A Dream of Black and White
Sometimes when I’m sleeping, a girl comes to share my dreams. She’s very slender, only gently curved. Her skin is very soft, milky-white, and she offers me an indulgent little smile as she lies there, on her belly, like a pearl against the sheets.
I count her vertabrae, kissing up her spine, to her neck, along the curve of her jaw, finally to her ear. In the morning I’ll still taste her skin upon my lips. I tell her this, and it makes her laugh, makes her turn and nuzzle back at me before she settles down again, her breathing slow and deep, calm and even.
That is when I begin to write. There isn’t much form, or very much plot, only a thousand obscene fantasies, the texts of dreams that have come without her, kisses and caresses, licks and silk and collars, love and sodomy and cuffs and hard, careless fucking. They spill out, a torrent of words, just a million strokes of dark, elemental blackness against her skin.
I suppose they are good, these uncertain transcriptions, but somehow I do not feel them; in dream-logic they are not yet real, written in ink but not in flesh. Soon there is no more skin to cover, and she sits, bathed in the candlelight, to see what I have done. She reads, silently mouthing the words back to me. Her eyes glitter with approval, and the words crystalize against her skin. Made flesh now, they move with her, move over muscle and bone as she takes me into her arms, and it is there that they become complete.
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