Dreams of Youth, part three

by Elvis Little


My first dream was a guilty pleasure, yes, but was nothing as terrifying or abhorrent as my most recent. The young me in my first dream was around eighteen -- young, but a far cry from outright pedophilia.

He was sitting in front of his computer in my old dorm room at college; before I disturbed him (I was behind him, and had apparantly come into the room silently), I looked around, indulging in the kind of innocent reminiscence you can probably imagine. Rock and roll posters on the walls, textbooks from subjects I barely remembered learning, a picture of my first girlfriend next to me on the desk (she, alas, had gone on scholarship to a different college, and we had carried on a difficult relationship via roadtrip for months).

I am never sure what to make of the worlds I visit in these dreams. Are they completely in my head -- incredibly vivid memories, complete with former incarnations of my ego and surroundings? That isn't too far fetched. I have had dreams in the past -- regular dreams -- which amazed me in their inventiveness and verisimilitude. But I sometimes wonder if I am in fact entering the past, altering it, as if there were a series of selves, all eminating from the past but all continuing in their present moment like images reflected endlessly in parallel mirrors, that I return to warp, to alter, frankly, to molest in mind and body.

It has occurred to me that such reckless post facto mahem might send ripples forward, and that perhaps in some science fiction sense, the dreams have been self-generated out of the trauma that they caused, preserving the law of cause and effect in some hopelessly weird way, and leaving only the word "WHY?" branded searing and dark on the meat of my brain.

Another more hopeful explanation is that I travel in my dreams to the dreams of my younger selves. This would help explain the sometimes unexpected behavior that they exhibit, and the fact that I have no conscious memories of the encounters. As a case in point, when I announced my presence ("Hi, Elvis," I said, in my normal tone of voice), the younger Elvis did not jump in astonishment at the person who had appeared behind him, having come silently through his third-story window or locked dorm-room door. He merely turned his swivel-chair around and said "Hi!" as if I were an old friend he didn't know was in town.

As this was the first dream of this sort that I have had, I did not yet have a standard "I am you from the future" speech well-rehearsed, but fortunately the face he saw looked so similar to the one he saw in the mirror that it was clear no explanations would be necessary. He asked me my age (although I, of course, did not ask his. It is not as though I were forbidden, exactly; it's just that I seem to forget, and only wish I had asked when I awaken), and I gave it to him. He asked me if I ever graduated, I told him that in fact I had. He asked me when, but my brain was too fuzzy to do the necessary arithmetic or to remember the number on my diploma, which disappointed him. In retrospect, it is probably best that I was unable to produce the figure, as it took me about seven years from my freshman year(s) to reach the finish line, and this fact may have proven dispiriting.

In turn, I asked him how things were going with F----- (my then long-distance lover) -- things were going "pretty well," but the distance was, of course, a problem as I certainly remembered. I asked him please to describe the last time they had made love (both as part of the seduction process, and because some of my best sexual memories are of F-----, and as I grow older these memories are becoming less and less vivid -- I wanted a better snapshot, and this was a golden opportunity). He was eager to comply; talking about sex with my best friend or two had been perhaps my second-favorite activity at the time.

The scenario which developed, after much prodding for details by my(older)self, was of a motel room in Pasadena where we had met -- half-way -- one weekend early in our first semester apart. We had had sex no fewer than three times that evening -- we didn't even leave the motel room to eat until after noon the next day. My memories became more vivid with the telling, a handful of details springing back to life with each one my younger self revealed.

I remembered F----- fondly as an lunatic bitch from hell who saved me from graduating from high school a virgin. I loved her deeply, and she loved me passionately and almost drove me insane. We were both virgins when we met, which led to not one, but two nights of embarassing attempts at accomplishing what our parents warned us could be perpetrated upon us at the drop of a hat without our constant vigilance. Virginities we had been warned not to lose, we found difficult to give away.

But still, she was either an amazing learner or a seductress of instinct. She gave the best blow jobs I have had to this day, some two dozen sexual partners and another dozen bizarre dreams later. My near-overdose of pleasant recollection was interrupted: "I didn't marry her, did I?" he asked.

It amused me that I had ever even considered it a possibility. Marriage was to me then (and still is to me now, actually) a spectre of mythological fascination. It seemed to strike people down in the prime of life almost without warning, although in consensus reality it was assumed to be a matter of choice and deliberation. It frightened me, and although instinctively I felt that plunging into a steady heterosexual relationship was probably a way of putting myself in marital jeopardy, I did not actually know this to be the case and so was prepared to risk it and perhaps plead ignorance at the altar if the time came.

"No," I said, and almost added that they would be broken up within several weeks. I decided that this comment would somehow go over the bounds of what a temporal alien could wisely admit, and kept it to myself.

He initiated our sexual activity, which surprised me a great deal during the dream (I was still trying to decide on a seduction method) but is less surprising to me now, remembering my hormone level at the time. I was inclined, as a young collegiate, to want to jump on anything representing a possible willing orifice, and nobody is less likely to refuse than yourself, I suppose.

We stripped, separately, and then I guided him over to the bed with a hand on the small of his back. He lay down and I began to suck him off -- he made so much noise! I remember really enjoying oral sex when I was younger, but I don't remember being so loud. On impulse, I got up and looked in each of the two places I remember keeping the K-Y when I was in the dorms (I found it secretively stashed behind the thesaurus).

Lying on the bed next to him, I continued to suck, and he joined in for 69 (which was, and still is, my personal favorite). Then I slowly worked a well- lubed finger up his asshole, a treat which in real life would have to wait for his second girlfriend. This was doing well for us both, but I did want to give him as many different experiences as possible at once (dream invader as faux-benevolent big-brother figure plays strongly in my ethical overcompen- sation both during the dream and upon awakening).

I removed my finger, sat up and spread my knees apart on either side of his waist. I then applied a dollop of K-Y to his erection, and holding it firmly behind me, sat down slowly on it. He was mostly silent, staring at my face and alternately cringing and gasping as I impaled myself.

It was wonderful, and miraculously timed -- him coming with enormous adolescent bucks as I pumped myself empty onto his hairless chest and belly. A real winner, even by dream standards, although my dream faded away before I could collapse into what I think would have been a pleasant, though perhaps somewhat fraternal, post-coital embrace.