My dream life has always been lush and intriguing, even when my waking hours were bleak and tedious. I named this blog based not only the figurative awakening I experienced over the last few years, but on the literal fact of when I write my best, early mornings. Upon waking, my one thought is always to tell the stories of the night, having consolidated the scenes from the day before and combined them with other memories; I am overflowing with words. On days when I cannot write at dawn, I often still make an attempt in the evening, but with the house busy with people and my mind full of the cares of the day, the words come slowly, like water dammed and reduced to a trickle. Normally I awaken naturally between 5 and 6, having not needed to depend on an alarm clock since my first child was born. On those exceptional days when I try to stay in bed and sleep, most usually at my husband’s urging, dreams rise and explode like skyrocket through my brain, waking me over and over, normally urging me to rise and greet the day.

This morning I could not blame my husband for my lying late in bed, as he was not there when the alarm went off at six. He had been with me the night before, but as is his want, he walks in dreams, literally, the sleeping potion to which he is still addicted holding him in its unrelenting gripe. Sometimes I wake to look for where his nighttime journey has taken him and find him sleeping in curious places in uncomfortable poses. This morning I had been sleep deprived all week and had no interest in hopping out of bed at 6 or searching for him. In fact, I have no idea why the clock was set for that time as it was most certainly not so my husband could greet the dawn. I only know I had an overwhelming desire for a large boulder to pound the inopportune timepiece to very small bits. I settled for yanking the plug out of the wall after hitting every button and switch with no result, and went back to dreamland. The reason for my reticence to wake was the dream that held me in its grip. Since it was sexual, I guessing you might like for me to share.

He was standing in the shower, the vague amorphous man that generally haunts my dreams, a composite of all the great men I’ve know in my life. His features blur and almost disappear when I try to focus on his face, his form, but he is not a “pretty boy” of the type my gay friends describe with a hint of disdain in their voices. He is most assuredly masculine, strong in mind and body, a bit rugged, perhaps even a little dangerous. I somehow know him well, but his face and figure always vanish from me on rising like mist evaporating from the river. His mouth and hands beckon me, and responding to his naked body I step into the tiled enclosure. It is not the small shower in my house, but the one in the hotel where my husband and I spent the weekend. There is ample room for two to play. I am naked of course, and free from inhibitions, I stand facing him, devouring him first with my eyes. He is my perfectly engineered fantasy, so we find no need to talk. I know him intimately as I know my own mind and body. Indeed, I cannot speak as I am on my knees before him, my mouth engaged, the water falling in cascades over my back. At the same time I am an observer, watching his face, seeing the ecstasy written there and mirrored on my own. He pulls me up suddenly and lifts me off my feet, his strength overwhelming, my objections weak and futile. His hands cupping my bottom, my legs wrapped around his waist, the pattern of the tile makes an imprint on my back as our bodies melt together in total harmony. I know when he enters me I will explode immediately, but as I gasp with pleasure, as I pull my in my breath with anticipation of that first second of pain and the pleasure that will most certainly follow, I hear the sound of classical music. My perfect phantom lover fades like fairy gold in daylight and I am awake begging my husband to turn off the alarm. Seconds pass before I realize he is not there, roll over into the hollow he leaves in the bed, and start flailing ineffectually at the radio.
In the silence that follows I try to find my capricious dream lover again, but he is mercurial and I lie frustrated and half asleep for another hour. My husband stumbles to bed sometime after six and I remember muttering something to him about the radio. He wonders why I am preoccupied when he finally arises around 12:30 and comes to kiss my neck as I pound away on the keyboard. I know I can’t blame him, but I am irrational today. Most likely I will apologize later, as is our pattern, but not now, not now.