing.

Dress You Up in My Love

I had an oddly hot dream last night, after not being able to get to sleep until very, very late. It has to have been inspired by an episode of Project Runway (and I’ll have to put off talking about that show for a bit because of the promise I made myself not to talk […]

I had an oddly hot dream last night, after not being able to get to sleep until very, very late.

It has to have been inspired by an episode of Project Runway (and I’ll have to put off talking about that show for a bit because of the promise I made myself not to talk about any more reality teevee).

I was dressing a woman up in lacy, pretty, elegant lingerie. She was a tall, stunning brunette with a perfect figure, and I was choosing things for her to put on while she modeled them for me; garter belts, bra and panty sets, bustier sorta things. Garters and more garters, and some other things that might have been nighties and might have been very suggestive evening clothes, I’m not sure.

The clothes are kind of a blur to me now, I just recall fancy, very lacy things in a number of colors, maroon, pink, black, jade green.

What I recall, though, is the feeling of dressing this woman up almost like a living barbie doll; the subtle dominant/submissive feeling it had, her doing what I told her, putting on what I chose for her and modeling it for me while I sat watching, directing her to pose for me, to show herself off for me.

I woke up with the image in my head, watching her put on a lacy, fussy garter belt at my direction. It’s been with me all day, that image.

the opposite of nightmare

We’ve all woken from nightmares a time or two. Woken, sometimes gasping, sometimes screaming, sometimes just to an awareness, oh thank god that was a dream. The sweaty, sheets-cumppled, heart beating, terror-bleeding-into-relief feeling as dream fades. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the opposite of that. Have you ever a dream […]

We’ve all woken from nightmares a time or two. Woken, sometimes gasping, sometimes screaming, sometimes just to an awareness, oh thank god that was a dream. The sweaty, sheets-cumppled, heart beating, terror-bleeding-into-relief feeling as dream fades.

But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the opposite of that.

Have you ever a dream that’s so good, so right, so perfect, that waking up feels like a nightmare? A dream of utter contentment, complete perfection, all-is-right-with-my-world.

A waking moment, floating up from the deep, warm, womb-like pool of dream, to find that all life’s problems and pains and losses and realities are terrifyingly still real, and the dream’s bliss, the dream’s utter perfection and contentment, is lost.

I had that moment a night or two ago. At, of course three am – what I call the worrying hour. How often have I had conversations with friends about middle of the night wakings; the eye of that storm turns around three am. AT that hour, life’s tiniest problems are magnified, life’s sturm und drang blown to operatic proportion. I woke, a little after that hour, from a warm and contented dream. Not a sex dream, nothing so raw, intense and carnal. No, a simple dream of simple uncomplicated pleasure, the details of which were fading away long before the night was over.

I woke, and drank water, and stared at the dark ceiling, and felt warm glow replaced by reality, and it feel like I was starting a nightmare, not waking from a dream. Work, and kid’s school, health, tasks to do. Things lost. Desires that live in my heart all the time, yet which are forever beyond my grasp. Wants and needs and fears. Age and aches and frustrations, like a drowning pool, quicksand closing over my head.

I want my dream back, I thought. I need my dream back.

How I envy people who can lucid dream; who can live out in dreams what they want in waking life. Though I fear if I could do it, I might never wake.

I wound up getting out of bed at three thirty, wobbling into my cold living-room, wrapping myself in a blanket, and finishing a book, Bujold’s Hallowed Hunt. (I’ll post a review shortly, that’s another topic). I was still awake when my kids got up for school, though I managed to slip back into bed for an hour of sleep; dreamless this time, no nightmares, no blissful contentment, just black emptiness, which was what I needed.

I want to find that dream again. Whatever it was, lost now in haze. I want it back.