Tuesday

Freud

(somewhat graphic in a sexual nature.)



My brain is trying to figure something out. I can tell, it's mulling something over.

For three nights in a row I have had a wet dream. This is a record for me. In the past, I've stopped at two nights in a row, which has happened on numerous occasions. Last night, aware that perhaps my body was just undersexed, it has been about nine months now since I had sex, I decided to masturbate. I have often treated masturbation as a purely mechanical, logistical activity like this. Something to do to take care of my body, like lifting weights, or avoiding too much sodium in my diet. In high school, I reserved a special time every week for it, rarely straying above two occurrences per week, rarely having time in a week for my sexual side, there is no time for spontaneity, no privacy for it, in high school.

The lights were out and I was ready for bed when I remembered the previous two nights' autoerotic occurrences. The first was a dream about my mother except she had a penis, the second a dream about my sister in which we had both been kidnapped. Neither were particularly sexual situations. In fact I believe both situations had been high-pressure ones, ones that threatened death. Somewhere my brain has been trying to figure something out, and Freud is somewhere, laughing so hard that he has shit himself...

So I masturbated. It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. It was the thing to do. I'd already dirtied two pairs of underwear, a third needn't be victimized.

I went to sleep. In the only dream I can remember, I must have been in some primal sorority house, because the place was full of beautiful women, all wearing little clothing and well aware of what their bodies are for. I ended up in bed with one, a girl I had known long ago (I have never known this girl, but in my brain somewhere she was being made, along with a history that included me. Such a shame that she believed in it, that fiction). I couldn't remember her name.

"Do you remember me?" God dammit, what is this girl's name?

"I do, but I can't remember your name." I stared right in her eyes. I was embarassed, but more saddened. Not because I was afraid that this would ruin my chances, but because I regretted not remembering. She had been someone I actually liked, and I had been someone she had cared about. I think she was modeled after Clare, at least some rudimentary emotional foundation of Clare.

Somewhere behind me a voice laughed and said, "I can't believe you, Sam." It was sardonic laughter, mocking. It was the voice of a woman. It was most likely, but not necessarily, Kristen. I ignored her. This could still be salvaged, this shard of a relationship, this hope of rekindling.

My eyes stayed locked on the woman. We lay in bed. I had feelings for this woman now, again, always, where had she been? Where had I been?

But there was no sex. I somehow was penetrating the mouth of a large, blue, glass bottle. I was standing there, and she had been gone, on vacation, maybe, or the bathroom, was just returning. And I was penetrating the mouth of the glass, and she was watching, on all fours, as I orgasmed. There was anger, maybe bitterness in her face. Could I not have waited until she returned from vacation? As I pulled my penis out, the orgasm came a second time, with more fury, almost as if the first one had been a pretend orgasm. And it had been. My mind had invented an orgasm, but now, as my penis was leaving the neck of it, perhaps now there was no suction, now there was room for air to get out as sperm went in, now the orgasm came, and she watched. I do not know whether she was pleased. I think perhaps she was pleased. I think perhaps I was pleased with myself. In my dreams I often struggle with whether or not to orgasm, some little bit of me always aware that an orgasm will result in immediately leaving this place, the comfort of a pseudo-reality where I think I am properly disposing of my sperm, I can be thankful that THIS TIME it is not a wet dream and I will not be left to clean myself up later, but knowing somewhere that it is a fantasy. Some part of me always wants to orgasm while the other part beckons me to remember that I am dreaming, these two sides always at war. I have trained myself to try to win this battle, try to win for the cleanliness side. I have in many occasions realized in the dream that I am dreaming, with the sole purpose in mind of not having to wake up to a mess.

Again, one side won. And for the third morning in a row, I awoke to the feverish pulsing under the covers, in my underwear (and did you know, there is no actual masturbational gesture that is done? It is all in the mind, and the hands sit back and watch), my legs crossed as if begging, pleading to hold back the waves, and doing a good job keeping the gates closed. I relaxed them, opened up, but it was too late. There was no momentum anymore, and it all sat in me, festering like the dream, the persistent realization that my sexual expressions are just a dream. A small bit seeped out to ruin my underwear yet again.