I woke up this morning from a dream, or maybe it was two dreams, that stayed with me in a way dreams rarely do. I don’t usually remember them, and I almost never remember erotic ones—but lately? Apparently my subconscious has decided to be more generous and is saying I need to get laid. Whatever my subconscious is trying to tell me, it’s been kind of nice.
The first felt like memory filtered through imagination. I’d had a conversation the night before about first experiences and how complicated those early awakenings can be—how we often don’t yet have the language for what we’re feeling. In the dream, I was in a locker room, nearly empty, except for one other guy, quiet in that strange, echoing way such places get once everyone else has gone. Wood lockers. Warm air. That sense of being just a little out of time.
The other guy was handsome, relaxed, completely at ease in his own skin. At one point he was sitting above me, and when I looked up, I realized how close he was. I was looking at his dick sticking out of his boxers. Instead of looking away, neither of us did. The moment stretched—charged, unhurried. I remember being completely mesmerized, struck not just by how beautiful he was, but by the realization that I wanted to keep looking. As I looked, he started getting hard, until he was at full mast. Long pink perfection right in front of my eyes.
He asked, gently, if I wanted to suck him. I hesitated, that old reflex rising up—I’m not gay—the words coming out the way they once did, automatically. He just smiled and cupped my face, steady and kind, and said it was okay if I was, and it would stay between us. With hesitation, and a total lack of knowing how to do this, I took him in my mouth.
Naturally, that’s when Isabella chose to intervene, planting herself squarely on my chest to remind me that breakfast waits for no man.
I fed her, and when I fell back asleep, the dream shifted.
This time I was older—maybe in my 30s or early 40s—and walking hand in hand with a handsome man through Montréal’s Gay Village, down Rue Sainte-Catherine. It was clearly a date: romantic, unhurried, that delicious feeling of being chosen and choosing right back. The city buzzed around us, but we were wrapped up in our own little world.
As dreams tend to do, it skipped ahead—to a hotel room, to kissing, laughter, undressing, and then he was one top of me. I don’t think what happened next needs to be spelled out. Let’s just say it was a happy ending.
I woke again to a black cat sprawled on my chest, staring down at me with the firm belief that if I was awake, I should stay that way—preferably while she found a warm spot and went back to sleep.
Dreams are strange things. Sometimes they’re nonsense. Sometimes they’re memories rearranged. And sometimes—especially when they’ve been getting a little more frequent and a little more erotic—they might just be your subconscious tapping you on the shoulder and saying, Hey… you might want to do something about this.
I hope your weekend brings rest, good company, and maybe even a nice dream or two of your own.
Joe
