I had a dream that I was fucking a girl I spent a lot of time with through high school and for a few years after. I spent a lot of time thinking about fucking her. I never did. Or I did once somewhere in the middle of all that time but there was cocaine and nerve induced erectile dysfunction, and it was really dark in the room. It hardly counts.

I had a dream that we were fucking and I was unusually hard, almost like I was carrying around a dildo or wearing a strap on. I noted to myself it was an impressive erection. There was a nebulous excitement in getting another shot, not because of redemption or embarrassment from before but just for the chance to do it with her again. Not to set things right, but to see what things are like when they’re right.

I spooned her naked and began to rub her pussy. Up and down over the lips until they began to part, collecting wetness and moving focus to the clit. As I stroked in smaller up and down and little circles she said something like, “Nobody taught you how to do that right?” or “You’re doing it wrong. That doesn’t feel good.” I felt something like shame or confusion. I couldn’t recall many complaints in my history of fingering, occasionally an episode of picking up the tempo before a partner is in to it. 

I was fucking her from behind, still so solid, with so little concern about my dick that it seemed to not exist or it was on autopilot. My engagement was psychological, reading her body for signs, visual towards psychological. Scanning her flesh and form for signals or opportunity to perform a change or variation, like an intricate improvised dance. I want to dance in to the mind or soul and fuck that. I grabbed on to one ass cheek tightly and I began to massage her asshole with the other thumb when she said, “Are you gay?” or something like, “Anal is for faggots.”

I sent a palm gliding up the back and around to cup her breast. I lifted her chest, her back in to my chest, still in her, still doing solid work. With medium pressure I massaged her tits with one hand on each, in large circles, and occasionally pushing them upward against her chest and squeezing her titty meat in a gentle closed fist. This seemed good so I added gradual pressure to the massaging and groping to intensify the moment. Reaching the threshold for what I’d consider rough, and I’m not extremely sadistic, she said something to me like, “Well look who’s in control,” or, “So you’re in control huh?” or something like, “You must have a need to feel control,” almost scoffing.

I awoke after essentially failing to satisfy in every sexual act, even granted the perfect boner, the dreamlike stiff. Moreover I’d nearly been scolded, or at least sternly corrected. I lay looking up passed the ceiling, recalling the dream. The dream sex I’d just awoken from was much like sex I’ve had regularly for years, in form and rhythm and tempo, in feel and intensity, though the critical input, the depth analysis was new and felt novel or unique. Sometimes a dream feels packed with lessons. I was worried it was all true.