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Girl of My Dreams: Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
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she blew me a kiss: Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen
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After I Turned 40: Poem by Richard LeDue
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not even Baudelaire: Poem by Craig Kirchner
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to bury a curious girl: Poem by Amirah Al Wassif
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Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

Kenneth James Crist: Girl of My Dreams

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Art by Sean O'Keefe © 2024

Girl of My Dreams

 

Kenneth James Crist

 

 

For 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 it simple.

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 gone.

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 my imagination.

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.”

“But how…?”

“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, Wichita, KS.





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.




Sean O’Keefe is an artist and writer living in Roselle Park, NJ. Sean attended Syracuse University where he earned his BFA in Illustration. After graduation, Sean moved to New York City where he spent time working in restaurants and galleries while pursuing various artistic opportunities. After the birth of his children, Sean and family move to Roselle Park in 2015. He actively participates in exhibitions and art fairs around  New Jersey, and is continuing to develop his voice as a writer. His work can be found online at www.justseanart.com and @justseanart on Instagram.

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications © 2024