WET LUCIDITY
By Dolphin Dan
*** WARNING ***
This story contains description of sexual acts, and imagined sexual acts, of a consensual nature among members of the same gender and of opposite genders. It also contains descriptions of other incidences of sexuality (wet dreams, etc). If it is legally prohibited, morally objectionable or personally uncomfortable to you to encounter such material, please do not continue.
*** This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is completely unintentional. However, the phenomenon of "lucid dreaming" is entirely real and scientifically documented, as are the elements of the story describing the sorts of things that are possible in lucid dreams, and how to have them intentionally. The author highly recommends the experience of attempting to have lucid dreams--but of course what you choose to do with them is up to you. ***
A "lucid dream" is one of the most profound mind-fucks a person can ever experience. Perhaps you've heard of lucid dreaming. It's where you dream, but you become aware that you're dreaming while you are still dreaming. It's unbelievably strange, because as soon as you realize you're dreaming, you can do anything. You can fly, you can move objects with your mind, you can change your surroundings just by thinking about them. You can do anything you want, with no consequences. And yet what you experience in your dream is every bit as real as what your senses tell you in the waking world. It's better than drugs, leaves no hangover and has no adverse effects at all on your mind or body. You can have sex with anybody you want in any way that you want and never be unfaithful to your significant other. Most people never experience a lucid dream because their minds can't tell the difference between when they're dreaming and when they're awake. We interpret the reality of a situation based upon what our senses tell us. If our eyes tell us there's a large oak table right in front of us, chances are that our brains will tell us to watch out and make sure we don't walk into it. If we put our hands down to feel its surface, and our fingers sense something hard and smooth underneath, our brain interprets that information as consistent with what it knows and believes the situation to be. But what if you can see the table and feel it with your hand, but despite its apparent reality you know that it's a figment of your imagination? Your brain wants to believe the table is there, but if you know it isn't, and you dare your body to walk right through the table, it will vanish in front of you. THAT's lucid dreaming. It's freaky as hell. But it's also liberating.
With me, wet dreams and lucid dreams are connected, but it wasn't always so. Before I discovered lucidity, at least in a conscious sense, I had two wet dreams in my life. The subject had always fascinated me. In sixth grade--this would have been in the early 1980s--the teachers who had drawn the unpleasant duty of explaining the birds and the bees to us gathered us students together in the auditorium, carefully segregated the boys from the girls, and showed each group one of two completely ridiculous film strips supposedly explaining to us the mysteries of what was (or soon was to be) happening to our bodies. But of course, talking about masturbation was completely verboten--this was years before Jocelyn Elders was sacked as surgeon general for suggesting that teenagers actually masturbate--and any mention of sexual intercourse was equally taboo (largely because, politically, no one could agree whether it was OK to mention the existence of condoms), so, while the girls were getting an exhaustive dissertation on menstruation, the boys' filmstrip had little to talk about except boners and wet dreams. I don't even remember having had an erection by that point, and the slightest glimmer of understanding that I had bisexual and gay tendencies was still years away, though as early as 6 or 7 years old I noticed I got a curious pleasant feeling between my legs when I would wrestle with friends who were boys. But the idea of wet dreams, which I'd never known about before, was bizarre and amazing. The filmstrip was vague about it. You had some kind of weird explosion in your pants that was triggered by dreaming about girls. (The possibility that the same effect could be achieved by dreaming about boys was, for obvious reasons, left completely unsaid). The source of the mysterious liquid that leaked out of you during such an experience wasn't what fascinated me, but the idea that it could be triggered by something completely within your mind. The mind, I realized, was a powerful thing.
It was at least a year before I experienced my first wet dream. I was 12, and I knew that I had some understanding of sexual things but a lot of it was curiously vague. I didn't consciously fantasize about members of either gender, and I hadn't yet discovered masturbation, but I sometimes did things that were obviously sexual even though I didn't know it at the time. Sometimes when my parents and my brother were gone and I was alone in the house I'd take off my clothes and just walk around naked. Being naked was deliciously forbidden. I didn't touch myself, but I remember looking down at my dick once and being surprised that it was hard. That was during the summer some time, and I know my first wet dream was that same summer, possibly close in time to that event. There was a friend of mine, Chris, to whose house I sometimes went over to play. Chris played soccer, as most 11 and 12-year-old boys did in suburbia in the mid-80s. His parents had a poster made of him in his soccer clothes, holding a championship soccer ball, standing on a field of impossibly green grass. The poster was hung on the wall of his bedroom. Something I did not understand at the time deeply attracted me to that poster. Maybe it was the look in Chris's eyes, or the way the baggy soccer shorts hung on him, or the tantalizing glimpse of bare smooth flesh under the collar of his soccer jersey that promised, ever so subtle, the beauty of what Chris must have looked like with his shirt off, a sight I never actually saw in real life. In reality Chris was pretty dull and uninteresting, but I continued to go to his house to play nearly every week, just so I could see that poster. I didn't understand why I liked looking at it so much.
One rainy night in mid-summer I dreamed about Chris. I dreamed we were wrestling on that lovely field of gently-waving Technicolor grass. The sun splashed down on us and the colors--the black of Chris's shorts, the bright orange of his soccer jersey, the vivid white of the jockey briefs I dreamed I was wearing--were so vivid that they almost hurt my eyes. In my dream we were fighting, but somehow he was laughing and it was a friendly little tussle. Our arms and legs were all wrapped up in each other and it didn't feel much like a fight. As I got my arms around him Chris laughed and he said, "I know something else about you." And then I woke with a start. It was the middle of the night and rain was streaming down the pane of my bedroom window, and my underwear was soaked with a strange wet substance. I had just stopped wearing pajamas to bed and begun sleeping in just my underwear. That night I was very glad of it because it terrified me; somehow I knew I would get in terrible trouble if my parents found out this had happened, and if I'd had to submit my pajamas to the laundry, stained across the crotch with this weird slimy stuff, I'd be punished for sure. I got up out of bed, took off my underwear and crumpled them in the back of a drawer. Later I put them in a paper bag and the next time the garbage went out I snuck out and stuffed the bag in the garbage bin. I figured my mom wouldn't notice that I had one less pair of jockey briefs, and in any event it was better than letting her see embarrassing stains. I told myself that I hadn't really had a wet dream, that I had just pissed myself a little bit in my sleep. The fact that the stains on my jockeys were white instead of yellow didn't seem to shake my resolve on this point. I quietly hoped it would never happen again. I never returned to Chris's house, and when school started again in the fall, I treated him with utter indifference. We were no longer friends. In retrospect it seems cruel and crazy to have behaved that way, but at the time I just wasn't ready to deal with the fact that I'd had a wet dream about a boy.
Fast-forward about three years. During those three years I'd gained some kind of understanding that I liked guys, and in fact had acted on it, having once slept with my (male) cousin when we were 14, a story that's not relevant here (although it's interesting that my sex play with Charlie had started with wrestling). By now I was in high school and my attitude toward wet dreams had totally changed. I wanted to have them, but couldn't--I'd still only ever had that one. I didn't realize that the phenomenon of wet dreaming is not nearly as universal as sex-ed materials make it seem, so I began to think something was wrong with me because I DIDN'T have them. So I tried to induce them. I did an experiment that seems pretty ridiculous looking back on it now. The year or so after I was with my cousin I thought about him all the time while jacking off, almost to the point where I was obsessed with him. Charlie probably appeared in my masturbation fantasies more often than any other person. I had a small tape recorder in my room, and when I was alone in the house I'd jack off and tape-record myself doing it. The tapes were actually kind of hot, listening to my breathing get heavy and fast as I approached orgasm, sometimes whimpering Charlie's name or even describing the things I was thinking about him doing to me. Sometimes when I would go to bed I would wear walkman headphones in bed and listen to one of the masturbation tapes. The theory was that I'd fall asleep still hearing the tape, and the subliminal suggestion of the sounds going into my ears would make my subconscious mind think of masturbation and sex, and I'd have a wet dream. It never worked.
I kept trying. After a year or more of experimentation I had a whole shoe box full of masturbation tapes. I counted them once: I had caught myself coming on tape 114 times. By then I had a good double-tape-deck stereo and some patience, so I edited the "highlights" of the tapes into one long tape, an hour-long anthology of my self-induced orgasms. I also had an embryonic collection of porn magazines. None were gay porn of course, but I liked girls too so the stuff turned me on. I especially liked Penthouse because the stories in "Penthouse Forum" were incredibly hot--written-word porn will turn me on faster and harder than anything visual. So I'd read Penthouse Forum just before going to bed, and listen to my "Dan's Dick's Greatest Hits" tape as I fell asleep. And still it never worked. By the time I graduated from high school--by which time I'd had sex with one guy (Charlie) and one girl (Rachel, my senior year girlfriend) for real--I realized the whole thing was stupid. I erased the tapes and threw them away, something I now kind of wish I hadn't done. But between buying tapes and stroke mags, 3-M, TDK and Larry Flynt had made a lot of money off my unsuccessful quest for a nocturnal emission. If there's anything to that hokum about subliminal suggestion, it sure as hell didn't work in my case.
Spring, senior year. I had just started going out with Rachel. She was very cute, one of those Bohemian "granola" chicks who wore moth-eaten sweaters, long print skirts and Birkenstock sandals, and who didn't believe in shaving her legs, something I found incredibly hot. She was very smart, a real honors student--I was in a few Advanced Placement classes, which was how I knew her. We had been going out for about two weeks and had not yet done anything sexual, though we made out once in her car while listening to They Might Be Giants, a particularly potent and romantic memory from my youth. Very early one Wednesday morning I experienced, spontaneously, my first lucid dream.
I dreamed we were approaching a huge stadium. It looked like the Coliseum in Rome, except it wasn't all ruined and crumbling. The band we were going to see was Rush, which was my favorite band at the time. We didn't have tickets. "How are we going to get in?" I said to Rachel as we waited in the long line.
"Don't worry about it," she reassured me. "We'll just sneak in. They'll never know."
Somehow we did sneak in, and we started threading our way through the seats, which, also like the Coliseum in Rome, were just plain marble benches. The place was very lively, more like a baseball or football game than a rock concert, with people drinking beer, eating popcorn, chatting amongst themselves, etc. The band had not yet taken the stage and I don't even remember seeing any of their equipment on the stage. But the Jumbo-Tron above the stage--it was just kind of hanging there in space, because of course the Coliseum is open to the air--was showing a huge digital version of Chris's soccer poster. "Hey, I know that guy," I commented to Rachel, as we walked up an aisle toward a section of seats that was empty.
"Who, that guy on the screen?"
"Yeah." Inexplicably I said, "He knows something else about me."
At one point we passed a group of spectators who seemed human--they wore jeans, sweatshirts, sneakers, etc.--but they had the heads of jackals, like that Egyptian god. That was what suddenly got me thinking: is this real? We were headed to the seats we'd chosen when suddenly a police officer stepped in front of us. He was wearing some old-time uniform with the blue tunic and the brass buttons. He hefted a night stick in his hands. "Let's see your ticket stubs," he said menacingly to us.
"Oh, uh, we lost them," Rachel explained.
"I'm afraid you're going to have to leave," said the cop.
I looked back at the jackal-headed spectators. One of them was howling at the moon. Suddenly, spontaneously, I realized I was dreaming. It had never happened before. But I knew that there was no such thing as a person with a jackal's head, and that I wasn't really here. "I'm dreaming," I said to Rachel.
"What?"
"I'm dreaming. This is a dream." I pushed the cop aside. "Piss off, asshole." Rachel laughed as we started toward our seats.
"Hey!" the cop grunted. "Come back here!" He turned to grab my shoulder. Convinced now of the utter unreality of my situation, I whirled around and decked him. As soon as my fist connected with his jaw, the cop literally flew out of the stands and into the air. I'd punched him so hard he sailed hundreds of feet, up and out, and slammed bodily into the surface of the Jumbo-Tron. Unconscious, he fell straight down, right into the crowd that was gathering to see Rush.
"That was really cool," Rachel said.
"Yeah, pretty neat, huh?"
"How'd you do it?"
I didn't get a chance to answer. I woke up. I was in my bedroom at home and the digital clock read 5:42 AM. Dawn was painting the eastern sky. I remember being totally amazed, because I'd never had an experience like that before. I had never heard the term "lucid dreaming," but that was definitely what I had. I told Rachel about my dream that day in school, minus the detail of Chris's soccer poster--she did not know I was bisexual--and she reacted exactly the same way as she had in the dream: "That was really cool!"
Five months later in early September, at the very end of the summer following my graduation from high school, I had my second wet dream. I was no longer going out with Rachel. In a week's time I would start classes at a local community college; for some reason I didn't feel like going away to school (though I would eventually a year later). I had gone to see my aunt and uncle up in Massachusetts, and we went sailing and had actually spent the night on the boat before coming back to their house, the last night before I was to catch my plane home. I spent the night in the comfortable bed of my aunt's guest room whose windows looked out onto the forest behind their house. There was a terrible thunderstorm that night that rumbled and thrashed through the trees behind the house, and, being the light sleeper that I was, I awakened several times. I'm certain this was a factor, because, while I can't be sure, I think what happened to me that night was also a lucid dream.
For a couple of weeks I'd been crushing on a guy from my high school, Evan, who these days you'd probably describe as an emo kid, but he was a little ahead of his time. He had shaggy dark hair falling to his collar, wore an old mesh baseball cap advertising CAT trucks, and wore faded T-shirts with a gas station shirt open over it. The gas station shirt, which he'd found at a garage sale, had a little patch on it with EVAN written in faux-cursive embroidery. Evan and I hadn't really been friends, just acquaintances, and oddly I didn't even really find him that attractive until after I left high school and I knew I would never see him again. There was a curious end-of-the-world quality about those days; this was September of 1990, when we were sending thousands of troops to the Persian Gulf before the first war, and when you face an uncertain future--perhaps even an apocalypse, for no one knew what was going to happen--your mind tends to dwell on things that are lost and may never be again. So that night in my mind somehow I found myself in the forest behind my aunt's house with the rain gently falling all around us, and I was kneeling on the ground, Evan standing in front of me perhaps three feet away, and the sound of the raindrops on the leaves and the ground was a soft, peaceful pattering with a kind of melancholy quality about it. "You like me, don't you?" said Evan. I nodded. "You think I'm hot?" I nodded again. "Do you want to see?"
"See what?" I said.
"Whatever I choose to show you," Evan replied. He took off the outer gas-station shirt and dropped it on the ground. Then he hauled up the front of his T-shirt to show me his stomach and his chest. He was smooth and hairless. He wasn't muscular but he wasn't scrawny or insubstantial either. His nipples were like two little dark-colored dimes. A thin line of hair descended from his navel to the waistband of his boxers that was barely visible over his jeans. "You like?" he said.
I nodded again. "I like."
A rumble of thunder awakened me, and I was back in the guest room. I damned the storm, waking me up at a time like that! My dick was rock-hard, stretching the fabric of my underwear. I reached down and stroked it gently through my briefs. I was too tired to actually masturbate for real. The haze of half-sleep still hung in my head. In a few seconds I'd fall back to sleep. I wondered if it was possible that I'd pick up where I left off, and Evan and I would still be there, in the forest.
Strangely enough, I did. I was asleep and now Evan was standing there with his shirt off, but he was still wearing the CAT cap, which I had never seen him take off in real life. His skin was so creamy and beautiful. He moved closer to me. Somehow I had the feeling that I couldn't get off my knees, that something terrible would happen if I rose to my feet. I pressed my head against his lap and stroked his denim-clad thighs. I could feel a warm hard bar in his groin and it was incredibly exciting. This was the sweetest dream I'd ever had. When I realized that, on some level I must have known I was dreaming.
"You can take it out," Evan said softly. He brushed my hair with his hands. "C'mon, Dan, do it. You know you want it."
I unbelted Evan's jeans and slowly pulled the zipper down. In my dream his boxers were green and gray, a plaid pattern, and they were flannel. In school once I'd seen him bend over to pick up something off the floor and saw the waistband of his underwear and that's what it looked like. His shorts were tented by his erection. I caressed his hard penis through his boxers first, feeling the heat of it radiating through the thin soft fabric. With my other hand I reached through one of the legs of his boxers and brushed the hair on his balls gently with my finger. He continued to caress my hair, which was just then starting to get long. Finally I hooked my thumbs under the waistband of Evan's boxers and pulled them down. His dick caught on the waistband and slapped against his belly when it released. There in front of my face was a sight I had seen only once in real life, with Charlie: a boy's stiff phallus waiting to be sucked and pleasured by me.
With a gentle pressure on his smooth rounded butt I slid Evan's penis into my mouth. He moaned with contentment, and I started to suck him, withdrawing him almost totally from my lips with each stroke before diving back down as far as I could take him. I could taste the salty flavor of precum hovering on his wet tip. And oddly there were feelings of pleasure radiating through my own penis. In real life there was no way I could have looked down at myself at the same time I was giving a boy a blow job, but in my dream I could, as if I had two sets of eyes, or some kind of omniscient gaze. I was fully clothed, wearing the shorts and T-shirt I'd been wearing today when we came back from the lake, but I could see through my clothes and saw my own turgid dick at full attention, leaking a pearly stream of precum that was so vivid silver in color that it glimmered like mercury. I was emitting so much of the wonderful hot stuff, so much more than would have been possible in real life, that it was dripping out of the fly of my soaked-through shorts and making a small glittering pearly-silver river flowing across the ground of the forest, between Evan's shoes and down the slope behind us. I remember that image so vividly because the forest was dark, and the river of dream-cum that flowed from my crotch was so luminous it filled the thicket with a gentle soft white light from below, glimmering and rippling like sunlight reflected off waves.
Another clap of thunder sounded in real life and I was again aware of my surroundings. I was bundled up in the comforter on my aunt's guest bed, and rain was lashing against the windows and wetting the sill, because I'd left the window open. My dick was rock-hard and I could feel a tiny hint of wetness on its tip. I suddenly panicked, but it was because I realized I was about to have a wet dream, my first one in five years, and I had awakened at precisely the wrong time. I was afraid to move. I wanted to cum so badly but I wouldn't have reached down to touch myself for all the money in the world. I had to get back to sleep--this had to be an orgasm of the mind, not the hand. This was the most wonderful dream I'd ever had and I was damned if it was going to be over so quickly.
I can't rightly explain what happened in the next few minutes. In a way I willed myself back to sleep and back into the dream, because I was still there, sucking Evan who was moaning and squirming, running his fingers through my hair and greatly enjoying the pleasure I was giving him as I rubbed my tongue over his head and the underside of his shaft and tasted the salty fluid welling up to his distended tip. But on some other level I knew I was awake too, lying in bed in the guest room. I was conscious. I knew I was dreaming. The river of glowing pre-cum was forceful enough now to make a gentle trickling sound, like the babble of a brook, above the sound of the rain. There was also the sound of Evan's panting breaths as he approached orgasm. Our pleasure was connected, first only in my mind, but then in a physical representation, for I saw with my eyes-within-eyes that the same luminous pearly fluid that was trickling from my own dick was evidently coming out of Evan's, leaking out of the corners of my mouth, down my chin, down my T-shirt and into my lap, where it joined the river of pleasure I was emitting. The glowing ribbon joined us. I understood why I felt like my own dick was being sucked: I was experiencing everything that Evan was feeling. The wonderful sensation of a wet tongue rubbing across his penis, the gentle sucking pressure, the caress of warm lips--I felt those things as if someone was doing them to me, but I was doing them to myself. After all, there was no one else here. This was a dream. Evan wasn't real. He was straight, and in any event hundreds of miles away.
I felt like I was on the verge of waking up, and it was an effort to stay asleep or half-asleep. But I knew I had to wait until Evan came. Finally he did. He grabbed my hair almost painfully and pressed his hips to my face, thrusting his dick as deep into my mouth as he could go. He groaned and his balls drew up against his body, and the head of his penis--my penis--burst open and began to eject the hot glorious fluid that was the reward I received for giving him such ecstasy. He seemed to ejaculate forever, dumping jet after thick jet of hot sperm into my mouth, splashing over my tongue, coating my teeth, sliding down my throat. Yet at the same time I could feel it wetting my underwear and the sheet, because I was still in bed in the guest room, and aware of that fact. The pleasure was a sudden tremor that shattered my world and raked my brain powerfully. When it receded I was fully awake, my underwear soaked, and a wave of joy spread through me. It had happened again. After five years I'd finally cum while I was asleep, and the orgasm had been about ten times more intense than anything I recalled while being awake.
That wet dream made my whole summer. I felt like I'd accomplished something. While I didn't perceive it vividly, on some level I was aware that my dream had gone wet and lucid at the same time, and perhaps that was the key. My Evan dream was a powerful epiphany. I'd unlocked one of the first elusive doors into my own subconscious.
My next experience with wet lucidity--and probably the most important one--was what I call the "Dune dream." You may have seen the movie Dune or read the book; it's a science fiction epic about a kid who joins a fierce tribe of warriors on a desert planet and eventually becomes their messiah. I'd read the book when I was in like ninth grade--didn't understand most of it--but hadn't seen the movie until one night in college. It was in 1992. When I finally left community college and went away, I went to New Mexico. On fall break I went with a small group of guys and girls from my dorm to White Sands National Monument, near Alamogordo. It's an eerie alien-like place of pale windswept dunes. On the day we saw it, which was late October, the sky was filled with ominous leaden clouds and a cold wintry wind was blowing. That image stuck with me.
I had a girlfriend then, Wendy, but fancied a couple of guys from my dorm, including this absolutely beautiful kid named Andy Westphal. Andy had long hair like I did (though his was a dark blonde color) and he had the most piercing stare you could imagine, but at the same time his brown eyes were beautiful and puppy-dog like, which was an interesting contrast. Andy was so thin and slight as to be almost wispy, like a stiff wind would knock him over. He was from somewhere in New England and came to New Mexico largely for the skiing and the drugs. He was a huge pothead. He lived at the end of the hall with his roommate Ryan, who wasn't bad looking but to whom I wasn't that attracted. I wasn't that adverse to smoking green in those days; after all I was in college. We drank heavily too. There was a party almost every night in our dorm. This night, which was in November or early December, it was snowing outside and Ryan called me to say they were having a little party in their room, and Wendy and I should come down and have some drinks. So we did.
Andy wasn't really part of our group but he didn't shy away from us either. That night there was Ryan and Wendy and I, and at least one other guy though I don't remember who it was; we had a case of Molson and Ryan was passing around the bong. Ryan was one of the lucky few who had a TV and VCR in his room, and Dune was one of the movie suggestions that night. "You ever seen that flick?" he asked me. "It's WILD when you're stoned." So we put it in, started watching it, cracked open more beers and smoked a whole lot of weed. About twenty minutes into the movie Andy came into the room from being out somewhere. "Aw, cool, Dune," he said. "This movie rocks." He borrowed a beer from us and sat on his bed and watched for a while, and then he got up and said he had to take a shower--our bathrooms were in a central block down the hall. So he was puttering about in the room behind us, getting his shampoo and his shower stuff together, while we watched the movie.
At the middle of the movie there's a part where Paul Atreides, the hero, realizes he's some kind of visionary and that his mind is being altered by this weird substance called melange. When you've had four Molsons and several hits of primo Mexican weed, a scene like that can be mind-blowing. I remember watching in rapt attention, my mind spinning, Wendy leaning her head against my shoulder, and all of us were just totally riveted on that movie. Then the door opened and Andy came in from his shower. He was still wearing the towel and his blonde hair, now dark from being wet, was combed back from his forehead. The sight of Andy Westphal in a towel, soaking wet, was about the only thing that could have torn me away from that movie. Luckily the others were so stoned and so fixated on the movie that no one caught me staring at him, and I stared. He was very thin but the rounded curves of his shoulders and biceps were especially pleasing to look at. He had a tiny little bit of hair in the center of his chest and around his navel but was otherwise smooth. He was so thin you could see his ribs, but it wasn't gross at all. He moved with a kind of mousy subtlety, putting his shower stuff back in the drawer and reaching for his clothes quietly, almost surreptitiously, trying not to disturb us. He pulled his boxers on under the towel and only when he had them on did he take the towel off so I didn't get to see his privates which was a tremendous disappointment. Then he put on a pair of baggy flannel pajama-like pants and an old gray T-shirt, like a work-out shirt, and he crawled up onto his bed and said, "You guys mind if I have another beer and watch the rest of the movie with you?" Hell, who was going to mind? Between the eerie epic of what was happening on-screen and the sight of a cute 18-year-old boy just coming in from a shower, my mind, frosted with alcohol and mary-jane, had about all it could take that night.
At the end of the evening I stumbled back to my own dorm room, stoned, drunk and my mind stretched almost uncomfortably so. Wendy and I had had sex a few times but it wasn't that regular, so it wasn't unusual that she didn't come with me to my room. I remember I got my shoes, socks and my shirt off and managed to unbutton my jeans but that was as far as I got before I collapsed onto my bed. I must have stirred at some point in the night because when I woke up I found my jeans in a heap on the floor next to the bed and I had pulled the covers over me, but I don't remember doing that. I do, however, remember the most vivid dream I'd had since my fantasy of Evan in the forest, two years earlier.
I dreamed I was at White Sands on that moody day with the gray clouds, and the wind was whipping sand into my face and fluttering my long hair out behind me. I don't remember being naked but I don't remember being clothed either. I trudged through the sand, fascinated at the little divots that my feet made as I walked through the dunes. From the very beginning I was somehow aware that I was dreaming, and a subconscious part of my mind was churning at a million miles an hour. I looked up. Reflected in the clouds, yawning a hundred stories into the sky, was a parade of bizarre images that morphed and dissolved into each other, so fast I couldn't keep track of them. They were memories and visions, some things real, some things imagined. I saw the faces of people I had known years ago--Charlie and Chris among them--and places I'd been, animals, stars, trees, moons, the bright explosions of imagined supernovae. It all flickered silently above me like some gigantic movie, and still I kept walking. "I'm dreaming," I said aloud. "This isn't real. It can't be real. I've had too much to drink and smoke. I'm lying in bed in my dorm room. But this is damned cool."
I came to the top of a dune and Andy Westphal was there, dressed only in his towel, his arms outstretched like he was praying to some ancient god. As I approached he put his arms down and he smiled. "I told you, I knew something else about you," he said as I came closer. The desert wind whipped his hair behind him.
"What did you know?" I asked.
"I know everything, Dan. All that is, all that was, all that ever will be--I know it all. I'm the Knower, don't you know that?"
"You're not really Andy," I said to him.
"You're right."
"And I'm dreaming."
"Right again. You can do anything you want here. But only if you don't forget that you're dreaming. The minute you think this is real, you have to follow the rules. But you can MAKE the rules as long as you know you're dreaming." He looked up at me mischievously, a lock of his blonde hair fluttering in his face. "So what do you want to do?"
"I want to have a wet dream," I told him.
"You want to shoot a load in your jockeys while you're asleep, do you?" he smiled. "You will. I guarantee, as long as you don't forget that you're dreaming, you can do anything you want. Where your mind leads, your dick will follow. What do you want to do?"
I have no idea why I said it, because it made no sense at all, but I immediately responded, "I want to have sex. In a B-29. With you."
This was utterly senseless, even to me. A few weeks back in the college library I'd been paging through some old books about World War II, and I read a little article on the B-29. I don't know why it stuck in my head or why it chose to surface in that moment. Perhaps I forgot, for a split-second, that I was dreaming, and my subconscious mind churned it up. In any event I was committed now. I was also rock-hard with the mere thought that I was about to experience only my third wet dream in a lifetime.
Andy stretched out his hand, as if offering it to me. I took it, and his warm fingers slipped between mine. That's a wonderful thing, holding a guy's hand. He began to lead me toward the horizon, now bursting with colors, reds and violets and deep indigo blues. A purple planet, its crusty surface pockmarked with craters, hung ominously in the sky.
Over the next dune we saw a shape in the sand. It was the wind-blasted skeleton of an old World War II airplane wrecked in the desert, the plexiglass of its turrets now cracked and opaque, one wing hanging askew, a torn-off landing gear sticking out of the sand near it. A cartoon was painted on its nose, as was the tradition in World War II. It was a beautiful buxom blonde chick with her skirt blowing up Marilyn Monroe-style, and the words "DAN'S DREAM" curling around her. A hatchway in the side of the plane gaped open. Andy clambered inside. I paused for a moment, but he waved me in. "Come on," he said. "What's wrong?"
"I almost forgot I was dreaming."
"Well, don't forget. That's the hardest thing to do, to avoid being fooled into thinking this is real. You have to ignore your senses. Right now you can feel the sand between your toes, but it's not real. You're in your dorm room, passed out. Don't forget that." He reached for my hand again. "Come on. We don't have much time. You sleep so light, anything could wake you up. Your roommate coming in, the heat coming on, or a door slamming from somewhere down the hall. Or you'll start to have to piss. That'll wake you up as sure as anything."
"I don't want to wake up. I want to stay here with you."
"I know you do. But eventually you won't be able to help it. We can get down to it, though, before that happens."
I climbed inside the airplane with him. It was a ruin of dust-covered metal. Rivets gleamed dully in the overcast light. A gun, looking still lethal, poked up from a turret, trailing belts of ammunition onto the metal floor. Andy climbed through the front of the airplane and led me to the nose turret. It was a cone-shaped glass window looking out onto the desert. He took off the towel and laid it on the dusty metal floor. He was naked in front of me now. His dick wasn't large--it was a bit smaller than my own, which is perfectly average-sized--but it was very hard. He drew me close and clasped his arms around my back. We kissed deeply, feeling our tongues move past each other. One of his hands left my back and wandered down into my groin. I began to feel an electric sensation of pleasure spreading through me the instant he touched me, far more than would have happened in real life.
"I want to feel you inside me," Andy whispered, kissing my neck. "And I want to feel myself inside you, at the same time."
I kissed him back. I was caressing his dick now, my hands wandering over his slender head, the hardness of his shaft, and his soft velvety balls. "How is that possible?" I said.
"You're dreaming, Dan. Anything is possible."
And it was. We settled back onto the towel. Andy smiled and drew his arms up around the back of my neck. At the same moment I felt the hot hardness of his dickhead probing into the crack of my ass. His warm tip, already wet with precum, brushed the outside of my butthole with the gentlest pressure. I moaned. And I could feel him against my own dick, the small puckered opening into his warm tunnel. I didn't have to touch myself with my hands or position myself anywhere. My arms were clasped around Andy's back, feeling the knobby lumps of his spine under his skin. In real life of course it's impossible for guys to penetrate each other anally at the same time. But that was exactly what was happening.
Our penises entered each other at the same moment. Andy arched his back and gasped a little and I felt something very warm and tight and slippery clamping slowly down around my dick, inch by inch. At the same time I felt something hot and slick spreading wide the entrance to my butthole. I gasped too as Andy's phallus slid into my chamber. There was no pain at all. We didn't need to bother with lube. Our dicks were like two slick blocks of rock-hard gel, sliding into each other with the gentlest pressure. Deep inside of me I felt the tip of Andy's penis pressing against my prostate. It was a pleasure like nothing I'd ever known, a hard bar of ecstasy jammed deep inside my tunnel, spreading feelings of joy throughout the entire rest of my body. At the same time his insides sucked and massaged my penis with the warm tight wetness that could only be the pressure of being in someone's butt. We were still facing each other, still kissing, our arms wrapped up in each other. I looked up and recall seeing a bird, an owl or a falcon of some kind, perched on the handle of the machine-gun in the turret above us. It spread its wings and flapped but did not fly away. Andy and I had begun the gentle undulating motion of fucking each other. We both grunted with each wonderful stroke. The sweetness of the sensations flooding through our bodies was almost too much to handle.
"I'm dreaming," I whispered, kissing Andy's neck, feeling at once the pre-orgasmic tingle of my own penis throbbing inside of him, while savoring the simultaneous sensation of being completely filled up, my body full of glorious Andy.
"It feels so good," he said, embracing me tighter. "It's SO good, Danny."
Our rhythms were always synchronous, but as we approached orgasm we truly began to fall into each other's pleasure. Every thrust of my hips dug my member deeper into Andy's ass while at the same time helping him to fuck me, impaling me on his quivering hardness. My prostate was tingling and radiating feelings of intense fulfillment. My penis flirted with sudden super-hardness, almost a hint of a feeling that came over me and then receded. Then it spasmed again, going super-hard for a split-second, and coming back down. Andy and I were both panting. He was moaning. Our sphincters were beginning to contract around each other's dicks as our simultaneous release grew nearer. Finally it was like an electric switch was thrown. Our dicks both went super-hard at the same instant, while our buttholes clenched and every muscle in our bodies tightened at once, and we gasped and moaned and devoured each other's mouths while our hips banged furiously away at each other. The pleasure came at first in a wave, cresting over us, and then it cracked open and assaulted us, smashing into our heads with indescribable force. We began coming simultaneously. Our penises exploded inside of each other, ejecting identical streams of hot warm cum that spread inside of our rectums, lubricating our rods so we could milk each other even harder. When it was over there was no pain, no emptiness, no exhaustion. I felt the warmth of Andy's cum pooling deep inside my butt, the pleasant fullness of his penis still holding my asshole open, and the warmth of Andy's body around my own slackening dick. I looked up. The owl was still perched on the edge of the machine gun, its glassy eyes studying me. It opened its beak, emitted a strange and alien-sounding squawk, and I was awake.
I was back in my dorm room. My jeans were on the floor and the covers were drawn around me. I could hear the deep even breaths of my roommate, Joe, from across the room. I reached down. My underwear was soaking wet, but it was cold, suggesting I had remained asleep for a while after I actually ejaculated, at least long enough for my semen to cool off. I felt very, very good. Despite the intensity of the dream I hadn't made a sound because Joe was still asleep. My mind reeled with the implications of what had happened. I'd committed a sexual act that was physiologically impossible to do in real life. And I'd done it with the straight boy who lived down the hall, who probably never even suspected that I was bi. Wet lucidity was definitely a trip.
The Dune dream was like breaking the logjam. Once you have a lucid dream, you understand the possibilities of it. Once you have a second one, you begin to understand how they work. My mind had proven to itself that it was capable of something more than the usual nocturnal drone of my subconscious. From that point on, "normal" dreams were as uninteresting as TV reruns. A lucid dream, for me, was the bridge to my subconscious, the right brain that was a reluctant visitor to my consciousness who could rarely be coaxed out of his shell. But that visitor was just as horny as I was, and when I offered him sex, he wasn't dumb enough to turn it down.
I began to do research on lucid dreaming. I found a book in the college library about it. At first, dream and sleep researchers denied that a lucid dream was even possible. But in recent years they had begun to revise their assessments of it. I also learned that you could induce lucid dreams through a variety of methods. One of the most effective was to purposely ingrain in your conscious mind the ever-present question of whether or not you're actually dreaming. "Am I dreaming now?" sounds like a stupid question to ask yourself a hundred times a day--and it takes that amount of repetition to get to the point where it becomes reflexive--but it's a strangely philosophical one. In real life you can never be completely sure that you're dreaming. Here you are, sitting in front of your computer, reading this story. How do you know that you're not dreaming? If you were, the dream might look pretty close to reality. We interpret our surroundings based on our senses. But our senses can fool us.
It took me almost 18 months--after I was out of college and had long since forgotten Andy Westphal--before I became proficient at lucid dreams. At first I had those two, more than two years apart. Then it became once every six months. Then, once every three months. Then once a month. It's a skill, like anything else. Like any other power, its value is totally in what you choose to do with it. As for me, it's value is that I can have sex--with anyone, at any time, in any way I like, with no consequences, no hassle, no strings attached. Lucid dreaming is a gateway to unlimited ability. The things you can do are limited only by your imagination--and even that isn't a limit, because your subconscious mind can think of a hell of a lot more interesting ways to have sex than your conscious mind can come up with.
In the summer of 2004, long after I was finished with college and graduate school and had had many relationships with members of both genders, and more wet lucid dreams than I can count, I had one that sticks out in my memory, because it harked back to the very first one. It was of my childhood friend, Chris.
I had this dream in a hotel room in Rome. I was in Europe on a business trip and was there briefly to see the sights and meet some friends I knew over e-mail. During this luminous day in mid-July I had finally visited the Coliseum for real, and found it not so different than the dream version I'd seen in my first consciously lucid dream 14 years earlier. After a long day of touring the city with my Italian friends, and a hearty dinner of pasta, chicken and lots of good Italian wine, I caught a cab back to my hotel (which was only blocks from the Vatican) and managed to stumble back into my room and collapse on my bed before I lost all sense due to alcohol, exhaustion and the heat of the evening. In retrospect I probably wasn't in that much different shape than I had been the night of the Dune dream. I don't often sleep well when I've had too much to drink, and my wet lucid dreams seem to come to me most easily when I'm sort of in the half nether-zone between sleep and wakefulness, where I'm unconscious but my conscious mind doesn't quite know it yet.
Then I was in the Coliseum under the blazing Mediterranean sun. It was some time in the past, because the stands were filled with toga-clad Romans, and I rode a golden chariot to the center of the arena in a hail of rose petals. An Emperor in a purple toga sat upon his throne at the end of the arena, and the glory of imagined grandeur washed over me like a wave. But when I raised my hands to wave at the crowd I realized they were much smaller than I was used to. I stretched out my hand and looked at it. My forearm was strangely hairless. The scar on my right index finger, from when I was cutting meat for a stir-fry Chinese dinner for my boyfriend on the night of my 30th birthday, was gone. I realized I was twelve years old.
I asked the right question. "Am I dreaming now?" By now I had many years of experience asking it, and I knew how to recognize a dream when I saw one. As my chariot rumbled to a halt and I saw none other than Chris himself, dressed in his black shorts and orange soccer jersey, standing in the middle of the Coliseum bouncing a soccer ball on his knee, I knew I was dreaming.
I smiled. This would be a good one. Once I realized I was dreaming I could change my surroundings into any situation I wanted. If, for example, I didn't want to be in the Coliseum in ancient Rome but decided I'd rather be at my favorite smoky little bar in New York City with my girlfriend from graduate school, I had only to snap my fingers and it would be so. But I was not displeased by what my subconscious had served up for me.
I got off the chariot. Somehow the din of the crowd began to quiet as I approached my old friend. He bounced the ball off his knee a few times, then looked up at me and smiled. "Hello, Dan," he said. "It's been a long time."
"Almost 20 years," I said. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine. You don't look any different."
I laughed. "Of course not. I'm still 12, and so are you."
Chris spun the soccer ball on the tip of his finger, Harlem Globetrotters-style. "You know I'm not Chris," he told me.
"You're the Knower," I said. "You know all that is, all that was, and all that will be."
"More than that," Chris replied. "I know all that isn't--all that wasn't--and all that never will be."
"So why are we here?" I asked him.
"To fight," Chris shrugged.
"To fight?"
"Of course. What else do you do in the Coliseum?" He chucked the soccer ball away. It rolled to a halt still a hundred yards short of the edge of the Coliseum, which was so gigantic that it dwarfed the two of us. Then he grabbed the hem of his sheeny orange soccer jersey and whipped it off and flung it to the dust at our feet. He stood before me, shirtless, the sun splashing down on his bare pale shoulders, and I felt a curious kind of love for him. Perhaps it was not for him, but nostalgia for my youth, the days long-receded into the past when forbidden pleasures were still forbidden, and still so mysterious to me.
We locked our bare arms as if wrestling but pressed our foreheads together. He was smiling, and so was I.
"You can do anything you want," said the Knower-who-looked-like-Chris, "and you would choose to be here, with me?"
The Roman crowd erupted into cheers, and flurries of rose petals began to fall like snow. What happened then was possibly the strangest thing I've ever experienced, even in the realm of lucid dreaming where anything goes. We began to fight and wrestle each other, writhing playfully in the dust of the Coliseum, laughing and enjoying the youthful abandon we thought we had forgotten. But at the same time we were having sex, without our privates ever coming in contact with each other. I could feel the hot slippery wetness of precum coating the tip of my dick. I felt the wonderful warm tightness of my penis inside Chris's butt, his rectum sucking, swirling and massaging my organ with the gentle brutality of the act of male-male sex. I could feel him pressing against my own anus, wanting desperately to be enveloped inside. I could taste his phallus in my mouth, feel it sliding between my lips. I could feel his ejaculation spurting jaggedly against my tongue, long before it happened. At the same time I could feel the soft layers of a woman's vagina parting to admit my penis into her. I could feel every act of physical love that had ever been done to me by anyone in my life--boyfriends, girlfriends, casual flings, and the loves of my life. Everything I had ever thought was hot or sexy or attractive seemed to come rushing into my head at once. I was wrestling Chris on the floor of the Coliseum or the Technicolor grass of his soccer poster. I was fucking Andy Westphal, and he was fucking me, in the nose turret of the B-29. I was leaking glowing rivers of cum into the forest behind my aunt's house. And yet I was aware I was doing nothing in the dream except leaning against Chris with our arms locked and our foreheads pressed together, and I knew that in real life I was lying on my stomach on the bed of my hotel room in Rome with the window open and the soft July breeze gently ruffling the curtains and my hair. This dream wasn't hot because of the visions or sensations of physical pleasure that rushed through my head. This dream was hot because, in the final analysis, the orgasm that came from my subconscious mind was a thousand times more powerful than one that could come from my body, or even the subconscious fooling of my senses into thinking it came from my body.
And it was powerful. The orgasm shattered my mind. It blew every thought out of my head. As my penis opened up and sprayed the hottest, most forceful blasts of sperm into my boxers as had ever come out of me, my entire consciousness seemed humbled in front of its power. I forgot everything except how good it felt. I forgot my name and how to speak and who I was and what was happening to me. I was a primeval brute, living only for the instant of supreme pleasure, and understanding only then what it meant to be human. I raised my head off the bed, suddenly awake. My dick was still ejaculating--I could feel it. My whole head quivered and shuddered with the sensation. I rolled over onto my back. Even in my sleep I'd been holding my breath, and I told myself to exhale. I raised my hands above my head. They were shaking. My underwear and my jeans were so wet it felt like someone had thrown a bucket of warm water into my groin. It was beyond amazing. Until you have experienced an orgasm like this, you might well have never cum in your entire life.
Yet it happened to me absolutely alone, in a hotel room, while I was asleep.
It didn't bother me. I felt so good, I thought I had been reborn. I didn't change my clothes or even unbutton my pants. I wanted the stuff to dry all over me. I pulled back the covers, grabbed and embraced a pillow like it was a lover, and settled down to a peaceful and fulfilling sleep. I'd crossed another threshold. I didn't know if it was possible to have dreams more intense than the one I had just experienced, but if it was possible, I would get there. Eventually.
But that's another story.
THE END
Stories By This Author:
Last Days in the Dorm /nifty/gay/college/last-days-in-the-dorm (A student stumbles into an encounter with an attractive Native American college student the night before moving out of his dorm.)
Lust In Iraq /nifty/gay/military/lust-in-iraq/ (A war-weary sergeant becomes infatuated with a young PFC recently transferred to his unit.)
Rip the Jacker /nifty/bisexual/masturbation/rip-the-jacker/ (An outwardly well-adjusted high school student becomes a serial masturbator, causing a tremendous stir in the community.)
Shifter /nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/shifter/ (A college student's sexual fantasies have the unintended effect of transporting him backwards in time.)