Date: Mon, 28 Feb 2005 23:28:46 -0800 (PST)
From: Dolphin Dan
Subject: Wet Lucidity

WET LUCIDITY

By Dolphin Dan

*** WARNING ***

This story contains description of sexual acts, and imagined sexual acts,
of a consensual nature among members of the same gender and of opposite
genders.  It also contains descriptions of other incidences of sexuality
(wet dreams, etc).  If it is legally prohibited, morally objectionable or
personally uncomfortable to you to encounter such material, please do not
continue.

************

*** This story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to actual persons or
events is completely unintentional. However, the phenomenon of "lucid
dreaming" is entirely real and scientifically documented, as are the
elements of the story describing the sorts of things that are possible in
lucid dreams, and how to have them intentionally.  The author highly
recommends the experience of attempting to have lucid dreams--but of course
what you choose to do with them is up to you. ***

************

A "lucid dream" is one of the most profound mind-fucks a person can ever
experience.  Perhaps you've heard of lucid dreaming.  It's where you dream,
but you become aware that you're dreaming while you are still dreaming.
It's unbelievably strange, because as soon as you realize you're dreaming,
you can do anything.  You can fly, you can move objects with your mind, you
can change your surroundings just by thinking about them.  You can do
anything you want, with no consequences.  And yet what you experience in
your dream is every bit as real as what your senses tell you in the waking
world.  It's better than drugs, leaves no hangover and has no adverse
effects at all on your mind or body.  You can have sex with anybody you
want in any way that you want and never be unfaithful to your significant
other.  Most people never experience a lucid dream because their minds
can't tell the difference between when they're dreaming and when they're
awake.  We interpret the reality of a situation based upon what our senses
tell us.  If our eyes tell us there's a large oak table right in front of
us, chances are that our brains will tell us to watch out and make sure we
don't walk into it.  If we put our hands down to feel its surface, and our
fingers sense something hard and smooth underneath, our brain interprets
that information as consistent with what it knows and believes the
situation to be.  But what if you can see the table and feel it with your
hand, but despite its apparent reality you know that it's a figment of your
imagination?  Your brain wants to believe the table is there, but if you
know it isn't, and you dare your body to walk right through the table, it
will vanish in front of you.  THAT's lucid dreaming.  It's freaky as hell.
But it's also liberating.

With me, wet dreams and lucid dreams are connected, but it wasn't always
so.  Before I discovered lucidity, at least in a conscious sense, I had two
wet dreams in my life.  The subject had always fascinated me.  In sixth
grade--this would have been in the early 1980s--the teachers who had drawn
the unpleasant duty of explaining the birds and the bees to us gathered us
students together in the auditorium, carefully segregated the boys from the
girls, and showed each group one of two completely ridiculous film strips
supposedly explaining to us the mysteries of what was (or soon was to be)
happening to our bodies.  But of course, talking about masturbation was
completely verboten--this was years before Jocelyn Elders was sacked as
surgeon general for suggesting that teenagers actually masturbate--and any
mention of sexual intercourse was equally taboo (largely because,
politically, no one could agree whether it was OK to mention the existence
of condoms), so, while the girls were getting an exhaustive dissertation on
menstruation, the boys' filmstrip had little to talk about except boners
and wet dreams.  I don't even remember having had an erection by that
point, and the slightest glimmer of understanding that I had bisexual and
gay tendencies was still years away, though as early as 6 or 7 years old I
noticed I got a curious pleasant feeling between my legs when I would
wrestle with friends who were boys.  But the idea of wet dreams, which I'd
never known about before, was bizarre and amazing.  The filmstrip was vague
about it.  You had some kind of weird explosion in your pants that was
triggered by dreaming about girls.  (The possibility that the same effect
could be achieved by dreaming about boys was, for obvious reasons, left
completely unsaid).  The source of the mysterious liquid that leaked out of
you during such an experience wasn't what fascinated me, but the idea that
it could be triggered by something completely within your mind.  The mind,
I realized, was a powerful thing.

It was at least a year before I experienced my first wet dream.  I was 12,
and I knew that I had some understanding of sexual things but a lot of it
was curiously vague.  I didn't consciously fantasize about members of
either gender, and I hadn't yet discovered masturbation, but I sometimes
did things that were obviously sexual even though I didn't know it at the
time.  Sometimes when my parents and my brother were gone and I was alone
in the house I'd take off my clothes and just walk around naked.  Being
naked was deliciously forbidden.  I didn't touch myself, but I remember
looking down at my dick once and being surprised that it was hard.  That
was during the summer some time, and I know my first wet dream was that
same summer, possibly close in time to that event.  There was a friend of
mine, Chris, to whose house I sometimes went over to play.  Chris played
soccer, as most 11 and 12-year-old boys did in suburbia in the mid-80s.
His parents had a poster made of him in his soccer clothes, holding a
championship soccer ball, standing on a field of impossibly green grass.
The poster was hung on the wall of his bedroom.  Something I did not
understand at the time deeply attracted me to that poster.  Maybe it was
the look in Chris's eyes, or the way the baggy soccer shorts hung on him,
or the tantalizing glimpse of bare smooth flesh under the collar of his
soccer jersey that promised, ever so subtle, the beauty of what Chris must
have looked like with his shirt off, a sight I never actually saw in real
life.  In reality Chris was pretty dull and uninteresting, but I continued
to go to his house to play nearly every week, just so I could see that
poster.  I didn't understand why I liked looking at it so much.

One rainy night in mid-summer I dreamed about Chris.  I dreamed we were
wrestling on that lovely field of gently-waving Technicolor grass.  The sun
splashed down on us and the colors--the black of Chris's shorts, the bright
orange of his soccer jersey, the vivid white of the jockey briefs I dreamed
I was wearing--were so vivid that they almost hurt my eyes.  In my dream we
were fighting, but somehow he was laughing and it was a friendly little
tussle.  Our arms and legs were all wrapped up in each other and it didn't
feel much like a fight.  As I got my arms around him Chris laughed and he
said, "I know something else about you."  And then I woke with a start.  It
was the middle of the night and rain was streaming down the pane of my
bedroom window, and my underwear was soaked with a strange wet substance.
I had just stopped wearing pajamas to bed and begun sleeping in just my
underwear.  That night I was very glad of it because it terrified me;
somehow I knew I would get in terrible trouble if my parents found out this
had happened, and if I'd had to submit my pajamas to the laundry, stained
across the crotch with this weird slimy stuff, I'd be punished for sure.  I
got up out of bed, took off my underwear and crumpled them in the back of a
drawer.  Later I put them in a paper bag and the next time the garbage went
out I snuck out and stuffed the bag in the garbage bin.  I figured my mom
wouldn't notice that I had one less pair of jockey briefs, and in any event
it was better than letting her see embarrassing stains.  I told myself that
I hadn't really had a wet dream, that I had just pissed myself a little bit
in my sleep.  The fact that the stains on my jockeys were white instead of
yellow didn't seem to shake my resolve on this point.  I quietly hoped it
would never happen again.  I never returned to Chris's house, and when
school started again in the fall, I treated him with utter indifference.
We were no longer friends.  In retrospect it seems cruel and crazy to have
behaved that way, but at the time I just wasn't ready to deal with the fact
that I'd had a wet dream about a boy.

Fast-forward about three years.  During those three years I'd gained some
kind of understanding that I liked guys, and in fact had acted on it,
having once slept with my (male) cousin when we were 14, a story that's not
relevant here (although it's interesting that my sex play with Charlie had
started with wrestling).  By now I was in high school and my attitude
toward wet dreams had totally changed.  I wanted to have them, but
couldn't--I'd still only ever had that one.  I didn't realize that the
phenomenon of wet dreaming is not nearly as universal as sex-ed materials
make it seem, so I began to think something was wrong with me because I
DIDN'T have them.  So I tried to induce them.  I did an experiment that
seems pretty ridiculous looking back on it now.  The year or so after I was
with my cousin I thought about him all the time while jacking off, almost
to the point where I was obsessed with him.  Charlie probably appeared in
my masturbation fantasies more often than any other person.  I had a small
tape recorder in my room, and when I was alone in the house I'd jack off
and tape-record myself doing it.  The tapes were actually kind of hot,
listening to my breathing get heavy and fast as I approached orgasm,
sometimes whimpering Charlie's name or even describing the things I was
thinking about him doing to me.  Sometimes when I would go to bed I would
wear walkman headphones in bed and listen to one of the masturbation tapes.
The theory was that I'd fall asleep still hearing the tape, and the
subliminal suggestion of the sounds going into my ears would make my
subconscious mind think of masturbation and sex, and I'd have a wet dream.
It never worked.

I kept trying.  After a year or more of experimentation I had a whole shoe
box full of masturbation tapes.  I counted them once: I had caught myself
coming on tape 114 times.  By then I had a good double-tape-deck stereo and
some patience, so I edited the "highlights" of the tapes into one long
tape, an hour-long anthology of my self-induced orgasms.  I also had an
embryonic collection of porn magazines.  None were gay porn of course, but
I liked girls too so the stuff turned me on.  I especially liked Penthouse
because the stories in "Penthouse Forum" were incredibly hot--written-word
porn will turn me on faster and harder than anything visual.  So I'd read
Penthouse Forum just before going to bed, and listen to my "Dan's Dick's
Greatest Hits" tape as I fell asleep.  And still it never worked.  By the
time I graduated from high school--by which time I'd had sex with one guy
(Charlie) and one girl (Rachel, my senior year girlfriend) for real--I
realized the whole thing was stupid.  I erased the tapes and threw them
away, something I now kind of wish I hadn't done.  But between buying tapes
and stroke mags, 3-M, TDK and Larry Flynt had made a lot of money off my
unsuccessful quest for a nocturnal emission.  If there's anything to that
hokum about subliminal suggestion, it sure as hell didn't work in my case.

*** *** ***

Spring, senior year.  I had just started going out with Rachel.  She was
very cute, one of those Bohemian "granola" chicks who wore moth-eaten
sweaters, long print skirts and Birkenstock sandals, and who didn't believe
in shaving her legs, something I found incredibly hot.  She was very smart,
a real honors student--I was in a few Advanced Placement classes, which was
how I knew her.  We had been going out for about two weeks and had not yet
done anything sexual, though we made out once in her car while listening to
They Might Be Giants, a particularly potent and romantic memory from my
youth.  Very early one Wednesday morning I experienced, spontaneously, my
first lucid dream.

I dreamed we were approaching a huge stadium.  It looked like the Coliseum
in Rome, except it wasn't all ruined and crumbling.  The band we were going
to see was Rush, which was my favorite band at the time.  We didn't have
tickets.  "How are we going to get in?" I said to Rachel as we waited in
the long line.

"Don't worry about it," she reassured me.  "We'll just sneak in.  They'll
never know."

Somehow we did sneak in, and we started threading our way through the
seats, which, also like the Coliseum in Rome, were just plain marble
benches.  The place was very lively, more like a baseball or football game
than a rock concert, with people drinking beer, eating popcorn, chatting
amongst themselves, etc.  The band had not yet taken the stage and I don't
even remember seeing any of their equipment on the stage.  But the
Jumbo-Tron above the stage--it was just kind of hanging there in space,
because of course the Coliseum is open to the air--was showing a huge
digital version of Chris's soccer poster.  "Hey, I know that guy," I
commented to Rachel, as we walked up an aisle toward a section of seats
that was empty.

"Who, that guy on the screen?"

"Yeah."  Inexplicably I said, "He knows something else about me."

At one point we passed a group of spectators who seemed human--they wore
jeans, sweatshirts, sneakers, etc.--but they had the heads of jackals, like
that Egyptian god.  That was what suddenly got me thinking: is this real?
We were headed to the seats we'd chosen when suddenly a police officer
stepped in front of us.  He was wearing some old-time uniform with the blue
tunic and the brass buttons.  He hefted a night stick in his hands.  "Let's
see your ticket stubs," he said menacingly to us.

"Oh, uh, we lost them," Rachel explained.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to leave," said the cop.

I looked back at the jackal-headed spectators.  One of them was howling at
the moon.  Suddenly, spontaneously, I realized I was dreaming.  It had
never happened before.  But I knew that there was no such thing as a person
with a jackal's head, and that I wasn't really here.  "I'm dreaming," I
said to Rachel.

"What?"

"I'm dreaming.  This is a dream."  I pushed the cop aside.  "Piss off,
asshole."  Rachel laughed as we started toward our seats.

"Hey!" the cop grunted.  "Come back here!"  He turned to grab my shoulder.
Convinced now of the utter unreality of my situation, I whirled around and
decked him.  As soon as my fist connected with his jaw, the cop literally
flew out of the stands and into the air.  I'd punched him so hard he sailed
hundreds of feet, up and out, and slammed bodily into the surface of the
Jumbo-Tron.  Unconscious, he fell straight down, right into the crowd that
was gathering to see Rush.

"That was really cool," Rachel said.

"Yeah, pretty neat, huh?"

"How'd you do it?"

I didn't get a chance to answer.  I woke up.  I was in my bedroom at home
and the digital clock read 5:42 AM.  Dawn was painting the eastern sky.  I
remember being totally amazed, because I'd never had an experience like
that before.  I had never heard the term "lucid dreaming," but that was
definitely what I had.  I told Rachel about my dream that day in school,
minus the detail of Chris's soccer poster--she did not know I was
bisexual--and she reacted exactly the same way as she had in the dream:
"That was really cool!"

*** *** ***

Five months later in early September, at the very end of the summer
following my graduation from high school, I had my second wet dream.  I was
no longer going out with Rachel.  In a week's time I would start classes at
a local community college; for some reason I didn't feel like going away to
school (though I would eventually a year later).  I had gone to see my aunt
and uncle up in Massachusetts, and we went sailing and had actually spent
the night on the boat before coming back to their house, the last night
before I was to catch my plane home.  I spent the night in the comfortable
bed of my aunt's guest room whose windows looked out onto the forest behind
their house.  There was a terrible thunderstorm that night that rumbled and
thrashed through the trees behind the house, and, being the light sleeper
that I was, I awakened several times.  I'm certain this was a factor,
because, while I can't be sure, I think what happened to me that night was
also a lucid dream.

For a couple of weeks I'd been crushing on a guy from my high school, Evan,
who these days you'd probably describe as an emo kid, but he was a little
ahead of his time.  He had shaggy dark hair falling to his collar, wore an
old mesh baseball cap advertising CAT trucks, and wore faded T-shirts with
a gas station shirt open over it.  The gas station shirt, which he'd found
at a garage sale, had a little patch on it with EVAN written in
faux-cursive embroidery.  Evan and I hadn't really been friends, just
acquaintances, and oddly I didn't even really find him that attractive
until after I left high school and I knew I would never see him again.
There was a curious end-of-the-world quality about those days; this was
September of 1990, when we were sending thousands of troops to the Persian
Gulf before the first war, and when you face an uncertain future--perhaps
even an apocalypse, for no one knew what was going to happen--your mind
tends to dwell on things that are lost and may never be again.  So that
night in my mind somehow I found myself in the forest behind my aunt's
house with the rain gently falling all around us, and I was kneeling on the
ground, Evan standing in front of me perhaps three feet away, and the sound
of the raindrops on the leaves and the ground was a soft, peaceful
pattering with a kind of melancholy quality about it.  "You like me, don't
you?" said Evan.  I nodded.  "You think I'm hot?"  I nodded again.  "Do you
want to see?"

"See what?" I said.

"Whatever I choose to show you," Evan replied.  He took off the outer
gas-station shirt and dropped it on the ground.  Then he hauled up the
front of his T-shirt to show me his stomach and his chest.  He was smooth
and hairless.  He wasn't muscular but he wasn't scrawny or insubstantial
either.  His nipples were like two little dark-colored dimes.  A thin line
of hair descended from his navel to the waistband of his boxers that was
barely visible over his jeans.  "You like?" he said.

I nodded again.  "I like."

A rumble of thunder awakened me, and I was back in the guest room.  I
damned the storm, waking me up at a time like that!  My dick was rock-hard,
stretching the fabric of my underwear.  I reached down and stroked it
gently through my briefs.  I was too tired to actually masturbate for real.
The haze of half-sleep still hung in my head.  In a few seconds I'd fall
back to sleep.  I wondered if it was possible that I'd pick up where I left
off, and Evan and I would still be there, in the forest.

Strangely enough, I did.  I was asleep and now Evan was standing there with
his shirt off, but he was still wearing the CAT cap, which I had never seen
him take off in real life.  His skin was so creamy and beautiful.  He moved
closer to me.  Somehow I had the feeling that I couldn't get off my knees,
that something terrible would happen if I rose to my feet.  I pressed my
head against his lap and stroked his denim-clad thighs.  I could feel a
warm hard bar in his groin and it was incredibly exciting.  This was the
sweetest dream I'd ever had.  When I realized that, on some level I must
have known I was dreaming.

"You can take it out," Evan said softly.  He brushed my hair with his
hands.  "C'mon, Dan, do it.  You know you want it."

I unbelted Evan's jeans and slowly pulled the zipper down.  In my dream his
boxers were green and gray, a plaid pattern, and they were flannel.  In
school once I'd seen him bend over to pick up something off the floor and
saw the waistband of his underwear and that's what it looked like.  His
shorts were tented by his erection.  I caressed his hard penis through his
boxers first, feeling the heat of it radiating through the thin soft
fabric.  With my other hand I reached through one of the legs of his boxers
and brushed the hair on his balls gently with my finger.  He continued to
caress my hair, which was just then starting to get long.  Finally I hooked
my thumbs under the waistband of Evan's boxers and pulled them down.  His
dick caught on the waistband and slapped against his belly when it
released.  There in front of my face was a sight I had seen only once in
real life, with Charlie: a boy's stiff phallus waiting to be sucked and
pleasured by me.

With a gentle pressure on his smooth rounded butt I slid Evan's penis into
my mouth.  He moaned with contentment, and I started to suck him,
withdrawing him almost totally from my lips with each stroke before diving
back down as far as I could take him.  I could taste the salty flavor of
precum hovering on his wet tip.  And oddly there were feelings of pleasure
radiating through my own penis.  In real life there was no way I could have
looked down at myself at the same time I was giving a boy a blow job, but
in my dream I could, as if I had two sets of eyes, or some kind of
omniscient gaze.  I was fully clothed, wearing the shorts and T-shirt I'd
been wearing today when we came back from the lake, but I could see through
my clothes and saw my own turgid dick at full attention, leaking a pearly
stream of precum that was so vivid silver in color that it glimmered like
mercury.  I was emitting so much of the wonderful hot stuff, so much more
than would have been possible in real life, that it was dripping out of the
fly of my soaked-through shorts and making a small glittering pearly-silver
river flowing across the ground of the forest, between Evan's shoes and
down the slope behind us.  I remember that image so vividly because the
forest was dark, and the river of dream-cum that flowed from my crotch was
so luminous it filled the thicket with a gentle soft white light from
below, glimmering and rippling like sunlight reflected off waves.

Another clap of thunder sounded in real life and I was again aware of my
surroundings.  I was bundled up in the comforter on my aunt's guest bed,
and rain was lashing against the windows and wetting the sill, because I'd
left the window open.  My dick was rock-hard and I could feel a tiny hint
of wetness on its tip.  I suddenly panicked, but it was because I realized
I was about to have a wet dream, my first one in five years, and I had
awakened at precisely the wrong time.  I was afraid to move.  I wanted to
cum so badly but I wouldn't have reached down to touch myself for all the
money in the world.  I had to get back to sleep--this had to be an orgasm
of the mind, not the hand.  This was the most wonderful dream I'd ever had
and I was damned if it was going to be over so quickly.

I can't rightly explain what happened in the next few minutes.  In a way I
willed myself back to sleep and back into the dream, because I was still
there, sucking Evan who was moaning and squirming, running his fingers
through my hair and greatly enjoying the pleasure I was giving him as I
rubbed my tongue over his head and the underside of his shaft and tasted
the salty fluid welling up to his distended tip.  But on some other level I
knew I was awake too, lying in bed in the guest room.  I was conscious.  I
knew I was dreaming.  The river of glowing pre-cum was forceful enough now
to make a gentle trickling sound, like the babble of a brook, above the
sound of the rain.  There was also the sound of Evan's panting breaths as
he approached orgasm.  Our pleasure was connected, first only in my mind,
but then in a physical representation, for I saw with my eyes-within-eyes
that the same luminous pearly fluid that was trickling from my own dick was
evidently coming out of Evan's, leaking out of the corners of my mouth,
down my chin, down my T-shirt and into my lap, where it joined the river of
pleasure I was emitting.  The glowing ribbon joined us.  I understood why I
felt like my own dick was being sucked: I was experiencing everything that
Evan was feeling.  The wonderful sensation of a wet tongue rubbing across
his penis, the gentle sucking pressure, the caress of warm lips--I felt
those things as if someone was doing them to me, but I was doing them to
myself.  After all, there was no one else here.  This was a dream.  Evan
wasn't real.  He was straight, and in any event hundreds of miles away.

I felt like I was on the verge of waking up, and it was an effort to stay
asleep or half-asleep.  But I knew I had to wait until Evan came.  Finally
he did.  He grabbed my hair almost painfully and pressed his hips to my
face, thrusting his dick as deep into my mouth as he could go.  He groaned
and his balls drew up against his body, and the head of his penis--my
penis--burst open and began to eject the hot glorious fluid that was the
reward I received for giving him such ecstasy.  He seemed to ejaculate
forever, dumping jet after thick jet of hot sperm into my mouth, splashing
over my tongue, coating my teeth, sliding down my throat.  Yet at the same
time I could feel it wetting my underwear and the sheet, because I was
still in bed in the guest room, and aware of that fact.  The pleasure was a
sudden tremor that shattered my world and raked my brain powerfully.  When
it receded I was fully awake, my underwear soaked, and a wave of joy spread
through me.  It had happened again.  After five years I'd finally cum while
I was asleep, and the orgasm had been about ten times more intense than
anything I recalled while being awake.

That wet dream made my whole summer.  I felt like I'd accomplished
something.  While I didn't perceive it vividly, on some level I was aware
that my dream had gone wet and lucid at the same time, and perhaps that was
the key.  My Evan dream was a powerful epiphany.  I'd unlocked one of the
first elusive doors into my own subconscious.

*** *** ***

My next experience with wet lucidity--and probably the most important
one--was what I call the "Dune dream."  You may have seen the movie Dune or
read the book; it's a science fiction epic about a kid who joins a fierce
tribe of warriors on a desert planet and eventually becomes their messiah.
I'd read the book when I was in like ninth grade--didn't understand most of
it--but hadn't seen the movie until one night in college.  It was in 1992.
When I finally left community college and went away, I went to New Mexico.
On fall break I went with a small group of guys and girls from my dorm to
White Sands National Monument, near Alamogordo.  It's an eerie alien-like
place of pale windswept dunes.  On the day we saw it, which was late
October, the sky was filled with ominous leaden clouds and a cold wintry
wind was blowing.  That image stuck with me.

I had a girlfriend then, Wendy, but fancied a couple of guys from my dorm,
including this absolutely beautiful kid named Andy Westphal.  Andy had long
hair like I did (though his was a dark blonde color) and he had the most
piercing stare you could imagine, but at the same time his brown eyes were
beautiful and puppy-dog like, which was an interesting contrast.  Andy was
so thin and slight as to be almost wispy, like a stiff wind would knock him
over.  He was from somewhere in New England and came to New Mexico largely
for the skiing and the drugs.  He was a huge pothead.  He lived at the end
of the hall with his roommate Ryan, who wasn't bad looking but to whom I
wasn't that attracted.  I wasn't that adverse to smoking green in those
days; after all I was in college.  We drank heavily too.  There was a party
almost every night in our dorm.  This night, which was in November or early
December, it was snowing outside and Ryan called me to say they were having
a little party in their room, and Wendy and I should come down and have
some drinks.  So we did.

Andy wasn't really part of our group but he didn't shy away from us either.
That night there was Ryan and Wendy and I, and at least one other guy
though I don't remember who it was; we had a case of Molson and Ryan was
passing around the bong.  Ryan was one of the lucky few who had a TV and
VCR in his room, and Dune was one of the movie suggestions that night.
"You ever seen that flick?" he asked me.  "It's WILD when you're stoned."
So we put it in, started watching it, cracked open more beers and smoked a
whole lot of weed.  About twenty minutes into the movie Andy came into the
room from being out somewhere.  "Aw, cool, Dune," he said.  "This movie
rocks."  He borrowed a beer from us and sat on his bed and watched for a
while, and then he got up and said he had to take a shower--our bathrooms
were in a central block down the hall.  So he was puttering about in the
room behind us, getting his shampoo and his shower stuff together, while we
watched the movie.

At the middle of the movie there's a part where Paul Atreides, the hero,
realizes he's some kind of visionary and that his mind is being altered by
this weird substance called melange.  When you've had four Molsons and
several hits of primo Mexican weed, a scene like that can be mind-blowing.
I remember watching in rapt attention, my mind spinning, Wendy leaning her
head against my shoulder, and all of us were just totally riveted on that
movie.  Then the door opened and Andy came in from his shower.  He was
still wearing the towel and his blonde hair, now dark from being wet, was
combed back from his forehead.  The sight of Andy Westphal in a towel,
soaking wet, was about the only thing that could have torn me away from
that movie.  Luckily the others were so stoned and so fixated on the movie
that no one caught me staring at him, and I stared.  He was very thin but
the rounded curves of his shoulders and biceps were especially pleasing to
look at.  He had a tiny little bit of hair in the center of his chest and
around his navel but was otherwise smooth.  He was so thin you could see
his ribs, but it wasn't gross at all.  He moved with a kind of mousy
subtlety, putting his shower stuff back in the drawer and reaching for his
clothes quietly, almost surreptitiously, trying not to disturb us.  He
pulled his boxers on under the towel and only when he had them on did he
take the towel off so I didn't get to see his privates which was a
tremendous disappointment.  Then he put on a pair of baggy flannel
pajama-like pants and an old gray T-shirt, like a work-out shirt, and he
crawled up onto his bed and said, "You guys mind if I have another beer and
watch the rest of the movie with you?"  Hell, who was going to mind?
Between the eerie epic of what was happening on-screen and the sight of a
cute 18-year-old boy just coming in from a shower, my mind, frosted with
alcohol and mary-jane, had about all it could take that night.

At the end of the evening I stumbled back to my own dorm room, stoned,
drunk and my mind stretched almost uncomfortably so.  Wendy and I had had
sex a few times but it wasn't that regular, so it wasn't unusual that she
didn't come with me to my room.  I remember I got my shoes, socks and my
shirt off and managed to unbutton my jeans but that was as far as I got
before I collapsed onto my bed.  I must have stirred at some point in the
night because when I woke up I found my jeans in a heap on the floor next
to the bed and I had pulled the covers over me, but I don't remember doing
that.  I do, however, remember the most vivid dream I'd had since my
fantasy of Evan in the forest, two years earlier.

I dreamed I was at White Sands on that moody day with the gray clouds, and
the wind was whipping sand into my face and fluttering my long hair out
behind me.  I don't remember being naked but I don't remember being clothed
either.  I trudged through the sand, fascinated at the little divots that
my feet made as I walked through the dunes.  From the very beginning I was
somehow aware that I was dreaming, and a subconscious part of my mind was
churning at a million miles an hour.  I looked up.  Reflected in the
clouds, yawning a hundred stories into the sky, was a parade of bizarre
images that morphed and dissolved into each other, so fast I couldn't keep
track of them.  They were memories and visions, some things real, some
things imagined.  I saw the faces of people I had known years ago--Charlie
and Chris among them--and places I'd been, animals, stars, trees, moons,
the bright explosions of imagined supernovae.  It all flickered silently
above me like some gigantic movie, and still I kept walking.  "I'm
dreaming," I said aloud.  "This isn't real.  It can't be real.  I've had
too much to drink and smoke.  I'm lying in bed in my dorm room.  But this
is damned cool."

I came to the top of a dune and Andy Westphal was there, dressed only in
his towel, his arms outstretched like he was praying to some ancient god.
As I approached he put his arms down and he smiled.  "I told you, I knew
something else about you," he said as I came closer.  The desert wind
whipped his hair behind him.

"What did you know?" I asked.

"I know everything, Dan.  All that is, all that was, all that ever will
be--I know it all.  I'm the Knower, don't you know that?"

"You're not really Andy," I said to him.

"You're right."

"And I'm dreaming."

"Right again.  You can do anything you want here.  But only if you don't
forget that you're dreaming.  The minute you think this is real, you have
to follow the rules.  But you can MAKE the rules as long as you know you're
dreaming."  He looked up at me mischievously, a lock of his blonde hair
fluttering in his face.  "So what do you want to do?"

"I want to have a wet dream," I told him.

"You want to shoot a load in your jockeys while you're asleep, do you?" he
smiled.  "You will.  I guarantee, as long as you don't forget that you're
dreaming, you can do anything you want.  Where your mind leads, your dick
will follow.  What do you want to do?"

I have no idea why I said it, because it made no sense at all, but I
immediately responded, "I want to have sex.  In a B-29.  With you."

This was utterly senseless, even to me.  A few weeks back in the college
library I'd been paging through some old books about World War II, and I
read a little article on the B-29.  I don't know why it stuck in my head or
why it chose to surface in that moment.  Perhaps I forgot, for a
split-second, that I was dreaming, and my subconscious mind churned it up.
In any event I was committed now.  I was also rock-hard with the mere
thought that I was about to experience only my third wet dream in a
lifetime.

Andy stretched out his hand, as if offering it to me.  I took it, and his
warm fingers slipped between mine.  That's a wonderful thing, holding a
guy's hand.  He began to lead me toward the horizon, now bursting with
colors, reds and violets and deep indigo blues.  A purple planet, its
crusty surface pockmarked with craters, hung ominously in the sky.

Over the next dune we saw a shape in the sand.  It was the wind-blasted
skeleton of an old World War II airplane wrecked in the desert, the
plexiglass of its turrets now cracked and opaque, one wing hanging askew, a
torn-off landing gear sticking out of the sand near it.  A cartoon was
painted on its nose, as was the tradition in World War II.  It was a
beautiful buxom blonde chick with her skirt blowing up Marilyn
Monroe-style, and the words "DAN'S DREAM" curling around her.  A hatchway
in the side of the plane gaped open.  Andy clambered inside.  I paused for
a moment, but he waved me in.  "Come on," he said.  "What's wrong?"

"I almost forgot I was dreaming."

"Well, don't forget.  That's the hardest thing to do, to avoid being fooled
into thinking this is real.  You have to ignore your senses.  Right now you
can feel the sand between your toes, but it's not real.  You're in your
dorm room, passed out.  Don't forget that."  He reached for my hand again.
"Come on.  We don't have much time.  You sleep so light, anything could
wake you up.  Your roommate coming in, the heat coming on, or a door
slamming from somewhere down the hall.  Or you'll start to have to piss.
That'll wake you up as sure as anything."

"I don't want to wake up.  I want to stay here with you."

"I know you do.  But eventually you won't be able to help it.  We can get
down to it, though, before that happens."

I climbed inside the airplane with him.  It was a ruin of dust-covered
metal.  Rivets gleamed dully in the overcast light.  A gun, looking still
lethal, poked up from a turret, trailing belts of ammunition onto the metal
floor.  Andy climbed through the front of the airplane and led me to the
nose turret.  It was a cone-shaped glass window looking out onto the
desert.  He took off the towel and laid it on the dusty metal floor.  He
was naked in front of me now.  His dick wasn't large--it was a bit smaller
than my own, which is perfectly average-sized--but it was very hard.  He
drew me close and clasped his arms around my back.  We kissed deeply,
feeling our tongues move past each other.  One of his hands left my back
and wandered down into my groin.  I began to feel an electric sensation of
pleasure spreading through me the instant he touched me, far more than
would have happened in real life.

"I want to feel you inside me," Andy whispered, kissing my neck.  "And I
want to feel myself inside you, at the same time."

I kissed him back.  I was caressing his dick now, my hands wandering over
his slender head, the hardness of his shaft, and his soft velvety balls.
"How is that possible?" I said.

"You're dreaming, Dan.  Anything is possible."

And it was.  We settled back onto the towel.  Andy smiled and drew his arms
up around the back of my neck.  At the same moment I felt the hot hardness
of his dickhead probing into the crack of my ass.  His warm tip, already
wet with precum, brushed the outside of my butthole with the gentlest
pressure.  I moaned.  And I could feel him against my own dick, the small
puckered opening into his warm tunnel.  I didn't have to touch myself with
my hands or position myself anywhere.  My arms were clasped around Andy's
back, feeling the knobby lumps of his spine under his skin.  In real life
of course it's impossible for guys to penetrate each other anally at the
same time.  But that was exactly what was happening.

Our penises entered each other at the same moment.  Andy arched his back
and gasped a little and I felt something very warm and tight and slippery
clamping slowly down around my dick, inch by inch.  At the same time I felt
something hot and slick spreading wide the entrance to my butthole.  I
gasped too as Andy's phallus slid into my chamber.  There was no pain at
all.  We didn't need to bother with lube.  Our dicks were like two slick
blocks of rock-hard gel, sliding into each other with the gentlest
pressure.  Deep inside of me I felt the tip of Andy's penis pressing
against my prostate.  It was a pleasure like nothing I'd ever known, a hard
bar of ecstasy jammed deep inside my tunnel, spreading feelings of joy
throughout the entire rest of my body.  At the same time his insides sucked
and massaged my penis with the warm tight wetness that could only be the
pressure of being in someone's butt.  We were still facing each other,
still kissing, our arms wrapped up in each other.  I looked up and recall
seeing a bird, an owl or a falcon of some kind, perched on the handle of
the machine-gun in the turret above us.  It spread its wings and flapped
but did not fly away.  Andy and I had begun the gentle undulating motion of
fucking each other.  We both grunted with each wonderful stroke.  The
sweetness of the sensations flooding through our bodies was almost too much
to handle.

"I'm dreaming," I whispered, kissing Andy's neck, feeling at once the
pre-orgasmic tingle of my own penis throbbing inside of him, while savoring
the simultaneous sensation of being completely filled up, my body full of
glorious Andy.

"It feels so good," he said, embracing me tighter.  "It's SO good, Danny."

Our rhythms were always synchronous, but as we approached orgasm we truly
began to fall into each other's pleasure.  Every thrust of my hips dug my
member deeper into Andy's ass while at the same time helping him to fuck
me, impaling me on his quivering hardness.  My prostate was tingling and
radiating feelings of intense fulfillment.  My penis flirted with sudden
super-hardness, almost a hint of a feeling that came over me and then
receded.  Then it spasmed again, going super-hard for a split-second, and
coming back down.  Andy and I were both panting.  He was moaning.  Our
sphincters were beginning to contract around each other's dicks as our
simultaneous release grew nearer.  Finally it was like an electric switch
was thrown.  Our dicks both went super-hard at the same instant, while our
buttholes clenched and every muscle in our bodies tightened at once, and we
gasped and moaned and devoured each other's mouths while our hips banged
furiously away at each other.  The pleasure came at first in a wave,
cresting over us, and then it cracked open and assaulted us, smashing into
our heads with indescribable force.  We began coming simultaneously.  Our
penises exploded inside of each other, ejecting identical streams of hot
warm cum that spread inside of our rectums, lubricating our rods so we
could milk each other even harder.  When it was over there was no pain, no
emptiness, no exhaustion.  I felt the warmth of Andy's cum pooling deep
inside my butt, the pleasant fullness of his penis still holding my asshole
open, and the warmth of Andy's body around my own slackening dick.  I
looked up.  The owl was still perched on the edge of the machine gun, its
glassy eyes studying me.  It opened its beak, emitted a strange and
alien-sounding squawk, and I was awake.

I was back in my dorm room.  My jeans were on the floor and the covers were
drawn around me.  I could hear the deep even breaths of my roommate, Joe,
from across the room.  I reached down.  My underwear was soaking wet, but
it was cold, suggesting I had remained asleep for a while after I actually
ejaculated, at least long enough for my semen to cool off.  I felt very,
very good.  Despite the intensity of the dream I hadn't made a sound
because Joe was still asleep.  My mind reeled with the implications of what
had happened.  I'd committed a sexual act that was physiologically
impossible to do in real life.  And I'd done it with the straight boy who
lived down the hall, who probably never even suspected that I was bi.  Wet
lucidity was definitely a trip.

*** *** ***

The Dune dream was like breaking the logjam.  Once you have a lucid dream,
you understand the possibilities of it.  Once you have a second one, you
begin to understand how they work.  My mind had proven to itself that it
was capable of something more than the usual nocturnal drone of my
subconscious.  From that point on, "normal" dreams were as uninteresting as
TV reruns.  A lucid dream, for me, was the bridge to my subconscious, the
right brain that was a reluctant visitor to my consciousness who could
rarely be coaxed out of his shell.  But that visitor was just as horny as I
was, and when I offered him sex, he wasn't dumb enough to turn it down.

I began to do research on lucid dreaming.  I found a book in the college
library about it.  At first, dream and sleep researchers denied that a
lucid dream was even possible.  But in recent years they had begun to
revise their assessments of it.  I also learned that you could induce lucid
dreams through a variety of methods.  One of the most effective was to
purposely ingrain in your conscious mind the ever-present question of
whether or not you're actually dreaming.  "Am I dreaming now?" sounds like
a stupid question to ask yourself a hundred times a day--and it takes that
amount of repetition to get to the point where it becomes reflexive--but
it's a strangely philosophical one.  In real life you can never be
completely sure that you're dreaming.  Here you are, sitting in front of
your computer, reading this story.  How do you know that you're not
dreaming?  If you were, the dream might look pretty close to reality.  We
interpret our surroundings based on our senses.  But our senses can fool
us.

It took me almost 18 months--after I was out of college and had long since
forgotten Andy Westphal--before I became proficient at lucid dreams.  At
first I had those two, more than two years apart.  Then it became once
every six months.  Then, once every three months.  Then once a month.  It's
a skill, like anything else.  Like any other power, its value is totally in
what you choose to do with it.  As for me, it's value is that I can have
sex--with anyone, at any time, in any way I like, with no consequences, no
hassle, no strings attached.  Lucid dreaming is a gateway to unlimited
ability.  The things you can do are limited only by your imagination--and
even that isn't a limit, because your subconscious mind can think of a hell
of a lot more interesting ways to have sex than your conscious mind can
come up with.

In the summer of 2004, long after I was finished with college and graduate
school and had had many relationships with members of both genders, and
more wet lucid dreams than I can count, I had one that sticks out in my
memory, because it harked back to the very first one.  It was of my
childhood friend, Chris.

I had this dream in a hotel room in Rome.  I was in Europe on a business
trip and was there briefly to see the sights and meet some friends I knew
over e-mail.  During this luminous day in mid-July I had finally visited
the Coliseum for real, and found it not so different than the dream version
I'd seen in my first consciously lucid dream 14 years earlier.  After a
long day of touring the city with my Italian friends, and a hearty dinner
of pasta, chicken and lots of good Italian wine, I caught a cab back to my
hotel (which was only blocks from the Vatican) and managed to stumble back
into my room and collapse on my bed before I lost all sense due to alcohol,
exhaustion and the heat of the evening.  In retrospect I probably wasn't in
that much different shape than I had been the night of the Dune dream.  I
don't often sleep well when I've had too much to drink, and my wet lucid
dreams seem to come to me most easily when I'm sort of in the half
nether-zone between sleep and wakefulness, where I'm unconscious but my
conscious mind doesn't quite know it yet.

Then I was in the Coliseum under the blazing Mediterranean sun.  It was
some time in the past, because the stands were filled with toga-clad
Romans, and I rode a golden chariot to the center of the arena in a hail of
rose petals.  An Emperor in a purple toga sat upon his throne at the end of
the arena, and the glory of imagined grandeur washed over me like a wave.
But when I raised my hands to wave at the crowd I realized they were much
smaller than I was used to.  I stretched out my hand and looked at it.  My
forearm was strangely hairless.  The scar on my right index finger, from
when I was cutting meat for a stir-fry Chinese dinner for my boyfriend on
the night of my 30th birthday, was gone.  I realized I was twelve years
old.

I asked the right question.  "Am I dreaming now?"  By now I had many years
of experience asking it, and I knew how to recognize a dream when I saw
one.  As my chariot rumbled to a halt and I saw none other than Chris
himself, dressed in his black shorts and orange soccer jersey, standing in
the middle of the Coliseum bouncing a soccer ball on his knee, I knew I was
dreaming.

I smiled.  This would be a good one.  Once I realized I was dreaming I
could change my surroundings into any situation I wanted.  If, for example,
I didn't want to be in the Coliseum in ancient Rome but decided I'd rather
be at my favorite smoky little bar in New York City with my girlfriend from
graduate school, I had only to snap my fingers and it would be so.  But I
was not displeased by what my subconscious had served up for me.

I got off the chariot.  Somehow the din of the crowd began to quiet as I
approached my old friend.  He bounced the ball off his knee a few times,
then looked up at me and smiled.  "Hello, Dan," he said.  "It's been a long
time."

"Almost 20 years," I said.  "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine.  You don't look any different."

I laughed.  "Of course not.  I'm still 12, and so are you."

Chris spun the soccer ball on the tip of his finger, Harlem
Globetrotters-style.  "You know I'm not Chris," he told me.

"You're the Knower," I said.  "You know all that is, all that was, and all
that will be."

"More than that," Chris replied.  "I know all that isn't--all that
wasn't--and all that never will be."

"So why are we here?" I asked him.

"To fight," Chris shrugged.

"To fight?"

"Of course.  What else do you do in the Coliseum?"  He chucked the soccer
ball away.  It rolled to a halt still a hundred yards short of the edge of
the Coliseum, which was so gigantic that it dwarfed the two of us.  Then he
grabbed the hem of his sheeny orange soccer jersey and whipped it off and
flung it to the dust at our feet.  He stood before me, shirtless, the sun
splashing down on his bare pale shoulders, and I felt a curious kind of
love for him.  Perhaps it was not for him, but nostalgia for my youth, the
days long-receded into the past when forbidden pleasures were still
forbidden, and still so mysterious to me.

We locked our bare arms as if wrestling but pressed our foreheads together.
He was smiling, and so was I.

"You can do anything you want," said the Knower-who-looked-like-Chris, "and
you would choose to be here, with me?"

The Roman crowd erupted into cheers, and flurries of rose petals began to
fall like snow.  What happened then was possibly the strangest thing I've
ever experienced, even in the realm of lucid dreaming where anything goes.
We began to fight and wrestle each other, writhing playfully in the dust of
the Coliseum, laughing and enjoying the youthful abandon we thought we had
forgotten.  But at the same time we were having sex, without our privates
ever coming in contact with each other.  I could feel the hot slippery
wetness of precum coating the tip of my dick.  I felt the wonderful warm
tightness of my penis inside Chris's butt, his rectum sucking, swirling and
massaging my organ with the gentle brutality of the act of male-male sex.
I could feel him pressing against my own anus, wanting desperately to be
enveloped inside.  I could taste his phallus in my mouth, feel it sliding
between my lips.  I could feel his ejaculation spurting jaggedly against my
tongue, long before it happened.  At the same time I could feel the soft
layers of a woman's vagina parting to admit my penis into her.  I could
feel every act of physical love that had ever been done to me by anyone in
my life--boyfriends, girlfriends, casual flings, and the loves of my life.
Everything I had ever thought was hot or sexy or attractive seemed to come
rushing into my head at once.  I was wrestling Chris on the floor of the
Coliseum or the Technicolor grass of his soccer poster.  I was fucking Andy
Westphal, and he was fucking me, in the nose turret of the B-29.  I was
leaking glowing rivers of cum into the forest behind my aunt's house.  And
yet I was aware I was doing nothing in the dream except leaning against
Chris with our arms locked and our foreheads pressed together, and I knew
that in real life I was lying on my stomach on the bed of my hotel room in
Rome with the window open and the soft July breeze gently ruffling the
curtains and my hair.  This dream wasn't hot because of the visions or
sensations of physical pleasure that rushed through my head.  This dream
was hot because, in the final analysis, the orgasm that came from my
subconscious mind was a thousand times more powerful than one that could
come from my body, or even the subconscious fooling of my senses into
thinking it came from my body.

And it was powerful.  The orgasm shattered my mind.  It blew every thought
out of my head.  As my penis opened up and sprayed the hottest, most
forceful blasts of sperm into my boxers as had ever come out of me, my
entire consciousness seemed humbled in front of its power.  I forgot
everything except how good it felt.  I forgot my name and how to speak and
who I was and what was happening to me.  I was a primeval brute, living
only for the instant of supreme pleasure, and understanding only then what
it meant to be human.  I raised my head off the bed, suddenly awake.  My
dick was still ejaculating--I could feel it.  My whole head quivered and
shuddered with the sensation.  I rolled over onto my back.  Even in my
sleep I'd been holding my breath, and I told myself to exhale.  I raised my
hands above my head.  They were shaking.  My underwear and my jeans were so
wet it felt like someone had thrown a bucket of warm water into my groin.
It was beyond amazing.  Until you have experienced an orgasm like this, you
might well have never cum in your entire life.

Yet it happened to me absolutely alone, in a hotel room, while I was
asleep.

It didn't bother me.  I felt so good, I thought I had been reborn.  I
didn't change my clothes or even unbutton my pants.  I wanted the stuff to
dry all over me.  I pulled back the covers, grabbed and embraced a pillow
like it was a lover, and settled down to a peaceful and fulfilling sleep.
I'd crossed another threshold.  I didn't know if it was possible to have
dreams more intense than the one I had just experienced, but if it was
possible, I would get there.  Eventually.

But that's another story.

THE END

************

Stories By This Author:

Last Days in the Dorm
/nifty/gay/college/last-days-in-the-dorm
(A student stumbles into an encounter with an attractive Native American college student the night before moving out of his dorm.)

Lust In Iraq
/nifty/gay/military/lust-in-iraq/
(A war-weary sergeant becomes infatuated with a young PFC recently transferred to his unit.)

Rip the Jacker
/nifty/bisexual/masturbation/rip-the-jacker/
(An outwardly well-adjusted high school student becomes a serial masturbator, causing a tremendous stir in the community.)

Shifter
/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/shifter/
(A college student's sexual fantasies have the unintended effect of transporting him backwards in time.)