Jackie Summers has a rousing middle-of-the-night romp that turns into his arch-enemy: Insomnia.
I’m dreaming of bacon.
I smile as I watch tender pink slices of pork turn crispy brown, and listen to the snap/crackle/pop of fat rending in a cast iron skillet. Eyes closed, I lean forward and feel heat on my face, as I breathe in deep through my nose. Curiously, it smells like shampoo.
It’s then I realize that I’m dreaming.
The sound of bacon sizzling is actually the gentle spatter of rain on her window; the warmth on my face is me nuzzling her neck. My nose in her hair, her back to my chest, our legs twisted like pretzels, and my heavy arm wrapped around her: we’re curled up like spoons in the same position we fell asleep in hours ago.
I bite her shoulder; our wordless signal of my intent to occupy the space inside her that belongs to me. Her response is autonomic; she arches her back ever so slightly and curls herself into me. I hear her stifle a moan as we merge; everything about her is warm, welcoming; receptive.
Her natural rhythms mirror my own as we begin the dance. I feel her inhale me, alternating instinctively between accepting as I advance, and grasping as I withdraw. I feel tension build inside her as her contractions become stronger, more sporadic, and finally involuntary. I pierce her deeply as her entire body spasms uncontrollably, and hold her tightly until the shivering slowly comes to a stop, and then I resume our sensual sonata.
Our duet is momentarily interrupted by the bleating of her alarm clock. Reluctantly I pause long enough to glance over. Annoyance turns to appreciation when I realize it’s gone off a full hour before she normally wakes. I smile to myself knowingly: in her pragmatism she’d set her alarm early, assuring we’d have sufficient time to indulge in slow, leisurely lovemaking.
At least, that’s how it begins. Gentility, having enjoyed her time, excuses herself and makes way for her wayward sister, Frenzy. We’ve rolled; I’m on my elbows now, pinning her to the mattress; my thighs outside hers, whispering filthy things into her ear. Our sweet morning escapade has crescendoed into something more… frenetic.
The harmonious sway of bodies cruising together has evolved into hair pulling, ass slapping, flesh crashing into sticky flesh. A silent wave of her fist brings the crazed contest to an abrupt halt. Pendulous beads of sweat fall from my furled brow, splatter between her shoulder blades, and trace the crease of her spine, forming a pool in the small of her back, as I await further instructions.
She makes an obscene gesture with her hand; I hesitate to make sure I’m interpreting her correctly. Four words confirm my comprehension of her dark desires. “Take it,” she whispers hoarsely. “It’s yours.”
Every vestige of civility in me bows to my feral nature. Instinct replaces artistry, as I claim my prize. There is no attempt to squelch the deep, guttural sound that escapes from her beautiful mouth, teeth closed and lips open, as I impale her. The stream of expletives now leaving her lips curdle the air; their intent to provoke further savagery in me, succeeds.
I’m molding her around me, forcing her to accommodate my depth and girth. I relinquish a handful of raven hair, free my hands, and interlock her fingers with mine. Each entry into her prompts her to squeeze tighter; I’m attempting to match the sheer ferocity of her grip, when something in me warns that even one more ounce of pressure from me might break both of her wrists. I regain just enough composure to meter my response; the point where passion and bodies begin and end have become indiscernible. I’m blind deaf and dumb to the intensity.
I feel her begin to convulse involuntarily around me and I come completely unstrung. She’s led me into her mania and I’ve followed gleefully, with abandon. Now we’re racing towards oblivion, free-falling; every nerve ending ablaze. My final thought before my frontal lobes short-circuit and my devolution is complete is a sense of hubris: I take exquisite delight in the knowledge that, hours from now when she’s attending to business with all due professionalism, my DNA seeping secretly out of her will serve as a reminder of the morning’s episode.
It’s at that moment I realize, I’m still dreaming.
The visceral images that adorned my subconscious mere moments before dissolve into phosphenes; a million fireflies swirling inside my eyelids. I wake, alone and naked, heart racing, out of breath; my sheets soaked in a pool of my own sweat. Insomnia is sitting at the edge of my bed, a trademark Lucky Strike between her fingers, blowing smoke rings.
“Was it good for you?” she sniped.
“Hey ‘Nia” I yawned, my disorientation quickly fading.
“Nightmare says ‘Hello’” she responded, ignoring my salutation. I was wide awake now, sitting up in bed. “Do you know why my cousin likes you so much?” she asked rhetorically. “Because you challenge her.”
“Most people are so easy,” she continued as she stood, her curvaceous silhouette framed by the pale moonlight shining through my French doors. “Monsters. Falling. Childhood memories. Work; my God you wouldn’t believe the amount of people who waste good dreamtime on mundane fears. But you,” she opined, taking another drag of her cigarette, “you insist on confronting your fears, and she keeps having to adapt. I’ve seen the spread sheet she keeps on you. Aside from the occasional vivisection, gruesome images of your own death just don’t work anymore. But talking rhinos? Zombies? Pirate dinosaurs? I mean reeeeally? Clearly she has no idea what truly scares you.”
“So now you’re helping her, as if she needed it?” I queried.
A smirk crawled slowly across Insomnia’s face as I prepared for yet another sleepless night. “Hey, us girls have to stick together, right?”
© Jackie Summers 2012
Originally published on JackfromBkln.com
Read More from Jackie Summers on the Good Men Project here.