debauchette

sleepsex (iii).

sleepsex (i) and  sleepsex (ii)

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When I was going through puberty, I was able to lucid dream, to exert control over my own dreams. It started when I had the same nightmare three nights in a row and through that repetition I became aware within the dream that it wasn’t real. I can’t imagine this happening now, since my dreams are either mute or unremarkable, but back then they were very intense.

Controlling the dream was never easy - it was like swimming in rough water, in that it took constant effort. If I relaxed or lost focus, I woke up.

So, as a young adolescent, my natural inclination was to force my dreams in an erotic direction. I didn’t have a clear understanding of sex then, but I did have a clear feeling, like how I feel now when I’m aroused, but much more intense. And my dreams, like my mind, were weird like anime, like Alice-in-Wonderland weird, with lots of penetration and exaggeration and strangers and dark nooks and irrationally sequenced events.

I’m mentioning this because I think it’s partly to blame for my paraphiliac lust for sleepsex. One woman’s nocturnal violation is another woman’s kink.

*

When my boyfriend - I’ll call him Jack - rapefucked me in my sleep, it prolonged our relationship past its prime. Even when I realized that we weren’t a good couple, I stayed with him because I was attracted to his alter-ego, his subconscious sleep personality. After that first night, it happened again and again, almost nightly. We’d both go to sleep and then I’d wake in the middle of the night to his hands prying my thighs apart, his breath at my neck, and sometimes surprisingly coherent dirty language. He got so much harder asleep than awake, and while most nights he would wake up mid-fuck and roll off, leaving me in a state of agony, other nights he’d come and come loudly. It was more satisfying and more exciting than our mutually conscious sex had ever been, and I felt more attracted to him at night, like this, than when we were both awake. In other words, I was most attracted to him when he was asleep.

I wondered for a while if he were just inhibited when he was awake. I tried to push our sex further, beyond the cool, steady rutting, but the results were disastrous and deeply neurotic. Eventually, it just made more sense for me to pull back and wait for the sleepfucker to pay me a visit.

So I had a relationship with two sides of the same man, the restrained overachiever and his primal subconscious. During the day, I’d sit and work alongside the overachiever. Or I’d listen his stories about the hospital, or we’d talk about film, or books, or my research, and then he’d brush his teeth, and I’d brush mine, and we’d fuck a little, and it was done. But the sleepfucker, he was just a beast. He’d grip me from behind and jerk me up onto my hands and knees so he could mount me. Or he’d flatten me under his weight and pin me down. He’d grind into me hard, and I learned to bite my pillow and swallow my moans because if I knew that if I woke him, it would be over. Being fucked by the sleepfucker was like masturbating with a faulty vibrator: there was always the risk that just as I was about to come, it would stop. So I’d keep both hands clapped over my mouth or I’d clench the pillow between my teeth and pray he’d stay under long enough for me to come.

And I knew we had a horribly warped relationship - or that my relationship with him was warped - because whenever the sleepfucking stopped for a few days, it left me feeling neglected and I’d contemplate a breakup. But then I’d wake up with his cock thrusting into my cunt, and I’d hold off a little longer…

One day it stopped for good. Jack had hit a down-swing in his depression (depressives are prone to sleep disorders) and he was prescribed a cocktail of drugs that effectively killed off his alter-ego. The sleepfucker wasn’t coming back.

I stayed with Jack to help him ride through the worst of his depressive downswing, but once it started to let up, I returned the keys to his apartment and left in a clean, sharp break.