Erotic Fail

I was walking away from a party with this woman I've known for some time now and whom I consider to be reasonably attractive, physically and mentally (and if you think I'm going to tell you her name, gentle reader, I am afraid you are gravely mistaken). We walked into this large sitting room, with a leather couch on side of the room and picture windows that admitted a view of the sun setting over the harbor on the other. The dissipating sun infused the water with orange light and silhouetted the masts of the yachts.

We sat on the couch, I in the middle and she at my left side. We smiled at each other. Both of us were feeling good. The small contacts between our bodies were electric hot. I felt a flutter of emotions in my chest. One these emotions was guilt at cheating on my girlfriend, but that got drowned out by a rush of other feelings.

Grinning, she knelt on the couch and turned her backside towards me. She hiked up her pleated black skirt, exposing her well-shaped ass and a blue thong. She told me to kiss her butt, which I did, happily and repeatedly. Things progressed from there, with us shedding our clothing and playing with each other and feeling very good.

(For the record, gentle reader, I will tell you that this is quite honestly how I prefer my sex: friendly and happy and good-natured. Lame, I know. I should probably, for dramatic effect, favor some sort of violent fetish or sleazy kink, but that's just not how I roll. With all the other things I could choose to focus on, I find nothing so erotic as a woman's broad and genuine smile, though a playful sly smirk is quite good, too.).

After an extended period of mutually enjoyable foreplay, she was lying nude under me as I knelt over her with only my underwear remaining on. I could feel the warmth emanating from her sex. Our bodies were moving towards each other, independent of any thought. She told me to take off my underwear, which I did. Quickly. I turned back to her, eager and ready. God, was I ready.

And then my mom walked into the room. Adam and Eve ashamed all over again, we quickly fell back on the couch and pulled a comforter up over our nakedness (Where did this comforter come from?). My mother seemed oblivious to our in flagrante delicto condition. She chattered on at me, as she is wont to do. I think I managed to mumble out some curt responses intended to make her go away, which she did not.

The woman giggled next to me. I gave her a smile that was the barest cover for one of the most colossal disappointments in living memory.

And then, in that most awful and inexcusably cliche of endings, I woke up.

Now, gentle reader, you must understand that my usual excursions into dreamland involve people hacking off my toes with axes, or my father crouching over me and eating the heart out of my body with my blood running down his jaws. A disproportionate number of these dreams leave me mutilated or violently murdered, which leaves me bolting up at night, heart hammering and out of breath and covered in sweat. The last erotic dream I can remember having had me watching as grotesquely rotted corpse-women proceeded to have lesbian sex with each other. So to have an honest-to-goodness wish fulfillment dream is damn rare for me. And I finally get one, and what happens? My mom bursts into the room. I think I would've preferred another screaming nightmare.

My unconscious hates me. Or maybe my unconscious is very committed to fidelity and honesty in relationships, in which case I think there are far superior ways in which it might make its argument that don't involve offering me the perfect temptation and then thwarting my desires by means of the most embarrassing of all possible extrinsic intrusions. Which is all dumb anyway, because I'm quite certain that my conscious mind would never allow me to be in such a situation in the first place, circumstances permitting, which I don't think they would ever be. Or maybe my id is the bitch of my superego, even in dreams.

I guess I should just be happy that this woman didn't turn into a feculent living corpse or a twisted sadistic demoness while I was inside of her, as dream women have done to me in the past.

I'm going to go with the conclusion that my unconscious hates me. Really, really hates me.