Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Waking up orgasming is definitely preferable to waking up panicking. Five out of five stars, only feedback is “I wish the dream had continued.” My nightmare monster going from hunting me to tying me up and torturing me sexually is the best upgrade I’ve had in years.
While I’ve read about things like that in books, the thought that I might want that has never occurred to me.
Considering how my fear tangled up with arousal in my dreams, and that I came so hard I woke myself up, it obviously is.
The words he used… or my mind came up with, should have made me upset, or ashamed, but instead they just made my pussy weep more.
The liquid pleasure of it is still dripping from my limbs as I wake and open my eyes.
The ceiling and I are getting very well acquainted, considering how much time I’m spending staring at it these days.
Gazing at it in the afterglow of an amazing orgasm is entirely preferable to wondering if I am going to be able to get out of bed at all, though.
Don’t get me wrong, I manage to get out of bed most days, but I am grateful to have a job where I can stay there, should I need to—and some days I need to. That’s just the nature of my anxiety. Some days it’s manageable, and others it’s got me deep in its grips.
In hindsight, I think I’ve probably always had anxiety, but my attack has really just turned everything to a thousand. My life was quite structured growing up, and as much as I hate to admit it, that helped. I had to do a lot less thinking.
Also, I suppose I did do a lot of journaling. And while in the journaling I mostly treated it as if I were talking to my future spouse or children, sometimes god, it probably helped me process some emotions. Groaning, I decide that maybe I should start journaling again.
I really do need to find a therapist, or at least message a few to see if I can get on their schedules.
I’m still nervous about the repressed memory shit, but surely in this day and age there has to be some sort of directory so I can avoid anyone who still does that.
If I’m journaling, too, I’ll have a concrete record of what happened to me, of what is happening to me.
That way, they won’t be able to suggest anything different.
Because while journaling will help with my fears—I am unfortunately certain—I also know that my background doesn’t exactly lend itself to looking objectively at one’s behavior.
While I feel great today, borderline relaxed (but maybe that’s just the orgasm talking), I don’t think I’m cured overnight from one earth-shattering orgasm.
If I could ensure that I had dreams like that every night…maybe.
It’s amazing how a good orgasm can change your outlook on life.
Pursing my lips, I roll onto my side and think about what might have changed.
For the past year, I’ve had nothing but nightmare after nightmare.
Over and over, I’ve been assaulted, in increasingly creative ways.
Even when I thought I was having a good dream, it would inevitably morph into a nightmare.
Did I just wake before it could turn last night?
No, I doubt it, because instead, last night it started as a nightmare and ended as something entirely different. So what changed?
On my nightstand, the spine of my book sits blatantly, as if bonking me over the head.
It’s thick and black, the curving white words obscure to some yet signaling to others the delicious depravity within.
Considering my reading, perhaps it makes sense that my brain would use that as an opportunity to take those same, previously terrifying, twisted scenarios, and twist them further until they bend back around to being sexy.
Maybe Sleepy Ada knows what I need better than I do. If I see a therapist, maybe Sleepy Ada will stop doing her thing… or, maybe they’ll help me tap into whatever genius Sleepy Ada has going on…
Regardless, Sleepy Ada isn’t going to do my job for me, lucky bitch, so I launch myself out of bed to begin my day.
While I brush my teeth, I can’t stop picturing him.
For the first time, I got at least a semi-good look at my nightmare—the one that I am reasonably certain has been the same for several months—and I am sort of shocked at how good he looked.
The stark white of his mask reflected the colors of the lights I was tied in.
The stacked eye-holes, all red, seemingly trained on me in a way that made me squirm until I was dripping onto the chair.
Below that, the mask ended, revealing a mouth with the sharpest teeth I’d ever seen.
At first, I’d thought he had long, almost delicate fingers, but instead they’d been tipped by claws that had scraped my neck like a promise.
Between the fangs and claws, there is no way my nightmare is human. If I hadn’t only just started reading again, I’d say I need to lay off the fantasy.
A fantasy is exactly what he is, though. I freeze with my toothbrush in my mouth as I think about his body.
Genius Sleepy Ada had made sure he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
He had broad shoulders and a barrel chest, his black jacket perfectly highlighting pecs that I’d love to smush my face into.
His sleeves were pushed up, showing off thickly veined forearms that flexed when he clenched a fist. He’s got thighs that tell me he could easily throw me over his shoulder if I gave him too much trouble, and black jeans and combat boots rounded out my little goth heart’s wet dream.
Thank god I’m brushing my teeth, because otherwise the amount I’m salivating would be problematic.
He started in my nightmares, but I think he’ll quickly become the star of my filthiest dreams. Considering just how filthy it was, I’m pretty proud of myself. It’s one thing to read something in a book and think it’s hot, but this dream? That was all me.
Where’s that good little Utah girl now? We don’t know her.
I wink at myself in the mirror, because maybe Sleepy Ada is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Computer, good morning!” I call out, hoping the edits I made to the Christmas wake-up routine saved last night. Please let this have worked. Please Sleepy Ada, tell me sexy dreams are the only thing you conjured up last night.
“Faith is believing in things when common sense tells you not to,” it replies, quoting Miracle on 34th Street. Like I am somehow going to see something, I crack an eye, waiting for the reveal.
“It’s December 8th. The weather today will be intermittent snow showers with a high of 35. There is one local alert. Would you like to hear it?”
“No.”
Look at me go. If there’s an alert, normally I listen to it.
But today I don’t want anything interfering with my unnaturally good mood.
For a few tense seconds, I stand frozen, one eye cracked, clothed in nothing but a bathrobe, hoping that I am just a tiny bit less unstable than I thought yesterday.
Instead of blaring holiday music, it starts playing holiday lofi. No crazy green lights, no jarring music first thing, but upon experiencing a much more chill version of the scenario, again I think maybe Sleepy Ada was on to something with her holiday wake-up.
Maybe I’m going about this all wrong.
Sure, I can’t go home for Christmas, and that sucks. But it is the most wonderful time of the year, a time for magic and miracles. And even if I don’t believe in any of that stuff anymore, maybe if I did… just a bit… it could help me do hard things…
Since it’s Monday, I have several video calls with clients, so I actually put on makeup.
It’s not that I need them to see me looking pretty or anything—a few of them never wear makeup—but there’s something about having to stare at myself on camera that makes me really self-conscious.
I’m still growing out of feeling like I need to look perfect all the time.
So today, when I have to look at myself for hours, calls for a little lipstick.
Once I have my coffee and review my schedule for the day, I throw on a fuzzy red sweater and some leggings.
It might not be an ugly Christmas sweater, but even wearing red feels festive, and it makes me walk a little lighter.
Overnight, a half inch of snow has covered the yard and my trees so that out of all of my windows is a sparkling winter wonderland.
It reflects the light into my house, making everything brighter, which I hate to acknowledge, helps my mood.
Today is going to be a good day, I can feel it.
I’ve stacked the deck in my favor because I put my check-in with Fae last. We started as friends before I became her assistant, and so even though we’ve had some adjustments to make, we still spend a fair bit of our check-ins just yapping instead of being strictly business like with my other clients.
That’ll get me through lunch, after which the real work will begin.
Finding a therapist.
I can do this. Especially because if Sleepy Ada knows what I need to turn my life around, surely I can too, with a little help.
Throughout the morning, I feel energized and calm, and it reminds me how long it’s been since I felt this way.
I’m still jittery about the therapist thing later, but even that makes me feel hopeful.
Jittery is good, it involves an element of positive expectation, so I’m glad to feel that instead of dread at the prospect.
The morning flies by, being in my element really helps.
I might not do theatre stuff anymore, but I love being able to help people organize their lives in this way.