boatloads of shame (dream)

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Thunder clashed with lightning ominously and rain ran out of the sky as the leaves swirled in a chaotic dance, violently attacking one another. I shouldn't have come here, I thought as I sat in the car looking through the streaked windshield at the eerie and darkening woods where a few snakes slithered to safety. It's over between us. I should let it go, I thought. My stomach writhed with tension. For a moment I thought I might be sick. I opened the door and the rain spilled onto me. I grabbed my bag from the back seat and the wind howled and moaned as I ran across the loose wet gravel from the car toward the black imposing door of the house, seeking shelter, seeking her, and a release from the pain. I stepped through into the house without knocking, hurriedly escaping the attacking elements. I could feel her tortured presence. Something was off and everything was wrong. The house was large, monotone modern and vacant feeling. Gloomy lights led down stark hallways to large lifeless windows that stared coldly out at the surrounding woods and lake. A pale sterile museum like house jutted out into the turbulent waves of the water behind the property where Martha Stewart floated serenely in her bikini on a floaty tied to the dock as the storm clouds enclosed.

I looked around for her dropping my bag to the floor and wiping the wetness from my hair and face, sensing her just before she appeared out of nowhere looking white trash worn, wearing cutoff shorts with a tight yellow wife beater t-shirt. Her face was ashen. Her eyes fixed coals. Sadness permeated her skin. She was an empty vessel and I longed to touch her, to stop the aching inside of me.

She took me by the hand without saying a word and guided me to a bedroom where she undressed me in silent distanced regard, then took off her clothes under the dead light as the storm thrashed outside the windows. I put her up against the desk like a porno. The tension, the sadness, and the disgust with myself for returning after the things that she'd done filled me, as sweating, and on the verge of crying she made me cum. She turned to look at me, searchingly, her eyes filled with black shame.

I went to the bathroom to shower, looking at myself in the harsh reflection, noticing the wart that had formed on the end of my dick as panic and anxiety filled me. I walked to her in the other room where she stood looking absently out of the window at Martha Stewart who floated languidly in the midst of the choppy waves and insanity. I felt defeated and ashamed for ever caring about her. Why didn't you tell me? I demanded of her. Her eyes were blank as she turned, her expression dull. What did you do while I was gone? I asked, pleading with her. I did what I needed to, she said flatly. I slept with Joy. You should have told me, I said sadly looking down at my deformed self. You gave me something. You should have told me. I still love you, she said and turned away toward the window and Martha Stewart drifting peacefully in the storm.