The beginning of the dream was very strange. Maybe the fact that life has been more than a bit harried contributed to the crookedness of it all. I remember starting off absolutely exhausted, so much so that I felt desperately ill, almost unable to go on. Life was beating me down unmercifully. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. I had missed my flight. They had lost my luggage. Someone stole my wallet. I had no money. When I tried to call David, the operator wouldn’t let me place a collect call. I was too weak to argue. I know it sounds wimpy, but I just about cried. I just wanted to go home to him, to be in his arms. Somehow, when the operator was yelling at me, the connection was accidentally made, and I fired off a message to the answering machine that I’d missed my flight, and had no money, but I was coming home, though I would be very late. The operator yelled at me, and I cut her off. I hung up.
Even though I had flown home, I found myself pushing through a massive crowd in Grand Central Station. When I stepped out onto the street, the streets were deserted. There were no cars, no taxis, no buses, although I could hear them in the distance, but for blocks around me, I was alone. Dragging my feet and my suit jacket, I began the two mile walk home.
David said that the weather had been hot and sultry, and he was right. It still was. I felt miserable. Even at night, the air was still and steamy. I walked like a zombie. I didn’t think I was going to make it home. I would have asked help from strangers, but everyone in Manhattan was behind closed doors and asleep except for the drivers of the phantom cars and taxis far off in the distance. I though about walking towards them, but something in me told me that for every block I advanced, they would retreat. I would never reach them, so I continued to walk. My knees hurt very badly. My ankles hurt. My feet ached. It was an effort to hold myself erect. At Herald Square, I shuffled towards a park bench like a desert wanderer crawls towards an oasis, and I sat and rocked, hurting and tired and thinking of the big strong arms and smiling blue eyes waiting for me. I don’t remember getting up, but I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, forcing myself not to think of the distance I still had to travel to get to our little apartment.
Finally, I turned the corner onto our street. I felt no relief. One block more seemed an impossible distance, but I kept stumbling forward. And as I neared our apartment, a terrible doubt that I had managed to push aside all this time bloomed like a black weed in my head and heart.
What if he wasn’t there?
I mean why should he be? Someone who looks like that…why should he be satisfied with me? I’m six feet tall and I work out regularly, but next to him I look like a little blond boy. He lives in a penthouse. I live in a basement apartment. He could have anyone he wanted. What do I have to offer him…except my heart? Somewhere during the last few feet of my journey, I decided that he would not be there, that it was just one more thing that would happen to me, and that I should just prepare myself for the inevitable. My heart sank. I didn’t care. Let the world come down on me.
I entered the building and looked up. Even though “our” apartment was a basement apartment, I still had to climb twenty flights of stairs to get to our front door. It doesn’t make any sense now, but in my dream it seemed perfectly logical. Every step was painful. I stopped to rest four times before the fifteenth flight of stairs, and then after that I stopped to rest at every landing. When I saw our front door, it still seemed too far to go, but I grit my teeth and stumbled forward, stuck the key in the door, and entered our apartment. It was dim. It wasn’t completely dark though. I closed the door gently and threw the bolt and then slowly advanced. I passed the kitchen. I could smell garlic in the air…and lemon. Something wonderful had been prepared for dinner. The little light above the sink was on and that was the only source of illumination for the kitchen, the dining room, and the open area of the living room. There were clean dishes, pots, and pans in the drainer, and there was a single place setting on the table. Waiting for me. Somehow, I knew. I went to the refrigerator and opened it.
Lemon. Garlic. Cheese. Wine. Water. All kinds of aromas wafted up, and I saw a plate of food, carefully wrapped in plastic wrap. Something fried to a delicate golden brown was nestled next to noodles. I was instantly starving, exhausted, but somehow revived knowing that there was something good to eat waiting for me, something good to eat that had been carefully prepared by someone who had been home long enough to at least eat dinner…and cook for me…and set the table for me. I stepped out into the living room.
Our…my….apartment was like a loft. There was a separate kitchen and bathroom, but the living room, dining room and bedroom were one large open space. One corner of the apartment was raised one foot, and this platform defined the bedroom. Our bed sat in the center, strangely surrounded by open space, but I liked the openness of it, especially with David. There was a tiny lamp on a shelf, little more than a night light, and that was the only other source of light in the apartment. It was very warm and muggy. The windows were high up on the walls and looked out onto the sidewalk. They were open, and a slight breeze moved the sheer curtains. There was a standing fan in the middle of the living room, and it was on at full force, circulating the warm air, and providing a soothing monotone in the darkness. I walked slowly toward the bed, and then I smiled.
There he was.
Fast asleep. Naked, yet looking totally comfortable as he always does. He was lying face down, which was unusual for him. He almost always sleeps on his back. He was facing away from me, but I could just imagine the peaceful, strangely innocent look on his face. The long black eyelashes. The little curl that always rested on his forehead. I just marveled at the size of him. Every time…and I mean every time, I see him, it’s like seeing him for the first time. You can’t really grasp and hold the size of him. And you can’t really grasp and hold the lines of him…the proportions. I stood by the side of the bed just watching him. The beautiful curves of his legs and his butt. The breadth of his back. The blackness of his hair. The size of his hands. And of course, what he had between his splayed thighs…just made my head spin.
I sighed. My man. My David. My love. I smiled. My beautiful, gentle, loving…beast! I went to the foot of the bed and carefully knelt on the bed, between his legs. I bent down, and ever so softly, I kissed the head of his cock. Then I kissed his balls. Then I kissed his butt. Then I kissed the small of his back. He didn’t wake up. I moved back to the side of the bed and carefully lied down beside him. I kissed his head. I felt like a handsome prince waking a sleeping beauty.
He took a deep breath, and then he slowly rolled toward me. With eyes still half closed, he grinned at me. What a brilliant, funny, sleepy smile! And then he stretched like a tiger waking form a long nap.
“Hi, sleepyhead,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I’m late. I’m so tired. I—”
He grabbed my tie and pulled me forward. I fell on his chest. He gently held my head and kissed me…a long, gentle kiss. I smiled weakly, still too exhausted to enjoy anything fully. And the next thing I remember was him standing next to me. As I said, he seems so perfectly at home being naked. I was the one that felt out of place with all my clothes on, so I began to undo my tie. He stopped me, holding my hands and then placing them at my sides. And then he proceeded to undress me. I didn’t know what to do with myself, but finally I let my own eyes close halfway and just watched his chest and arms in front of me as he unbuttoned my shirt, undid my belt, took off my shoes and socks and pants. I started to tell him that I was just too tired to eat, but then he stood and put his finger to my lips. He smiled, and then he scooped me up like a child and began carrying me toward the bathroom.
I felt awkward for only a moment, and then I sighed, and decided to enjoy the ride. I let my head rest against his chest. Oh! He felt so good. His skin was cool, and whatever scent he was wearing was fresh and crisp. He pushed the bathroom door open with his foot, and my eyes went wide. The room was glowing with the last flames of a few white candles. There was a pile of giant, freshly laundered, fluffy white towels in the corner, and there were a few inches of water in the tub. The water was the palest blue-green and smelled of pine trees and peppermint and flowers. He stood me by the tub, and then he bent down and felt the water. He turned the hot water on for only a minute, and then he tested the water again. Satisfied, he scooped me up and gently lowered me into the water.
In those few seconds, my soul sighed. I let go of all the doubts and insecurities and hurts I had, knowing that I could very well take them up again in the morning, and I closed my eyes, curled my hands under my chin like an embryo in the fetal position, and let my head loll against the hugely muscled arms that lowered me into the water. The water was cool, almost warm, tepid. It was refreshing. I moaned. I opened my eyes and I looked up at him and he was smiling.
He put his hand against my head as though it needed steadying, and I loved the feel of that big paw on the side of my head. With his other hand, he took a little bowl and poured the cool water over me.
He shampooed my hair, very slowly. I know I fell asleep for a few seconds several times.
He soaped my arms and torso, and used the slippery suds to massage my aching muscles. I actually remember thinking, “Might this be better than sex?” I tried to stay awake. He held me forward and massaged the back of my neck and stroked soapy hands up and down my spine. I managed to come out of my delirium long enough to find him smiling, and carefully soaping my toes. I laughed. What a sight. This huge man, smiling as he massaged my “tootsies”.
He drained the tub and rinsed me with fresh, tepid water. He stood me and dried me, and then he carried my back to the bed. He held my head against his chest and stroked my head over and over again with a towel until my hair was nearly dry. Now I actually felt cool. He turned out the tiny lamp. I heard him stretch out on the bed. I moved next to him. I felt his hands bring me closer. Again, he placed my head on his chest. I sighed. Again, I brought my hands up beneath my chin, and I burrowed closer to him. I love the feel of his hairy chest on my face. I love listening to his heart beat. His hips were pressed against mine, and I felt the weight and mass of his cock against my thigh. Any other time, that would have set me off, but this night I was just so exhausted. I thought that maybe he wanted to play, and I told myself that I could stay awake long enough, but there was something different in the way he held me. One night, when he was pressed against my back, he made me lift my leg slightly and he maneuvered his cock between my thighs. We laughed about him finally finding a big enough parking space, and then once our silliness subsided, he shyly confessed that it felt good. It felt safe. It felt warm. And I wondered if anyone had ever, ever literally touched that part of him and not thought about it as a means to their own satisfaction, or a public property, but as something sensitive and private, like his heart.
He reached behind me and put his hand on my butt, and I thought for sure that he wanted to play, but then he pushed me closer. I parted my thighs an inch, and he thrust his hips carefully forward until his cock had nestled between my thighs. His whole demeanor was one of hesitance, as though he wasn’t sure that this was ok. And then I rested my thighs, bringing them together, holding him gently and safely between my thighs.
And then I rested my head fully on his chest. As he stroked the back of my head, I heard myself sigh, and then I drifted off to sleep.