I hate getting older. Alright, that’s a common complaint, but my reason may be more honest than you want to read. What I hate about aging is losing some of my favorite simple pleasures. No more eating as much as I want. I have to watch my health. Staying up ’til the wee hours is right out. I have to go to work in the mornings. But what pisses me off the most is the “wet dream near miss.”Wrapped snug in a comforter. Spinning deeply into R.E.M. sleep. I feel the lulling waves of the subconscious slip in between the nagging thoughts left over from the work day. Soon the images coalesce. Ah! There she is, the girl of my dreams. This girl changes from dream to dream. Sometimes I know her. She came from the faces I meet in a day or from the women with whom I share time. Other women come from my deepest fantasies. Either way, these women rock me gently into the night.
The scenarios are as varied as the women. One night, it is a chance encounter of old friends. Another night it could be one night of passion between familiar lovers. In one variation, I found myself making slow time with her clothing. Button by button, she came undone. What seemed petite blew out of proportion. Still another dream, had me in the tender care of two pairs of youthful hands, I was facing the type of breasts that women my age often sneer at and recall having seen on their frames no to long ago. Oh, how I enjoy these treats of the imagination.
I can feel the soft hands everywhere. Breasts push against my lips, hands or chest. By the time things reach a boil, I am enthralled, erect and unable to lay on any other side but my stomach. The blood rushes, I can feel the moment growing near and then something happens. Something in my mind hears a noise, feels a chill, or notices that a foot is too warm. Whatever the distraction may be, my conscious mind feels annoyingly compelled to address the problem. In a wisp, my pleasure scene evaporates. ARGH! No wonder some mornings I wake up grumpy. Worse than not getting any is almost getting some.
When I was sixteen, seventeen years old, wet dreams came as easily as breathing. I woke up dehydrated and my Dad’s water bill went out the roof. I was at the age when, as Bill Cosby put it, “Boys become interested in doing their own laundry and take a lot of naps.” Those were the heady days that a stiff breeze was all that was needed to start an erection. Nothing stood between me and my raging libido. I would miss meals for sex. I lost sleep for just another turn around the sheets. Exhaustion would relent at the onset of stimulation. Today, I had better have a good nights rest. And when It seems that I am getting that rest and the mind conjures my most libidinal desires, it finds a way to wake me up. Damn that is unfair.