I’m OK with it. I was OK with it the moment I understood what had happened. People move on. Life is long and we cannot spend it all with the same people. I suspect the reason I still think of her at all, and why she surfaces in my dreams, is because we narrowly avoided a romantic encounter on more than a few occasions. The attraction was, at times, palpable. But she, in conversation at least, said it would ruin the friendship. She may have been right but it stood to be ruined anyway.
I also think of her because I pass her place of work almost every day. I used to avoid it, trending toward that inevitable series of patters in life where I cross the street to avoid being seen by an ex, then I cross the street again to avoid getting too close to a former friend whose feelings about me turned very sour. The older I get the more time I spend crossing the street.
But back to the dream. We were in a combination restaurant and dormitory, with beds and dinner tables cohabitating as if normal. We sat at two isolated chairs, just talking until I started touching her arms. She did not object, and I saw her kips puff up in a way I knew meant she was getting wet.
I showed her a picture of myself naked, the image of me taken in a motel room, in the bathroom mirror, my cock hung long after a routine masturbation. She was positively impressed, and I saw those lips puff up even more.
We started kissing, at which time she resisted just a little, reverting to her routine of yore in thinking sex would ruin our friendship which, then giving in to desire when she realized just how finished our friendship was.
She asked “When is the last time you made out with a woman?” I gave a non-dream answer, saying it had been a couple of weeks. She let the kissing go longer, and deeper, stroking my hair and face, her shirt and pants somehow disappearing without either of us touching them. Naked she looked exactly as I’d imagined.
The sex stopped when it was believed that a neighborhood gossip had entered the dormitory/cafeteria. I wandered into another room, where her husband wielded guns and entertained his extended family via a wall of computer monitors showing internet video calls from around the world. My cock was still hard from the encounter with the woman, and I assumed my quest was to find a bed with no one else around.
But the desire faded. My clothes, I discovered, had also disappeared the same as hers. But as my hardon settled down the clothing reappeared. I was free to wander without conspicuity.
Her husband invited me home with him, then punched me so hard I passed out. I woke up in the back seat of his truck, driving through what he said was Queens Village but I recognized it as a place of many places. Plant Hall, a classroom building at the University of Tampa, twirled above me as a series of digital billboards alternated images of the woman I’d just been playing around with and I, pictures of us travelling the world, beaming smiles and happiness we both knew were lies, with other voyeur images and videos of us having sex, with a majority of the imagery showing us at cunnilingus.
I left the husband’s house, walking through a busy but quaint stretch of road I identified as Long Island, knowing full well this was not Queens Village. I started wanting the woman again but could not find her.
There was more but, snapping out of dreamland, I must work. I bet this woman would be pleased yet disconcerted to know I dream about her like this.
