I've always been a dreamer. More in the sense of having my head so far in the clouds that I couldn't attend to the practical aspects of everyday life than that of having an abundance of the phantasmagoria accompanying sleep. I teach American and English literature so in the former sense of the word my life hasn't been impacted too severely. And, with regard to the latter sense, the truth is that for most of my life I've only remembered bits and pieces of the wondrous flow of images and sensory input that entered my slumbers.
Sometime in the 1970s I read the books of Carlos Castaneda and was attracted to his discussions of dreaming consciously and guiding your dreams. A faint hunger for that kind of experience rumbled below consciousness through the years. Then, almost nine months ago, in a used bookstore, I caught sight of a book by Stephen LaBerge titled Lucid Dreaming and the faint hunger expanded into an aching void. I read the book with care over the period of about a month and then began to practice the techniques.
It was a long tedious haul. There were many times I almost gave up. My forbearing wife, Anita, observed my antics with an amused exasperation. Over the course of our long marriage she's suffered through a multitude of my enthusiasms; some short lived and some extending for years. This one at least, she told me with a short laugh, she could sleep through.
I'd been practicing the techniques described by Dr. LaBerge for a little over four months with minimal success when it happened. At first I thought I was awake. But then, recalling that I'd crossed the room in a fraction of a second, I realized that I'd achieved my goal. I looked at my hands. They glowed in a way I'd never seen before. I looked toward the window. The late spring sun was peeking over the horizon. In another split second I was outside, floating above the lawn. Now I had the freedom but I didn't know what to do.
I decided to try flying. In an instant I was soaring above the neighborhood. I remembered having these dreams as a kid and how much I'd loved them. I sailed over the house of our neighbors, Hector and Eileen, and I realized I was thinking of Eileen. And there I was in their bedroom. Hector lay sprawled on his back, snoring softly. Eileen was curled in a fetal position, facing away from him. They both were nude.
They'd moved into this house, two doors down from us, almost four years ago. And ever since the day I'd first seen her standing in their driveway wearing a bright yellow dress I'd carried a small torch for her, one with an intense flame. No one knew of this torch. Not Eileen, I was certain. But many times over the years its heat had warmed my heart. Never, until now, had I seen Eileen naked. I liked what I saw. I flitted to her side of the bed and looked down at her sleeping form. I wondered if I was seeing Eileen or was imagining, in my dream state, what she might look like.
Then, with a shock, I realized her eyes were open. They were focused on me. We stared at each other for what seemed like centuries.
"Can you see me?" I whispered cautiously. Afraid of the answer.
"Holy shit. This is too weird," she muttered. Or thought. Or something. Her lips didn't move.
"Can you see me, Eileen?" I asked again. I was surprised by her thought language because I'd never heard her use obscenity in all the time I'd known her.
"What the fuck are you doing in my bedroom, Arthur?"
"This is a dream, Eileen," I said, still stunned by her language.
She sat up. Or at least some part of her sat up. A luminescent part. The rest of her remained in its curled up position. "But I can see you, Arthur. Don't give me that shit. What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Look at yourself," I said, pointing to her recumbent form.
She turned and looked down. "Oh my God. Oh shit. Oh goddamned motherfucking shit!"
"This is a dream," I whispered. Whatever it's called when you lower the volume of a telepathic communication.
She looked at me again. "Did you know you've got a dream woody, Arthur?"
I looked down at myself. My cock, glowing like my hands had, was stiff. I felt embarrassed and vulnerable. I looked at Eileen. She was looking at my cock.
"I think I've been in love with you since the first time I saw you," I said. I didn't seem to be able to help myself.
"Mmmmmm. I wondered," she said still gazing at my cock. "You always seemed to act kind of strange when I was around."
"Was I that obvious?"
She looked up, into my eyes. "No, you weren't obvious. I was looking for the signs. I've had feelings for you too."
"I think I must be dreaming," I said. We both laughed.
"Shit this is strange," she said. "How did this happen?"
"I've been trying to have lucid dreams, dreams I consciously control, and I seem to have succeeded. Except I didn't know it was possible to make contact with other people. That is if you're really Eileen and not some image created by my imagination."
"I feel like me," she said. "Strange, but like me in a strange fucking situation. Are you my neighbor Arthur? Or are you some demon wearing Arthur as a disguise?"
"As far as I can tell I'm your neighbor Arthur. I don't feel like a demon."
She floated free of her body, which was still fetally curled, and reached out to grasp my cock. "Mmmmm. I've wanted to do this for a long time."
The sensation wasn't anything like physical touching. More akin to energy flowing into energy, throwing off twinkling stars like an Independence Day sparkler. I reached out and touched her breast with the same result.
