Girl of My Dreams
Kenneth James Crist
a silly old bastard like me to have a wet dream was
automatically two things: ridiculous and fascinating.
Ridiculous because up until it happened
the first time, I’d thought I was past that sort of thing. Nocturnal emissions,
that is. That’s the proper term. Nocturnal, like an animal. A predator or
scavenger, perhaps. Emissions like something to be hidden from and lied about
to an all-powerful agency, like God or the EPA.
Fascinating, though, not because of the
fact that, in the night, or more correctly, the false dawn, I became erect and
shot a fair-sized load of the ol’ jism onto my sheets, but because of the
manner in which it started. Or the manner in which it was accomplished.
I suppose every adolescent boy has his
“dream girl”. In his horny, pimply, itchy young body, crammed with
raging hormones, unless he’s extremely lucky and regularly “scores with chicks,”
he invents one. She’ll have all the attributes he thinks he’d want in the
perfect girl. And of course she’ll pledge her undying love and devotion to him
and only him. This is way before reality sets in.
Mine was probably not much different
than most. Her made-up name was Angie. She didn’t need a last name. That would
have made her too complicated. First rule of imaginary friends and lovers: Keep
She had what I always thought of as
smoky blonde hair. A color rarely if ever seen, outside the pretty extensive
confines of my own mind. Dark eyes, darker than brown. A pug nose and perfect
teeth. A willowy body and smooth, supple skin that glowed in moonlight.
Perfect, round breasts with darkly prominent nipples. Yeah, well, I was a
teenaged pervert. Or maybe not. I was probably disgustingly normal.
Angie stayed with me all through high
school and even into the military. Then I met some real women and I lost her.
As my actual life’s experiences accumulated, Angie dwindled until she was just
Then, one morning, she came back, more
real than ever to me, and I found myself at the age of 55, showering semen off
my belly at 5:30 AM. Had I not by this time been living entirely alone, it
might have been quite embarrassing.
As hot water coursed down my hairy old
legs and I scrubbed my own spunk from my body, I thought about the passing of my
wife, the untimely death of my only child and the number of friends who had
also died in the last few years. I also thought about what had happened there
in the semi-dark bed.
I had smelled her first. A spicy, exotic
scent that seemed to contain many smells that were readily identifiable. Coffee
and cinnamon, mint and jasmine. Hot sweat and damp hair. And some others I
couldn’t even guess at. This was odd, because I could never remember dreaming
of smells before.
Then, her weight moved the bed as she
slid in beside me and I felt the slickness of her gown, like satin or silk and
the whispered sweetness of her breath on my ear. In the darkness I could not
see her clearly, but I could feel her body as she came out of her wrap. I
tasted her skin as she straddled me and leaned forward, allowing my face into
the smoothness between her breasts. My hands felt and cupped her there, felt
the hardness of nipples, the tautness of belly and thighs. I heard her breath
catch as I slid deep into her hotness and the growling engine of her hips began
to pound me into the mattress, into submission. Still half asleep and wallowing
in the dream, I heard her moans and gasping pleasure and soon I fired that
embarrassing mess into my bedding.
I reached to hold her close to me, but my
hands were filled only with clammy, cum-stained sheets. That was the first
time. Of course, it was damn sure not the last.
Over a few weeks it became clear that
somehow, Angie had come back. Somehow, she had found me. And she was more real
than she had ever been to me when I was a kid. When she was just a figment of
Gradually, it became clear that when
Angie came to me, it was never really a dream. True, the first time or two I
was half asleep, but soon I began to need her visits, to look forward to
the fleeting time we spent together. I was making sure I was awake for her. And
the sex was becoming more real, more frantic, more intense.
Sometimes I was able to pin her down and
drive her to ecstasy for most of an hour before she would somehow slip away
into the darkness. As our coupling became more intense, she also became more
substantial, more real in the sense of being flesh and blood. And I no longer
found embarrassing emissions in my bed.
But soon, I found other things. A few
weeks into the experiences, I was changing the bedding one morning after a
particularly wild early-morning romp with my sweet succubus, when I found a
long, smoky-blonde hair. I think my jaw hung open for some time and I imagined,
as from another room, tinkling laughter. Frantically, I searched the bed, the
covers, the surrounding floor, but there was nothing else. Just one hair. One
hair of a particular color I had never seen outside my dreams.
A week later it was a broken-off
fingernail, nail polish still clinging to it. By that time, the nighttime
encounters were reaching a frantic pace. We never had conversation. Our
intercourse was strictly sexual, not social. But Angie was showing up most
every night for a bout of passionate love-making, and she seemed not to care
what I did to her. I could kiss, hold, fondle, touch, screw and practically
batter her raw and never hear a complaint.
Then she left dirt in my bed. I found
several clods of moist earth, not large ones, but they had apparently been clinging
to her feet, as they were in that area toward the foot of the bed. Mildly
disgusted, I set about stripping the bed again, when my attention was caught by
something else that flipped out onto the carpet. I knelt and examined it, then
with a somewhat shaking hand, I picked up a white, shiny tooth, a
well-cared-for bicuspid, by the look of it. On close examination, it showed no
remaining portion of a live root or any blood. In fact, it looked suspiciously
as though it might have rotted from a jawbone.
I had saved the hair and the fingernail
in a small box in my top dresser drawer, as something tangible that I could go
and look at whenever things got too freaky. Some parts of her to dispel the
idea of madness that kept wanting to creep in around the edges of my psyche.
To the box, I added the tooth. As I
closed the dresser drawer that day, I felt a tear start down my cheek and I
quickly wiped it away. I was too old for this shit. Too old for love and what I
sensed was coming. And definitely too old for wet dreams.
I was glad when Angie began to talk to
me at last. It made things easier to understand and easier to deal with. One
morning after our typical frantic, rolling, mutual fuck-fest, as I lay beside
her, waiting for her to disappear, and wishing I could just hold her for
a while, she spoke.
“You were my dream, too, you know.” Her
voice was a husky whisper, with a ringing echoey quality to it that chilled my
bone marrow. It was a voice that traveled across an abyss of cold darkness on a
narrow, swaying, dangerous footbridge of need.
Startled, I merely said, “What?”
“The man of my dreams. When I was a
young girl. I finally found you.”
“I’ll be back. It’s getting light out.”
She was gone, but now communication had
opened up. My anticipation of her next visit heightened. I would learn more
about how this was all possible and I would keep Angie forever…
That was two weeks ago. This morning, I
again arose after our typical bout of lusty pleasure. There was quite a lot of
her hair in my bed this morning. Along with more of her teeth and some
sloughed-off skin. The bedding required very hot water because there were other
things there, things that squirmed. Things I’d rather not think about. Along
with more dirt. Quite a lot of dirt. It’s getting bad and I’m not sure what
I’ll do, but I’ve got an idea. I’m in the shower right now and it’s the first
time I’ve ever brought a gun into the bathroom with me.
Angie wants me. Angie needs me.
That footbridge is out there, swaying in the darkness, above the roaring abyss,
the fraying ropes threatening to let it drop at any time. I feel I must hurry,
or all will be lost. You see, it never occurred to me that I might outlive
the girl of my dreams…
Girl of My Dreams first appeared in the
chapbook, Dreaming of Mirages, in 2000, © by Fossil Publications,
Kenneth James Crist is Editor of Black Petals Magazine and is on staff
at Yellow Mama ezine. He has been a published writer since 1998, having had
almost two hundred short stories and poems in venues ranging from Skin and
Bones and The Edge-Tales of Suspense to Kudzu Monthly. He is particularly fond
of supernatural biker stories. He reads everything he can get his hands on, not
just in horror or sci-fi, but in mystery, hardboiled, biographies, westerns and
adventure tales. He retired from the Wichita, Kansas police department in 1992
and from the security department at Wesley Medical Center in Wichita in 2016.
Now 75, he is an avid motorcyclist and handgun shooter. He is active in the
American Legion Riders and the Patriot Guard, helping to honor and look after
our military. He is also a volunteer driver for the American Red Cross, Midway
Kansas Chapter. He is the owner of Fossil Publications, a desktop publishing
venture that seems incapable of making any money at all. His zombie book,
Groaning for Burial, has been released by Hekate Publishing in Kindle format
and paperback late this year. On June the ninth, 2018, he did his first (and
last) parachute jump and crossed that shit off his bucket list.