Sweet Dreams: A Confession

When I was younger, I visited a gallery with my mother.

There was a photography exhibit... Nobuyoshi Araki.

A whole collection of pictures of his wife, taken over the course of 40 years. And in one room, was a collection of photos of her... sleeping.

There was a bank of seats in the middle, so I took one and admired the photos.

She often slept in odd positions. Curled up like a foetus, or her limbs strewn haphazardly. Her lips were parted almost in an expression of desire. In some he had captured her rolled-back dreaming eyes mid-flutter, so she looked almost on the verge of death.

Or perhaps la petite mort.

Either way, I felt like I was viewing something I shouldn't be. Something intimate. Or morbid. And I was fascinated.

I didn't know why I found the photos so compelling. I knew they were special but I didn't have a name for what I was feeling.

I suppose if I had to describe them now I would say they had a voyeuristic, almost sinister eroticism.

When my mother found me, she asked me if I'd been there the whole time. She'd seen the whole exhibition and was ready to get lunch. If she noticed which room I was in, or the expression on my face, she didn't mention it.

***

A girl passed out next to me at a party once.

I... thought about it.

Then I was instantly filled with shame. Disgust.

Of course, I didn't touch her.

I walked home in the cold instead, the wind biting at my face and neck as I stared at my shoes, my hands sunken in my pockets.

But later, I thought about it. As I stroked myself to a sordid, messy climax.

And at other times since, if I'm honest.

If you want to know why I'm telling you this now, it's because... I think you should know who you're sharing a bed with.

And why I always wait for you to go to sleep first.

It's because you're so... beautiful when you sleep.

In our lives together, there are so many ways in which you're mine.

And I love the way you respond to me, when I press my body to yours, my hard, hot mouth claiming yours.

Or when you want me, the way you breathe and purr in my ear, whispering your wicked desires, enticing me to pin you down and fuck you.

But when you sleep? You're so... innocent. Untouchable.

But if I could... I think about how I would touch you, lightly, without waking you up.

How I could stroke a finger over your cheek, maybe brush your lip with my thumb.

I wonder, if in your comatose state, your mouth would seek my touch the way you do when you're awake, but slowly, lazily. Whether you would suckle me...passively without even knowing what you were doing. A sort of instinct.

I think about undressing you, softly, taking my time. Unbuttoning your nightshirt to expose your breasts. Would your nipples harden, involuntarily in the cold night air? Or would they stay asleep too, soft and puffy, unaware of my heat and pulsating need?

Could I straddle you, without you sensing me? Could I reposition your limp arms above your head? You wouldn't be able to offer me any resistance. I can picture you lying like that for me, but instead of the usual look of hopeful desire on your face, when I bind your wrists, you remain peaceful and expressionless. Unmoved by my hunger yet offering your limp body to be used.

I think about rolling up the hem of your shirt, inching it past your thighs and revealing your bare pussy, glistening in the hazy moonlight.

The urge to touch you and taste you would be unbearable. But in this fantasy, I can. There are no repercussions, only acceptance. You're blissfully unaware and unassuming.

I'd love to lift your knees towards your chest then let them fall open, splayed in that awkward position but unaware of the undignified position. Then slip inside you and slowly glide in and out, teasing myself with the sensation for as long as possible. Watching your expressionless face as I use you, in a way that would drive you crazy with frustration if you were awake.

But the rise and fall of your chest would remain slow, constant. Like a living, breathing doll.

If we did this, it would wake you of course. Probably as I made those final few thrusts, unable to remain gentle. And perhaps you'd smile lazily, but happily and let me stoop down to kiss your lips, keeping your eyes closed, your soft lashes just... fluttering slightly.

Although in the fantasy, you never wake.