Alison Tyler is guest posting on my blog today. AT is one of the most remarkable people I know. Okay, I don't really know her, I mean, not in the flesh, as it were... I know her online and this is what I know: she's an excellent editor and her fiction is truly transporting. And that, I think, gives me leave to call her remarkable. Now I just have to work on actually meeting her in the real world.
“Your dreams are my dreams,” he said, then reached across my body and shut off the light. —The Delicious Torment
I have the most bizarre dreams. Don’t believe me? I once dreamed that I fucked President Bush. It was a pity fuck. (How could it not have been?) But just the same, that one came out of nowhere, as far as I can tell.
Generally, in my dreams, I don’t get what I want. Don’t believe me? I will be on the verge of banging my favorite celebrity only to have him say, “You know, I think you’re sweet and everything, but I’d really rather fuck your mother.”
As Sommer Marsden says, Paging Dr. Freud.”
Several times, I’ve dreamed that I grew a penis, once as a side effect to a medication I was taking. Recently, I dreamed that I solved the question of the origins of life—said the girl who barely passed Chemistry.
But truly, when I have sex dreams, when I’m allowed to actually have sex in the dreams, the results are filthy. In The Delicious Torment, Jack forces Samantha to confess an X-rated dream she’s had while next to him in bed. Not only to tell him, but to act out the scene:
“Describe the dream.”
I huddled up under the blankets, arms wrapped around my legs, and I tried to remember all the details. “I was wearing a thin white nightgown.”
“Do you own one like it?”
I shook my head.
“Anything like it?”
“Go get it.”
I stumbled from the bed and opened the closet, then pulled a semi-sheer sundress from the rack. I slid the gown over my head, and Jack nodded his approval.
“Continue,” he said.
“You told me to get into position.”
“Knees bent under me, hands in front of me on the mattress, ass up in the air.”
I looked at him, and he moved off the bed, slipping into the black pajama bottoms he’d tossed onto the floor. Jack often started the night wearing the pants, but kicked them off during sleep.
More nervous than ever, I pushed aside the comforter and assumed the position on the mattress.
“What happened next?”
“You lifted my nightgown, so you could see my ass…”
“Why was I punishing you?”
“I—I don’t know.”
I closed my eyes, and the whole of the dream came back to me. I’d been in a school, a boarding school, similar to the one I was creating for my novel. Girls were supposed to wear old-fashioned nightgowns and full-coverage panties to bed, and there had been a nightly check—done by Jack—in my dream. When Jack had come to me, he’d discovered that I had left off the panties. A cane had appeared seemingly from nowhere, as Jack had told me to assume the position, and had caned me to climax, while the other girls gathered around and watched. Giggling. Pointing.
“Tell me,” Jack insisted. “I think you know where we’re headed. You don’t want to make things worse on yourself.”
So I told him. Cast him in the role of headmaster. Explained how I felt when he slowly dragged the fabric up my naked skin, when he revealed my lack of underclothes, when he started to cane me in front of an audience.
“And that made you come,” Jack said softly, “that vision.”
“Yes, Jack. Yes, Sir.”
Sweet dreams? I don’t think I’m wired that way. But oh do I have a way with the wicked.
Alison Tyler has been called a “literary siren” (by Good Vibrations), “erotica’s own Superwoman” by The East Bay Examiner, and “the good bad girl” by GLBT books. Find her 24/7 at http://alisontyler.blogspot.com and follower on twitter: @alisontyler
Yes you do. I rarely remember my dreams. And when I do, they're never the wicked kind.ReplyDelete
Now my best friend, when she has to take her allergy medication, has Tim Burton-esque dreams - complete in technicolour and with soundtrack.