It started about six weeks ago----the dreams. They were vague at first; slightly erotic, nondescript images of another person sitting across from or standing next to me. Androgynous, but more hard than soft and more dominant than passive, or, well, submissive.
I didn't think much of it. Even though I had an erection if I woke up after one, it seemed no different than the morning erection indicating pending micturition. ED had not paid me a visit yet, either in the morning or when Charlotte and I had the time and energy.
But during the last two weeks, the dreams turned homoerotic. The person became more masculine each time. He was closer to me than before. I could see His eyes; I could hear His voice but no words. And as He spoke, I could feel myself sinking into the bed as the covers weighed me down. It felt so good to relax and sink, to float downwards as He spoke.
A couple of nights ago, He was close enough to kiss and I dreamed I wet my lips and opened my mouth to receive it. At the same time my legs were lifted and wrapped around His waist. I was lifted so that my ass was exposed, open and inviting. I gripped my ass, opening it wider and moving with Him.
I started to tingle with the beginnings of an orgasm and somehow swam to the top of the covers. When I woke, I realized I was about to have a wet-dream. Fortunately, I was in a hotel room so Charlotte noticing was not a factor. I made it to the toilet, got some lotion and masturbated, cumming in about ten strokes and still sensing the post dream sensation of His French kissing me.
I fell back asleep without any trouble ---it was a really good orgasm.
The next morning the uneasiness lingered, but I had client calls to make. The important one was a 'grip and grin and apology' as I had missed a planned meeting with the COO and his assistant the night before. My plane was not just delayed---it was broken, and so I got out on the dawn patrol.
This was a sensitive account that I had saved a year or so ago. Since then, I would stop by about every six weeks or so to make sure everyone was happy. Usually, I just met with the assistant, Matt, in his office at the end of the day and then a drink or dinner later. Matt was easy going, and I felt very comfortable around him despite the age difference. The conversations continued on the patio or sidewalk when he took his e-cigarette break after dinner and continued as he went with me upstairs to make sure the room was adequate. Matt was so easy to talk to that I always seemed to lose track of time. It never bothered me to undress and brush and get in bed while he was still there; he certainly was never put off by it. And he always let himself out after a little while. He was so quiet, I never noticed him leave.
Like I said, this was an important account and if spending time with Matt kept me in good graces, no problem.
Matt came down to meet me at the desk. We chatted for a moment, I apologized for missing our evening drink, shook hands, a quick guy hug, and then as I turned to go, he looked in my eyes while I promised to be back soon and to be on time. There was something about him that made me always look him in the eye. I always felt so calm and relaxed when I did.
I use a car service in LA: too much traffic; too much wasted time. As I approached the rear door, I saw myself reflected in the glass and the images from my dream flooded back. As I reached for the door, the images looked like Matt--a lot like Matt. I grimaced and pushed them aside thinking it was just the recency effect at work.
But for the rest of the day and the trip home, there was something nagging about it. I rationalized it as the awkwardness you get when you're in the gym and you accidentally look at a guy's dick for a spilt second too long and then you wonder the rest of the day if he noticed. And then the more you try not to think of it, the more you see his dick in your mind until at some point the brain says "enough jackass, move on" and so you do.
I've been home now for three days and the dreams kept coming. No way was I going to tell Charlotte I'm getting hard-ons dreaming about a male client. But this was getting creepy.
I'd never thought much about the therapist's office I passed to and from work. It was among a group of houses converted into professional businesses, sitting alongside CPAs and dentists and lawyer's offices. The sign out front had the doctor's name - Richard Ward, Ph.D. -- with script underneath advertising general counseling, couples therapy and obsessions. I shot a photo to catch the phone number.
I chewed on it through lunch and decided to make the call. As I was walking back to the office, Charlotte called and told me Aunt Peg had another fall, and she needed to go and tend to her. I was on my own for three days. And that sealed it. If I could get an appointment after work, I would not have to fudge my whereabouts.
Two deep breaths and I called.
The receptionist listened patiently while I stumbled around trying to say enough but not too much. He graciously agreed I could tell the doctor more when I saw him, and as it happened, he had a six o'clock opening. He then asked about insurance---you know, you could be wheeled into the ER holding your heart in your hands and the first thing they want to know is do you have insurance---but no way am I putting this on BC/BS. I advised I would pay cash. He was fine with that.
Fortunately, the crises of the afternoon cooperated, and I got out on time. I was about ten minutes early so I waited in the car, not wanting to take the chance of seeing someone recognizing me. No one came out, and I hit the door right at six.
The first thing that struck was how soft the office was--not feminine, just soft colors and paintings and so forth. The receptionist -- a 20-something - greeted me by name and had the clip board waiting.
I whipped through it giving minimal information, and handed it back. As I did the office door opened, and Dr. Ward stepped out. 40-something, brown wavy hair, dark brown eyes, in shape, firm handshake -- the first impression was re-assuring.
Introductions made; we went into his office. Again, a very soft setting. Two chairs in front of a desk, book shelves, paintings of landscapes, the obligatory couch at the wall, and a large screen TV behind his desk.
We sat down at the desk. He looked over the paperwork for a second, and then turned to me and said, "Not much there."
"Well," I replied, "I'm cautious."
"Understandable, but something brought you in here and we're on the clock," he said.
I stammered and shifted a bit. "I'm not sure how to put it," I finally said, surprised at my freezing up.
"Again, understandable," he said. "Let's just sit back, chat a moment or two, try and get you relaxed, and then ease into it." He pulled a keyboard and typed a bit. Slowly the office lights lowered a bit, there was some faint music in the background, and the screen behind him lit up and a series of lines and circles and shapes started moving about slowly.
I grinned and said, "Glad I didn't have drink before coming over, this could relax me right into a nap."
"We won't let that happen, but again, it's your time," he smiled back. "I'll start."
So, he asked some general health questions and then focused more on stressors I might have -- marriage, family, career, friends. And after a period of time, he hit me, "So why are you here."
And it just flowed out. But I had a hard time looking at him--I needed to focus elsewhere while I confessed my problem and the patterns on the screen were still flowing smoothly so I just focused on them.
"I've been having these dreams----------sexual--------more vivid than the wet dreams I had as a kid. And they seem to be about one person is specific."
"Go on," he urged.
"It's a client," I said and stopped.
"Just sit back, take a couple of breaths, focus on the screen behind you like you are doing, and keep talking. So, you are having sexual dreams about this woman?"
I stared at the screen--watching the patterns flow---not thinking.
"It's not a woman; it's a man," I murmured.
"Ah, OK. Now I understand the reticence. Let's take a moment and relax further. You know, once you start watching those images flow slowly across the screen, a part of you becomes detached, wondering what the next pattern will be--trying to figure out the pattern. It's a natural thing to do--to become detached like that. In fact, it's hard to look away. It pulls you in, relaxes you, occupies your conscious mind so you can talk to me about anything. Relax Charles, just watch the screen, detach yourself and tell me more about these dreams."
He was right--I was following the patterns--each one like the one before but subtly different. I could hear him encouraging me to talk more, but the shapes were so soothing.
"Charles," he said, a bit firmer. "Listen to me. You are safe here. You can tell me anything. You can tell me everything. Let the screen bring you in, let it draw you in closer and closer, once you start, you can only go deeper. And tell me what you recall."
And as I stared, I felt myself floating. His voice guiding me. And it all came out.
"His name is Matt. He is the administrative assistant to the COO for a big account. I meet with them about every six weeks. Afterwards, there's a dinner or drinks with the COO and some folks. Matt is always there and somehow; we end up being the last two there. We chat about anything and everything. He has the most unique grey eyes. They hold you. You get lost in them. It's really hard to look away, even when someone else is there or when the server comes. So sometimes we go out on the patio. He has an e-cigarette he likes to use after a couple of drinks. I don't smoke, but the vapor is very pleasant. Always at about 10 or so, we agree it's time to call it a night. He always walks with me to my room. We shake hands, and I get one more look at his eyes. And I turn in."
I pause.
