“I lost my virginity in a lucid dream.”
To anyone else that’d sound crazy but not to The Therapist. She understood. I wasn’t so keen of her at first, but I stepped out on a limb and she didn’t fail me. You may have heard of her. Maybe not. She’s a dream therapist. She helps you cope with your dreams. She doesn’t waste her time on any run-of-the-mill nightmare; she specializes in lucid dreams.
And by the time I saw her, I was a chronic lucid dreamer.
It started as a kid. You ever have a nightmare that comes back, night after night? So much so that eventually you stop – like you’re looking yourself in the mirror – and you realize, with a lightning strike of ice on your spine, that you’re in a dream. Suddenly, you’ve got some control. Suddenly, it isn’t just a dream. Suddenly, you’re a god.
You turn to the vampire and say, “Bite me.”
Now you’re the nightmare. Roving the streets with bands of creeps.
That’s how it began. Every night I hit the hay hoping that I might wake up in that in-between state. Over time I found tricks. The first thing I did every morning was sit and think. I’d write down all I could remember from the last night’s dreams. You’d be surprised to see how many recur. Once I started to recognize the similarities while awake, I started to recognize them while asleep. Silly things would alert me. My watch might read a word like “DAY,” or a door might lead to a room that it shouldn’t. Sometimes these flukes eluded me until, in the morning, I raked my brain to record them but, other times, they’d set me off. It was scary at first. Then, as I became accustomed to it, comforting. Eventually, exciting – invigorating.
Initially, I spent most of my lucid dreams defying the laws of physics. I can’t count how many times I flew across the Atlantic. But as I got older, my focus shifted. I’d take my best friend’s mom – the one with the curves – shopping and I’d kiss the girl I sat next to in geography – the one that I couldn’t form a sentence in front of. I got bolder and bolder. Looking back, it’s funny how I was just as nervous to go to the next level in my dreams as I was in real life. In the end, it wasn’t dreams that gave me the courage. It was alcohol.
I had my first drink near the end of my junior year of high school. I’d fooled enough of my peers into thinking I was cool and I’d been invited to a graduation party. Once there I realized my mistake. I was not cool. Though alcohol was foreign to me, I knew it was renowned for making an ass out of men and – judging from the behavior of my peers – asses were the ones who fit in. So I drank and I drank and I drank. I drank enough to drown a horse and then some and soon I felt like I could rule the world – then they took away my keys.
She told me I could sleep on the couch. She being the girl from middle school geography I mentioned before. I remember her tucking me in, with my own coat I believe, on her couch…but then I was in her doorway. God knows what took place in between. My shirt was off and I focused hard to hold what I assumed was a masculine posture. Her room was empty. Not empty-empty; there were clothes everywhere, a bed of course, a mirror, and a handful of posters, but she was not in there. She was behind me.
“Where are your pants?”
Those are the only words I recall from that night.
By this point in my life, almost every night involved a lucid dream. I didn’t get to this point by simply noticing little flaws here and there. I’d developed a trick. Every time I became lucid, it was like I was staring in a mirror. As soon as I realized I was dreaming I was no longer in my body but standing just across the room, looking at my bamboozled self. My room, growing up, had a closet across from my bed with mirrors for doors. Early in my lucid endeavors, I began to envision myself standing in that closet and watching me sleep. When I opened my eyes, that’s what I’d see (not me in the closet, of course, but my prone body reflected in the mirror). Somehow that reinforced my imagination. And it never failed. When I finally fell asleep, it was as if I never had. I’d get out of bed and, somehow, I’d know I wasn’t awake. I could wreck my car or jump off a building and nothing would happen. Sometimes I’d die three or four times in the same dream. Eventually, I’d wake up right back in bed, staring at my mirror.
I believe it was fate that put a mirror on the desk parallel to her bed. After she caught me posing nude in the doorway, she was merciful. She offered to share her bed. There I lay, staring in the mirror, debating whether or not it would be wrong if I were to fuck her in my dreams.
But a drunk man isn’t guided by morality, only desire.
Right or wrong aside, it was the best sex I’ve ever had.
That’s how I lost my virginity.
Before you tell me that doesn’t count, let me just tell you what she told me after not responding to my texts, calls, and snail mail all summer:
“I’m pregnant.”
Turns out, while I made love to her in my dreams I bumped uglies with her in the physical world. Don’t worry. Not only was she conscious enough to consent, she was conscious enough to remember it (which turned out to be fatal for my self-esteem). What lasted hours in my dreams lasted only minutes for her. Nevertheless, no matter whether I performed to her liking, my little soldier got the job done.
Funny thing is, she’d already let it slip in the little narrative of my dreams.
After I developed my lucid-dream-cheatcode, I did my best to wake up in my dreams every night. After a year or two, if it was a regular night, I didn’t even have to try. No sooner would I fall asleep than I’d come to in a world of endless possibilities. This had its ups and downs. After a few months of chronic lucid dreaming, I preferred my imaginary world to the real one. There were times when I lost control – even times that turned into nightmares – but overall, things just seemed to work out for me there. After the graduation party, I spent the dreams of the summer getting to know the girl I’d been dreaming of for years.
It was fantastic.
When she told me she was pregnant, I immediately dropped to my knees and proposed. After years of lucid dreaming, years in which my best memories existed only in my imagination, it was becoming hard to differentiate what was real and what wasn’t, but her response reminded me with that familiar spine chilling sensation that this could only be a dream – she said yes.
In real life, as you might’ve guessed, she was much more hesitant. She agreed to give it a shot. Not marriage, not yet, she wanted to date first. Unfortunately, we got along much better when she was a figment of my imagination. She considered abortion but when that option ran dry she settled for a wedding. There was no honey moon. There was no love. The union was economical. She didn’t want to live in poverty. I didn’t want my daughter to.
We dropped out of high school, picked up minimum wage jobs, and moved into an apartment. We shared our possessions but nothing more. Indifference melted into tolerance then tolerance evaporated leaving only animosity. We cooed our child to sleep by gossiping about the other. Our vows may have been the last civil conversation between us.
That’s why I came to The Therapist. My dreams were fine. In fact, my dreams were the only good bit of my existence. Reality had become my nightmare. I loved my daughter heart and soul – but her, not so much. And I think she hated our daughter more than she hated me. Maybe because our daughter was the source of her bondage.
It’d gotten to a point where I almost didn’t trust her alone with the baby. I started refusing shifts at work. After a few no-shows, I was outright fired. This was good for the baby but bad for my wife – she wasn’t worried about our daughter; she was worried about our income. What we saved on letting the baby sitter go didn’t compensate for what I gave up to stay home. Before long, I dreaded her coming home as much as I dreaded waking up.
That’s when I began to consider an alternative.
An old coworker suggested a less drastic option: counseling. This wasn’t the first friend to suggest a shrink but this was the first friend to mention a shrink and lucid dreaming in the same sentence. He sealed the deal when he promised she wouldn’t charge – as long as I intrigued her.
The Therapist told me to meet her at the courthouse – the first peculiar thing about her. The rubbery yellow jacket and red cowboy hat further crippled her chances of a good first impression.
“Hello dreamer!”
She extended her hand as soon as I passed through the metal detector. We shook before I was even able to put my belt back on.
“What seems to be the problem?”
Despite my skepticism, I was desperate. I had to find a way out. Each day I went to bed a little earlier and slept a little later but the brilliance of my dream life only exaggerated the darkness of my real life. I felt weighed down. Trapped beneath my situation. I was ready for it all to be over. It took me a while to get up my resolve, but by the time I met The Therapist I was on the verge. All that was holding me back was the thought of abandoning my daughter. I gave myself one last chance. Though she didn’t know it, I put my life her hands that day.
I waited for the elevator doors too close before I uttered my hook.
“I lost my virginity in a lucid dream.”
“That doesn’t sound like a problem.”
“She got pregnant.”
She smiled, “That doesn’t sound like a lucid dream.”
I elaborated. I told her everything and watched as her jovial tawny eyes darkened into a caramel shade. Her lips pursed just slightly and her brow gently furled. Even if I were blind, I would have still noticed her sympathy. I could feel it in her silence. With every word I uttered, she drew closer. Not physically, but on a social level. By the time the elevator came to a stop and I had finished my story, I felt as if we had known each other our whole lives.
The doors opened and The Therapist stepped out.
“Are dreams pointless?”
I didn’t know how to respond. I followed her and prayed the question was rhetoric.
“It isn’t a trick question. I’m no neuroscientist. There’s no right or wrong answer. What’s your opinion? Are dreams pointless?”
“I suppose…” I immediately regretted my answer, “No. No they’re not.”
We’d reached the end of the hall. A broad window showed the pillars of fellow sky scrapers sharing each other’s shadows.
“They can comfort you.”
“That they can. They can soothe the soul like few things can…” The Therapist paused. We stood there in a minute of comfortable quiet. Then she struck me with another question, “Do they go anywhere, dreams?”
“Mine do!” I blurted.
“I know!” She turned from the window and put a hand on my shoulder, “I know.”
Her somber tone made me anxious. It was the voice a close friend uses to reveal the death of a loved one. I could feel tears budding in my eyes but I wasn’t sure why. I had no clue where she was going. I could sense the gravity but not the direction.
The edge of the sun peaked between the mighty monoliths before us, forcing me to face The Therapist.
She asked, “A hundred years from now, will anyone know what you dreamt?”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. I felt like she was attacking me. I was struck dumb.
“A hundred years from now, will anyone know who you are? Maybe. What about a thousand?” She clasped my other shoulder, “When the Earth is a withered husk and the Sun is running on fumes, will there be a human left to judge you?”
Beckoning me with a flick of her hand we headed back down the hall. I hesitated for a moment, mulling over her words. I knew I must have missed something. When she reached the elevator she pivoted to stare at me from the other end of the hall. I surrendered. Back at the elevator, she hit the down arrow then held out her hand.
“Don’t worry about payment,” her sobering mannerisms had been replaced by the chipper demeanor I’d encountered when I first shook her hand, “I did nothing for you.”
“Wait…” I staggered into the elevator, “What?!”
Grabbing ahold of myself, I whirled back around and grabbed either side of the elevator door.
“You’re done? You won’t help me?”
“Help you? You never needed my help to begin with!” She chuckled and jabbed me in the ribs, “No one ever does. I just have to walk them through it. Everyone I help already knows what they need.”
“I don’t!”
She rolled her eyes, “Death!”
“What if I go to hell?”
“Aren’t you already?”
“What if I don’t go anywhere? What if there’s nothing after death, what if-”
“Then life is as pointless as a dream.”
I stepped back into the elevator.
“Death is a dream that never ends.”
The doors began to close as The Therapist posed her final question.
“Why wait for the glory of immortality when your mortality is a nightmare?”
– – –
Malcolm dragged his fingers from the keyboard. Grabbing the mouse, he scrolled to the top of the page and read to the end of the document. Then again. And one last time. His fingers drifted back over the keys.
– – –
I’m not sure why I wrote this. Maybe as one final gut check. To see the logic neatly typed out in black and white. Don’t blame The Therapist. If I hadn’t met her, then I would’ve done the same. Only I would’ve been afraid. I’m not afraid now. I’m excited. Giddy, almost. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way in my waking life.
I finally have control.
I’m going somewhere.
– – –
Satisfied, he left the desk and approached the bed where his keys lay. The distinct jingling of metal woke the baby who immediately asserted her discontent with a melody of wails. Undeterred, Malcolm slipped the key chain into his pocket and checked his phone.
A text message from his neighbor read, “We propped the door open, got plenty of beer!”
Malcolm took a step towards the crib then hesitated. He couldn’t. Pivoting, he marched out of the bedroom. He paused instinctively to lock the door, then stopped. Should he? Yes. He did. Then he turned to the stairs. There were only a few flights to climb. The staircase ended at a door that was normally locked but was kept ajar by a lone tennis shoe. He slipped onto the roof quietly. His neighbor’s party was going on above and behind the doorway. The bouncing light and dancing silhouettes projected on the rooftop before him.
If he hadn’t met The Therapist, he might’ve joined them. The beer might’ve deluded his resolve. But no. He was going somewhere.
He strode away from the flickering shadows of the party and towards the dark edges of the building. He stared into the multicolor lights of the city, beautiful yet meager in comparison to the starlight they’d replaced. He thought of her smile and the baby’s tight grip on his index finger. He could hear her giggle. He could see her blush. It was time to go home.
Malcolm climbed on top of the concrete slabs that trimmed the building, then dove out of the world that haunted him.
– – –
“Malcolm? Malcolm?” Her voice was sweet yet invigorating, like cinnamon, “You’ve got to wake up.”
I stirred, not to wake but to turn onto my side.
“Maaalcooolm!”
“I’m up,” I murmured, unable to fend off a smirk.
“You’ve got to get up,” she urged.
“I know…” I rolled on top of her, kissing her forehead, cheek, and chin, “I’m up.”
“Okay-” She took my lips then said, “now, get up!”
Finally, I conceded. Rolling out of bed, I staggered to the dresser. As I sifted through my options I heard the baby stir behind me, murmuring gibberish.
“Hush, hush.” I said, “Go back to sleep.”
“She won’t,” my wife said, “she hates to see you leave.”
“I wish I didn’t have to,” I admitted.
“Same,” she said, “Same.”