I Dreamed About It Again
If I told you I’ve had only four wet dreams in my life, that would already be saying much. But last night, it happened again.
Three of those four times, I had a penis. Three of those four times, it was gentle—calm, breezy, almost tender. Just me, with myself. One of them was pure abstraction: music drifting across a landscape, carrying an orgasm that pulled me awake.
Last night the dream shifted between worlds. Sometimes it was my packer—the one I’ve used with a bottom partner— sometimes it was my own flesh, metaphorical, symbolic, fluid.
And then I woke up.
The time before that had been only a couple of months ago. I sat at an old portal, a weathered door with three worn steps leading in. There I simply admired it: thin yet long, rosy, expressive, vulnerable, happy, perfect.
And then I woke up.
I once wondered why my brain’s deep schema keeps offering me a penis when I so often dream myself as female. But then I remembered—I have never once seen my nearly one-meter-long hair in any dream. That absence doesn’t erase its reality on my waking body. Yet four times now—four times I can remember—I have dreamed myself with a penis.
It was a beautiful dream. I hovered right at the edge of waking, consciously fighting to stay under, edging, chasing the peak, willing the pleasure not to slip away.
But then I woke up.
