Last night was, well, odd.

>PLEASE DON’T READ FURTHER UNLESS YOU ARE COMFORTABLE WITH EXPLICITLY SEXUAL MATERIAL.  Thank you

It was quite warm, I grant you, the thermometer I stole from the old place read 30°. The fan was on at full blast but, to be frank, fairly ineffective.

Still, that was not a reason to wake up at just after 1 a.m. I have an inkling of why I may have suddenly woken up but cannot say it or write it for to do so would be admitting something that I cannot, yet, or ever, admit.

So, I lay in the bed and masturbated hoping that afterwards I would fall asleep. Except that this doesn’t always happen. When I was a kid, I used to do this in the morning to wake myself up!

So sleep eluded me and I was thirsty, so went to get a glass of milk because, again, sometimes, it makes me a little sleepy.

>And whilst I was at it I thought I would switch my computer on, now that I have internet access restored (and it was this point that I read the thermometer). I opened the window and tested the air outside with my hand. It was, marginally, cooler. I left the window open and the streets were quiet. It seems Milan has already closed for the summer or, maybe, people have seen the forecast which, I overheard someone say, predicts it will get hotter by the end of the week, and decided to take the opportunity for a few days by the sea or in the mountains?

I was waiting for a signal, like one waits for a telephone call. Something to say that I hadn’t fucked it all up. Ah well, what’s done is done. If it’s fucked it’s only my fault and this fucking writing crap that, right now, I seem to want to do every second of every day, and quickly, as if there is some reason for putting it all down and that, if it’s not done quickly, it will never be done or it will never be finished or some such thing.

There is no signal. Damn and blast.

After a while, I decided that the computer was, actually, keeping me awake and decided to continue to read ‘Untold Stories’ which I was sure would make me sleepy – not because it is a boring book, quite the opposite, but because it is a slow and sedentary book, yet interesting and real.

>Within a few pages I was feeling sleepy. I went back to bed, adjusting the fan so that the airflow was directly on me; leaving the window open so that the degree or so of cooler air might enter (along with the fucking mosquitoes, I expect, but that is not a good enough reason to close the window); and, promptly, fell asleep.

And here is where reality and fantasy collide. I had this sensation of someone in my bed, the movement, the touching of me. I think (for I am not sure of any of this being real) I opened my eyes slightly to see Rufus had got on the bed. He only does this for two reasons; the first if he is feeling unwell, which means a lot of cleaning up to do in the morning; the second if there is, or about to be, a thunderstorm. I could feel the wind and so, in my half-asleep daze, assumed it was a thunderstorm brewing. Dino, not wanting to be left out, jumped on the bed too, from the bottom, and started making his way up the bed towards me.

I said something to the effect of: ‘Oh Dino, not you too’.

I fell asleep again. The reason I am not sure if that happened at all is that, as far as I know there was no thunderstorm, nor wind. The wind probably being from the fan. The other thing is that I would not have been able to see Dino so clearly, as if in daylight! In addition, the sheets on that side of the bed did not have the tell-tale untidiness that they would have had had the dogs actually got up.

But the feeling of someone else in my bed obviously persisted. I looked over. The sun was up and streaming through the window (which it does not, by the way). There was a face on the next pillow. It was hazy at first, I had only just woken up. It solidified and was a cute face, rounded and younger than me, none of the signs of old age, perhaps of someone around their mid-thirties.

The face spoke, not to me, but as a general comment, something to do with the drugs and he shouldn’t have taken them and how it had messed up his head. Again with the voice thing. It was perfect English and a nice voice but the striking thing was that it was with a Jamaican accent.

I queried: ‘Who the hell are you?’

This was a dream so required no answer and none was forthcoming. I moved my head over and we kissed, passionately, our tongues exploring each other’s mouth.

My hand slid over his chest, which was smooth and young and slightly athletic but not so that it was rippling with muscle that would make it hard and unforgiving.

>My hand moved down and reached the goal, his cock already hard and ready. I moved down his body biting his nipples, gently, but enough to make him wince a little but groan a little too with the ecstasy of the knowledge of what was to come.

I made my way down, taking his penis in my mouth for a few moments before moving on to his balls and sucking and kissing and licking, before moving to the top of the inner thigh which took him to a place that makes it irresistible. I noted his hair, he was black or of mixed race, for certain, with the wiry, black, curly hair and the usual problems with the occasional ingrowing hair. See, he wasn’t even perfect in my dream!

He said: ‘OK, you can do anything you want now’, surrendering now that I had given him a taste of what could be.

I moved up, kissing his chest and replied, with a smile on my face, ‘Later, I’ll save that for later’.

Then we kissed on the mouth again and then he pushed me back in the bed onto my back and said, ‘Well, if you say later I say now’. I grinned and responded with, ‘OK, you do anything you want, then’.

He got up off the bed and went somewhere else, out of sight, out of the room. The windows were wide open. The were opposite the foot of the bed (so, suddenly, this was not my apartment) and the view was of trees (which I certainly don’t have from the bedroom). It could have been Paris or somewhere else in Milan or in Rome, perhaps. For a moment I didn’t want the windows open as the occupants of the flats opposite, with binoculars, could see me lying there, naked, with a hard-on, ready and waiting.

My lover arrived back in the bedroom with white paint, which laughingly he started to daub over my body, me shocked at first, but soon laughing with him at the recklessness of it all. I said ‘be careful, I have to go to work later’. He replied, ‘Surely you can take a day off’.

I wake up and look at the clock, half expecting my dream to be true. I remember the dogs and view the, not perfect but almost, sheets on the other side. I am puzzled by the whole thing.

And I do have a massive hard-on. It is five minutes until I would get up anyway and, although I feel tired, it is a warm and pleasant tiredness that comes with having some good sleep.

I get up, before the alarm goes off and start to get dressed. I do not worry about the hard-on, these days it disappears so quickly, not like when I was in my teens when it would flare up for no good reason and it would take real concentration to get it down.

Except that, today, in a strange and almost unbelievable way, it does not go down. I am out on the streets with the dogs and grateful for the long T-shirt that I have on – not that there are many people around, except for the odd person sleeping rough and the occasional security car. We walk up the whole of ‘the perfect street’ and to the first dog area. I cannot quite believe that I still have this hard-on!

>We start to walk to the second dog area and, finally, as we near it, my penis falls to it’s normal, limp state.

Wow! I think – that was some dream to make this happen!  And it wasn’t just the sex; he was a nice guy and would be fun; he was good looking but not perfect.  He was, unusually, no one I know – not V; not someone from work; not someone I know or have seen; just a made-up bloke, made up in my dream.  All I need to do now, of course, is find him!