2. In Which We Are Living the Elastic Waist Band Dream

2

In Which We Are Living the Elastic Waist Band Dream

D ale’s apartment is two buildings down from Luigi’s Italian Restaurant, where I rent the tiny attic and pick up as many hours as I can when I’m not working at the bank. We part ways at the corner and I head off for home, every step a reminder that I only have a few more minutes to get close to a bathroom or there will be dire consequences.

There are two ways into my apartment—through the back stairs/fire escape or through the restaurant itself. Having both options is great when I work until close at the restaurant. But running through the foyer past all the adorable young hostesses with a gurgling gut is not high on my list of how I want to interact with my coworkers, so I choose the back stairs. This adds at least another minute to my sprint to the bathroom. I have to circle the building, dodge a few dumpsters in the alley, and take the fire escape stairs up to the door that had probably been a window at some point. I make it in time for my stomach to decide that maybe it’s okay. The gurgling stops as I cross the threshold and I sigh. Why my stomach has to be a drama queen, I’ll never understand.

My apartment isn’t much, but I feel lucky to have a space that I don’t have to share with anyone but Stanley, my asshole cat. It has a bathroom and a small kitchen alcove, but no closets, and aside from the bathroom, no other interior walls. I toss my keys on the counter and leave the bag of clothes by the door while I search out anything and everything I can take for what is probably going to be a long night.

I find a bottle of the pink stuff and gas pain meds behind some cups in the cabinet next to the sink. Should I take them at the same time?—probably not, but it won’t be any worse than what the night has in store for me. I suck them down and look for something warm to wear. It’s about to be laundry day, so of course everything comfortable is in my giant hamper. I search the hanging rack where I keep my clothes and dig through drawers, hoping to find something warm to wear to bed, but can only find an old university sweatshirt—no pants. I’m about to give up when I remember the sweatpants in the bag.

I dig around in the plain trash bag until my hands touch the smooth, cool fabric of the sweats. I pull them out and inspect them, confused why these pants ended up in the grab bag. Every item of clothing in every grab bag I’ve ever bought at Thrift Store Thrift Store always has something wrong with it—a huge tear, missing buttons and zippers, giant stains. But these pants are strangely pristine, as if I pulled them off the shelf brand new. My stomach knots and I decide it’s best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I pull them on. They’re a little too big, but they’ll keep me warm tonight as I lay near death on my bed.

Stanley appears from his favorite hiding place under my bed and goes to meow by his bowl.

“Yes, yes. I know. I’m the worst. How dare I starve you,” I grumble as I stand and head toward his food bowl. I get his bowl filled, check his water situation, and head to lie down on my bed.

Stanley eventually hops up beside me, flops down, and begins to clean his paw. I can’t tell if he’s being sweet or just wants to be close to my body so he can feast when I inevitably die tonight. I close my eyes to the sound of him licking his paw as loudly as possible and eventually drift off to sleep.

***

Nights like this—where my stomach is trying to escape my body—usually give me nightmares. I always dream about work—usually I find myself naked and cold at the bank, counting out an endless supply of ones while creepy old men gawk and angry old ladies give me dirty looks. But tonight, by some miracle, I’m magically in a tiny twin sized bed in a wood-paneled room straight out of the eighties. A street light shines through the breaks in the blinds so I can see things here and there, but most objects in the room are just shadows.

To my left, a naked man is curled up against me, his arm possessively clutching my waist. I can’t really make out his features, but I get the feeling that we’re close in age. In that weird way of dreams, his warm body is immediately comforting and familiar. We’re both half asleep, half awake, it seems, as he slowly moves to cover my naked body with his. He nuzzles his head against my shoulder, mumbling sleepily about how beautiful I am.

Strangely, I’m not afraid or weirded out—it’s almost as if I know this man. He kisses my neck in the mostly dark room and mutters my name as his hand runs down my thigh, moving across me to lie on my right side. One hand cups my breast, smoothing across the skin there before he begins to gently twist and pull at a nipple.

His lips find mine as the hand on my breast lazily moves down my belly and between my legs. His finger plunges inside me, and I find myself going with it. This is the most realistic sex dream I’ve ever had and honestly, dream guy is pretty good. He somehow knows exactly the right amount of pressure to use, how fast to go, and how rough to be as he alternates between fingering me and rubbing my clit in a way that makes me want to pull him closer as pleasure builds deep in my core.

I reach out and run my hand down over his arm—he’s probably not a gym guy, but he’s got nice definition to the arm that I can reach. I run my fingers through the light dusting of fuzz on his chest and down his belly until I find what I’m looking for. His cock is already hard against my hand. I turn on my side so I can better wrap my hand around him, letting my thumb play gently with the soft skin on the head of his cock as I work him like he’s working me. He groans and kisses me harder, his tongue warring with mine as the urgency in us both builds.

Without a word, he moves between my legs. I open them wide, more than ready for his cock. He surprises me—I expect him to slam into me, but instead, he’s gentle and enters me slowly, waiting until he’s filled me completely before he moves.

There’s nothing super unique about dream guy—his cock isn’t pierced, he doesn’t have rock hard abs, but this is hands down the best sex I’ve had in years. Even if it’s just dream sex, I’ll take it. I scrape my nails across his back as he moves, meeting his every thrust with a squeeze of my inner walls, and basically doing anything I can to show how appreciative I am of a guy who actually cares about my needs. He builds up a rhythm until I’m clinging to him, ready to burst with my own orgasm.

He moves faster and faster until my nails are practically digging into his back as I arch into him, trying to increase the friction against my clit.

We come at the same time—something that has never ever happened to me in real life. We’re both out of breath, but as silent as possible. He relaxes on top of me for a moment, then rolls to my side.

“I love you Kaitlyn,” he whispers in the dark.

I don’t know what to say back. It’s just a dream, but even in my dream state, it feels weird to say those three words back to a man whose face I can’t really even see. So I say nothing.

“Are you okay?” he asks. He runs a hand down my cheek, brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, and freezes as his hands run against the row of piercings in my ear.

“Kaitlyn?”

“Yes?” I say. He jumps out of bed faster than I can find the sheet to cover myself and flips on the light.

“Who–who are you? You don’t look—”

“Like a Kaitlyn?” I smirk. Even dream guy has to be racist. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard this from people expecting me to be a Maria or Juanita because I have brown skin and dark hair. I’ve gotten to where I can brush it off in real life, but my subconscious showing up with it too. What a bitch that is. “My mom got stuck in an elevator when she was in labor with me. A girl named Kate who had just graduated med school delivered me with the help of a nurse named Lynn on speaker phone. That’s how I ended up with the name. It was lucky too because my dad wanted to name me Consuelo after my grandma.”

I cringe internally, hating myself for always over-explaining. This man did not need or want to hear all that. No one does.

Dream guy makes a face. “I meant you don’t look like my Kaitlyn. My girlfriend, Kaitlyn. She was just here. Mom made her sleep down the hall, but she snuck in and we fell asleep. I thought you were her.”

This is all starting to feel too much like real life and not a dream. I can feel the coldness of the sheet against my breasts. The damp spot on the bed is suddenly incredibly uncomfortable. The worry and concern radiating out from the man fills the room. It’s all too real.

“But this is just a dream,” I want to say before there’s the slam of a door down the hall and a woman’s voice screams, “Matthew!”

“Who’s that?”

He rolls his eyes. “My mom.”

It’s then I realize we’re probably in his childhood bedroom. There’s a huge suitcase in the corner lying open. Half a dozen dusty wrestling trophies line a shelf and ribbons are displayed on one wall. Pictures of what look to be a younger version of him and maybe a brother are pinned to a cork board above a dresser. “Do you have some clothes I can borrow before your mom shows up?”

He turns toward a nearby dresser and pulls off a pair of gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt that advertises Mike’s Discount Furniture on the front. The t-shirt is long enough to be a dress. I pull it over my head as the footsteps of Matthew’s mom grow closer, then stand up to pull the sweatpants on…

Only to find myself back in my bed. All the lights are still on. I half expect to be in the clothes dream Matthew gave me to wear, but I’m just in the old university sweatshirt and the pair of sweatpants I pulled from the bag.

They look exactly the same as the ones Matthew gave me in the dream, but honestly, I don’t think men’s sweatpants have changed since their invention. So funny how my brain took gray sweatpants and turned them into a bizarre sex dream. Well, I guess my subconscious tried. Maybe it’s telling me I need to get laid. It has been a long while.

Ugh, fucking pizza. Never again.