March 31st, 2010 | 
Author: Dream, The
She awoke at midnight again, the way she had for the past three nights, the sheets twisted tightly into an umbilical cord binding her to the sweaty womb of her bed. She disentangled herself from the tangled topsheet and laid back, closing her eyes. Immediately the dream from which she had awakened flashed into her consciousness: the utter darkness and the sudden, dim, slanting light; the stranger, the man she had seen and followed; the small anonymous room; the smell, the feel of him; the awful, all-consuming hunger. She opened her eyes quickly, sat up and turned on the nightstand light to dispel the vision. No sense trying for sleep now, she thought. Why the dream had come, why it affected her, consumed her like this, she did not know; but for now it would not leave her. She lit a cigarette, hoping to concentrate on that and occupy her mind, dispel the terrible demon that was the dream with the mundane, the ordinary. She sat back against the headboard, and without thinking closed her eyes tiredly. Instantly the dream filled her vision again. A dark restaurant, club, bar, a place she had never been; a man she did not know -- no, did not *want* to know; the small room, featureless apart from a bed against one wall, without blankets or frame or headboard; the feel of him against her, on top of her; feeling him between her legs, parting them, dividing her (divide and conquer, a part of her mind thought, unbidden), opening her.... She started suddenly, looking down. As of its own volition, her hand was caressing her bare thigh, grasping it, pulling her leg away from its mate...opening her.... She stubbed out the cigarette and jumped to her feet, her heart racing, pounding. This is ridiculous, she thought, pacing the floor. It's a dream. *Only* a dream. I'm in control; it only affects me as much as I want it to. Instantly upon thinking the phrase she stopped her pacing. The truth penetrated her mind: she *did* want it to affect her, to consume her. She wanted a reality to match the dream. NO! she shouted inside herself, sitting on the bed and massaging her temples. All right, she admitted, your sex life hasn't been that good lately: a series of nice guys, really sweet and kind and considerate and gentle, maybe lacking a certain fire, but good. So now, just for kicks, you're going to go to bed with someone you know nothing about? Going to risk rape, abuse, VD? My God, risk AIDS? Is that what all of your rhetoric about male chauvinism, about the myth of machismo and how sex is sharing, is cooperation, comes to? She tried to follow the old arguments playing now in her head, to hold back the dark tide of her dream with a teaspoon of reality, but it was no use. There was a kind of fire in her now,
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