On broken computers.

When do you tell someone about a deliciously sexy dream you had about them? Would you tell a lover? A friend? A coworker?

It may just be a result of internet pornography withdrawals (my computer having been out of commission the past few days), or the hallucinogenic caffeine-to-sleep ratio I’ve been running on, but my sex dreams have gotten a bit strange even for me.

I have an acquaintance, let’s call him Ed. In a gross oversimplification of his identity, he’s a transgender male. Unnaturally red hair; soft, almost delicate features and the most palpable suggestion of a cock in vale of his crotch. His chest is both soft and hard. He’s undeniably attractive and charming, but given the age difference I couldn’t see myself attracted to him. Well, at least not my waking self.

It started with a chance meeting at dinner, a rather intimate embrace as we parted and a startling lack of alone time with my favorite masturbatory aids. As I woke the next morning, warm and disoriented, with a distinctly pulsating sensation emanating from my vulva, a flood of images poured into my mind:

-his nose buried in my hair, grazing my nape-

-the wet taste of pussy lingering in the back of my mouth, the feel of short curls on scrotum skin as I hungrily lick and suck-

-his swollen shaft giving way to sweet folds at my tongue’s insistence-

-legs entwining, grinding pelvic bones-

-hard pussy pushing deep inside, searching-

-arms wound tightly around me, a small hand tugging at the side of my waist-

-soft unbound breasts and hard bound chests, nipples and flesh brushing, teasing, tumbling, a single body bucking, rock- knockin, contorted in tense passion-

In the end, I told him. But the juicy details stayed mine.