A Dream

My dear, I had a dream last night, although it was—truth be told—more of a nightmare.

I was, for some reason and in what purpose I know not, engaged in a project. The duration was two weeks and, though we were not together (and yet I still desired you), you were with me in that place. The location was strange and in Wales, two facts which may not entirely jarr in the imaginations of those who may read this. It resembled a cross between a mediaeval walled town and the Schloss Adler of Where Eagles Dare.

Curiously, the central courtyard was covered, though internal windows let onto it. These windows were dirty, dusty, but with the occasional spyhole rubbed through the grime, by occupants within or without I never thought to determine. We all slept in beds and bunks spread haphazardly through the courtyard, although you were only ever passing fleetingly through that place.

We talked as we have in recent times, as friends but with the spark of electricity flowing between us. And yet never could I seem to allow myself to understand what I felt. But then the screams started, from one of the rooms beyond the windows; screams of ecstasy, cries of sexual lust.

And I knew it was you.

We would go out by day, and perform our duties to the project. And when we came back you would disappear to your room, and within minutes those terrible sounds of your pleasure with another would insinuate itself into the bright air of our dwelling. It took some days before I could summon up the courage to sidle to one of those blank eyes, to see what...

In the end, I didn't need to sidle; I walked, dreading that which I might see. Thoughtlessly, I rubbed, with my hand, a spyhole in the dust, that I might see into the room.

The man whose crotch you were carressing was strapping on red gloves, lacing them like boxing gloves although they were fingerless. He was naked to the waist and you were lavisciously kneading and stroking the bulge that was all too obvious through his shiny, red shorts. Every now and then, you would stroke a hand down your own breasts, making movements that I knew entailed you stoking your hard nubs through you grey, high-necked jumper.

I was in shock, my love felt stronger than ever, my jealousy and desperate sadness almost palpable in my throat. And then you looked up. And then it truly became a nightmare, for the look upon your face said, "I know what I am doing to you." You looked at me, whilst exciting your odd companion even more. Your face was terrible, and your eyes told me that you were doing this to hurt me, displaying the wanton sexuality, that whore in the bedroom that every man secretly wants, in order to gut me; your eyes burned into mine as the cruel smile spread across your thinly, so-good-a-kisser lips.

That old smile that I had always known as beautiful, that had—in moments of shared jokes and whispered love yous (always uttered as though slightly ashamed of the fact)—transformed your face into a palimsest of joy, was now perverted into something evil, a sense of triumph when you realised that it was I gazing at you through the window. "You were never eough," you said in my head, "See how sexual I can be now that I have found a man that truly turns me on." You bent over him and, as I looked, and held your gaze as you ran your hand up his leg, under his shorts, and then opened your mouth and lowered your head to his crotch.

I turned away, unable—and unwilling—to watch, glad that the project was nearly over and it was only then that I found that I couldn't leave. I was not pinned to the spot, or anything so dream-prosaic, but I found that there was no way to the station. No one driving there, and it too far to walk. As everyone started to leave, I wondered how it was that I should be left there; you, me and your Welsh boxing friend...

I had to wake myself up.