Archive-name: Dreams/drmyouth.txt

Archive-title: Dreams of Youth





	Chapter 1:



I am having strange, recurring dreams.  It isn't the same dream every night,

but it is the same shameful theme again and again.  In the dream, I go back

into the past and I visit my younger self.  Then I seduce and have sex with

him.  The dream always ends shortly after I come, but although I always come

in the dream, I don't have a wet dream in real life.  In fact, despite the

expectations raised by sex education films and lectures, which led me to

believe that wet dreams would be a frequent, perplexing, and often embarrassing

part of puberty, I still have not had one.



My most recent of these dreams was perhaps the most disturbing of those I have

experienced so far, because the younger me whom I visited was so much younger.

I'm not good with ages, and I didn't ask how old he was, but I estimate after

the fact that he was probably ten or eleven at most.



The dreams start very normally -- for dreams, that is.  I am doing some unusual

dream event, engaged in one surreal plotline or another, and I turn the corner

and come face to face with my younger self.  And then the plot of the dream

changes entirely over to this new plot of greetings, verification,

reminiscence, and then, ultimately, seduction of the most incestuous type

imaginable.



This time I had been having a dream based on a computer wargame I had played

earlier in the evening.  I was in a stone castle, conferring with my generals

(I think we were trying to decide what kind of pizza to order), when I excused

myself from the table to go to the restroom.  When I rounded the corner, I

entered a courtyard which transformed into the playground of my old elementary

school.  I walked through the playground and up one of the empty short-

ceilinged corridors of classrooms, when one of the doors opened, and I walked

out, or rather a child version of myself walked out.



He sized me up, and I said, "Hi, Billy."



He stopped.  "Hello," he said in two very distinct syllables.  His hair was

strikingly blond, but his face was the one from old pictures and mirrored

memories.  He was wearing Nike "Wally Waffle" shoes, purplish toughskin jeans,

and a greenish polyester shirt composed of a collage of pictures of

motorcycles.  The embarrassment which I should have felt at the time over this

choice of outfit, I felt instead now as an adult, coming uninvited from his

future to judge.



He very obviously didn't recognize me at all.  Still, I asked, "Do you

recognize me?"



He looked at me even closer, as if I were a distant relative he might be asked

to hug, and started to sway from side to side in his Wally Waffles.  "No."

(two syllables again -- "No-oh")



So I told him, "I'm you as a grown-up, I've come from the future to talk to

you."



"No way." he said, but remarkably, he seemed willing to entertain the

possibility that it was true.  "What's my name?" he asked, to test me.



"Billy Lowgren," I said.  I call myself Bill now.



"What's my middle name?"



"Hugh."



"How do you spell it?"



At first I was puzzled by this question.  Then I remembered that when I was

very young, I thought that my middle name was spelled "Hue" (having seen that

word on a color chart at school or in a book).  When I was corrected, I for a

long time had the mistaken impression that the real spelling of my middle name

was a rare and strange variant of how most people spell the name Hugh.

"H-U-G-H," I said.



This impressed him.  He had never seen me before, and yet I could spell Hugh

correctly.  This gave an air of authenticity to my strange story.  He then

quizzed me about my parents' names, and their birthdates (I think he was

bluffing there.  I don't think I knew their birthdays by heart until I was

half-way through college).  Then he told me that if I was him from the future,

I should know everything about him, and if so I should be able to tell him

what he had in his backpack.  I did some bluffing of my own and said that he

had some homework and books, but that was clearly not specific enough for him.



"What book?" he asked.



"Alan and Naomi," I guessed.



"Wrong," he said, with two syllables, but by this time he really wanted to

believe me.



"I don't remember very well," I confessed, and then tried to change the

subject.  It was time to start the seduction part -- a part of the dream I

don't enter through an act of will so much as through the will of the

mysterious dream playwright whose directions I am taking.  The interpretation

of the role, and even the dialog, is under my control; but the general

outlines of the plot are tragically unalterable.  "When do you get out of

school?" I asked.



"I am out.  I hadta stay after school today.  Mrs. Habbat said I was talking."



I sympathized.  "Why don't you take me down to where you and Colin sometimes

go."  Colin was a boy I played I'll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours with

for a while in elementary school.  I wasn't sure if it was before or after I

was the age of little Billy, so this was a risky question.



He looked at me more seriously this time, cocking his head to one side, and

balancing all of his weight on one Wally Waffle.  A part of me that was

detached from the dream was hoping he'd have the good sense to say no, but I

knew that he wouldn't.  Finally, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and said

"okay.  Let me get my bicycle" ("Bike," the word that would have been more

natural, was taboo because there was a playground joke which depended for its

punch-line on the fact that "Bike" was the name of a brand of underwear.

Saying that you were going to "ride my bike" was always worth a couple of good

digs in your direction).



We walked toward the bike racks, me keeping my distance from young Billy, who

was swinging his backpack around recklessly.  He unlocked his bicycle and

slung the chain around his shoulder, then we started back the way we came, he

riding circles around me as I walked back through the playground to where I

half-remembered was mine and Colin's secret hideout.



Because I still live in the town I grew up in, my cartographic memories of it

become supplanted each day by new ones.  In my dream, then, I was surprised to

find many familiar parts of the town, even among those few visible from the

school, that were different or missing entirely.  The barely-remembered

hideout to which we were headed was in a collection of large mounds of dirt

and fields of wild bamboo that today is a very flat softball field.



"Are you a scientist," Billy asked me, now apparently convinced of my identity.



"I'm a computer scientist," I said, hoping this was good enough.  My

elementary school vision of scientist (a role I hoped one day to occupy) was

very much of the white lab-coat and test-tube variety.



His eyes lit up -- this apparently was fine with him.  He continued to whirl

around me on the bicycle.  "Are you married?"



"No."



"Why not?"



"I haven't met anyone I want to marry yet."



"Oh."



When we got to the mounds and bamboo, Billy got off of the bicycle and started

to push it by the handlebars among the maze-like hills of dirt.  I followed

him in.  "Do you like school?" I asked.



"Yeah, sorta."



"What's your favorite subject?"



"Science."  Of course.



"What did you do in science today?"



"We drew the solar system."



"That sounds interesting."



"But the Sun was too big, so we left it out.  I made the side of the paper all

yellow."



We arrived at the hiding-place.  It was a hollow where some of the bamboo had

been cut away to make an uncomfortable seat.  We played a truth-or-dare kind

of game where the winner sat in the "throne" and the loser had to do what the

winner said.  By convention, the winner couldn't ask for anything too

outrageous, because the loser would eventually have his turn to make demands.



"Could you teach me how to play the game you and Colin play?  I forget how to

play it."



"You put your fist out like this," he said and demonstrated.



I interrupted, suddenly remembering it all.  "Rock scissors paper," I said.



"Right!  And then the winner gets to tell the loser what to do.  But you can't

do anything to make us get caught, or else...  you lose really bad."



I remember the or else part as it originally went:  "or else you have to hump

Heidi Horton."  But that was something we wouldn't say around grown-ups, of

course, and young Billy didn't want to say it to me.



I put my fist out, and so did he.  Three times our fists rose and fell.  I was

paper, he was scissors.  He went over to sit in the throne.  "You have to pull

down your pants and turn around three times."



I unbuttoned and unzipped my pants, and then exhaled and pulled my pants and

my underwear down to my knees.  I stood there briefly, and then clumsily

rotated in place three times.  I felt as silly as I have ever felt in my life.  I pulled my pants back up.



Seemingly unmoved by the spectacle (although I saw his eyes on my penis each

time I faced him and wondered what he thought of its size and bushiness), he

offered his fist again, eager to move on.  This time, I won (paper against

rock) and, out of courtesy, gave him the same punishment.



He eagerly dropped his pants and started to turn, holding his shirt up over

his white belly which was swollen out over his tiny, bald scrotum and erect

penis.  I was very ashamed, but I hadn't totally forgotten the excitement this

game caused in me when I was younger.  I tried to remember some of the

punishments we designed, so that I wouldn't accidentally come up with

something completely out of left field.  I remembered that once we commanded

each other to tie a blade of grass around our penises right about at the

circumcision scar.  By the time we got home, our tender skin was swollen red

and itching from allergy.  An embarrassing and uncomfortable experience -- we

vowed the next day to be more careful from then on.



I won the next round (paper against rock again), and commanded him to pull

down his pants, get on his bicycle and ride back and forth over an

approximately eight-foot stretch of ground in front of me.  He complied,

although this entailed pulling his pants completely off of one leg (which he

did without removing his Wally Waffle), something that was normally not done

in the course of the game (it involved the danger of not being able to pull

one's pants up quickly enough in case someone discovered us -- the added

danger also meant added excitement, but was rarely indulged in nonetheless.)



By now, in spite of my best intentions, I was becoming erect and excited.  I

won the next round (rock against scissors) and made him pull down his pants,

turn around, touch his toes and count to fifty.  He clearly enjoyed this

(although he counted so fast it was hard to distinguish one number from the

next), but it looked like he hadn't wiped in a month, so any added pleasure I

had expected from his fulfilling my command was not forthcoming.



I finally lost (scissors against rock), and he wanted to subject me to the

bicycle.  I did so, feeling and enjoying (to my surprise) the danger factor of

having one leg fully bare.  My erection was by this time at its peak, and the

pressure on my perineum from his banana seat was exquisite (even knowing what

I remembered about my boyhood wiping habits).  When I pulled my pants up I

made sure I was close to him, and I did it slowly so he could watch for a long

time.



He won again (paper against scissors) and wanted me to take off my shirt and

twist it up lengthwise and then wrap it around my erection (my "wiener," he

said).  I did this, but I could tell that it didn't have the effect that he

hoped it would.  He shifted back and forth in his toughskins, holding on to a

bamboo pole and waiting eagerly for me to unwrap myself so we could play

another round.



I thought for a moment, deciding finally on rock.  After two ties, he switched

to scissors and I took a chance, sitting down on the ground below the throne

and ordering him to take off his pants and put his "wiener" in my mouth.  This

was a true break from convention, as usually the commands were about display

and self-manipulation.  Colin and I almost never touched each other.



But Billy was a sport about it, dropping his pants, and standing between my

outstretched legs.  I moved forward, to sit gently on his toes, casting an

uncomfortable glance toward the stain on his white underpants.  Then, quickly,

I put my hands on his bottom and put my mouth around his penis and scrotum.  I

couldn't see his face, so I don't know how he reacted.  I genuinely enjoyed

myself, gently caressing the incredibly smooth hemispheres of his bottom, and

pulling back slightly to suck slowly on his small salty warm penis.



It was really an unexpected treat, and I lingered far longer than game

tradition called for.  I was worried at one point that the wetness of my mouth

might trigger urination in my boy self (A worry I felt as a youngster as I

slowly absorbed the facts of life was that I might urinate when ejaculation

was called for.  I knew there was a difference, but I could not even guess at

what the mode of conscious differentiation might be.  I knew that I wasn't

presently capable of summoning up fluid from different organs at will, and I

was very worried that when the time came I might mistakenly produce the wrong

type.  It was not until my sixth-grade sex education classes that that worry

 -- and another one about whether the vulva was fore or aft of the anus --

was finally resolved), but this fear was unfounded.



This oral experience may not have been the sexual crescendo for Billy that it

could have been were he a little older, but it certainly expanded his visions

of what his sex game could be like.  As I broke away from his body, he

hesitated to pull up his pants, and I guessed that rock scissors paper, once a

vital ritual, would no longer be necessary.  "Do you want to see what I taste

like?" I asked.



"No fair," he said (ignoring that I hadn't gone through the formality of

winning a round before I asked), "you're bigger."  His pants were still around

his ankles.  I pulled myself up and dropped my pants down, pulling them off

one leg to demostrate my willingness to become vulnerable.  "You don't have to

put all of it in," I told him.



He moved his face slowly toward my erection, then pulled back, puzzled at how

to get his mouth around it.  He reached out his hand slowly and small,

tentative fingers reached around the back of my penis and pulled it forward.

When he put his lips to the tip, I reached out and grabbed the bamboo.  He was

heavy on the teeth, and he didn't go down very far at all, but it was heavenly.



"That was very nice," I told him when he pulled his face away.  "Let me show

you something."  I started to masturbate, fast, furiously, probably scaring

him half to death.  He stared, open-eyed and slack-jawed, probably barely

breathing.  When I came, he was astonished to see me ejaculate, and backed up

so quickly that he tripped over his pants and dropped right on his bare behind.

That was the last thing I saw before I woke up, ashamed, and wishing, as I

always do after these dreams, that I had asked all the questions I should have

asked, and not done the shameful sexual things.





	Chapter 2:

	==========



My first dream was a guilty pleasure, yes, but was nothing as terrifying or

abhorrent as my most recent.  The young me was around eighteen -- very young

still, but a far cry from outright pedophilia.



He was sitting in front of his computer in my old dorm room at college; before

I disturbed him (I was behind him, and had apparantly come into the room

silently), I looked around, indulging in the kind of innocent reminiscence you

can probably imagine.  Rock and roll posters on the walls, textbooks from

subjects I barely remembered learning, a picture of my first girlfriend next

to me on the desk (she, alas, had gone on scholarship to a different college,

and we had carried on a difficult relationship via roadtrip for months).



I am never sure what to make of the worlds I visit in these dreams.  Are they

completely in my head -- incredibly vivid memories, complete with former

incarnations of my ego and surroundings.  That isn't too far fetched.  I have

had dreams in the past -- regular dreams -- which amazed me in their

inventiveness and verisimilitude.  But I sometimes wonder if I am in fact

entering the past, altering it, as if there were a series of selves, all

eminating from the past but all continuing in their present moment like images

reflected endlessly in parallel mirrors, that I return to warp, to alter,

frankly, to molest in mind and body.



It has occurred to me that such reckless post facto mahem might send ripples

forward, and that perhaps in some science fiction sense, the dreams were self-

generated out of the trauma that they caused, preserving the law of cause and

effect in some hopelessly weird way, and leaving only the word "WHY?" branded

searing and dark on the meat of my brain.



Another more hopeful explanation is that I travel in my dreams to the dreams

of my younger selves.  This would help explain the sometimes unexpected

behavior that they exhibit, and the fact that I have no conscious memories of

the encounters.  As a case in point, when I announced my presence ("Hi, Bill,"

I said, in my normal tone of voice), the younger Bill did not jump in

astonishment at the person who had appeared behind him, having come silently

through his third-storey window or locked dorm-room door.  He merely turned

his swivel-chair around and said "Hi!" as if I were an old friend he didn't

know was in town.



As this was the first dream of this sort that I have had, I did not yet have a

standard "I am you from the future" speech well-rehearsed, but fortunately the

face he saw looked so similar to the one he saw in the mirror that it was

clear no explanations would be necessary.  He asked me my age (although I, of

course, did not ask his.  It is not as though I were forbidden, exactly; it's

just that I seem to forget, and only wish I had asked when I awaken), and I

gave it to him.  He asked me if I ever graduated, I told him that in fact I

had.  He asked me when, but my brain was too fuzzy to do the necessary

arithmatic or to remember the number on my diploma, which disappointed him.

In retrospect, it is probably best that I was unable to produce the figure, as

it took me about seven years from my freshman year(s) to reach the finish

line, and this fact may have proven dispiriting.



In turn, I asked him how things were going with Amy (my then long-distance

lover) -- things were going "pretty well," but the distance was, of course, a

problem as I certainly remembered.  I asked him please to describe the last

time they had made love (both as part of the seduction process, and because

some of my best sexual memories are of Amy, and as I grow older these memories

are becoming less and less vivid -- I wanted a better snapshot, and this was a

golden opportunity).  He was eager to comply; talking about sex with my best

friend or two had been perhaps my second-favorite activity at the time.



The scenario which developed, after much prodding for details by my(older)self,

was of a motel room in L----- where we had met -- half-way -- one weekend

early in our first semester apart.  We had had sex no fewer than three times

that evening -- we didn't even leave the motel room to eat until after noon

the next day.  My memories became more vivid with the telling, a handful of

details springing back to life with each one my younger self revealed.



I remembered Amy fondly as an lunatic bitch from hell who saved me from

graduating from high school a virgin.  I loved her deeply, and she loved me

passionately and almost drove me insane.  We were both virgins when we met,

which led to not one, but two nights of embarassing attempts at accomplishing

what our parents warned us could be perpetrated upon us at the drop of a hat

without our constant vigilance.  Virginities we had been warned not to lose,

we found difficult to give away.



But still, she was either an amazing learner or a seductress of instinct.  She

gave the best blow jobs I have had to this day, some dozen sexual partners and

another dozen bizarre dreams later.  My near-overdose of pleasant recollection

was interrupted:  "I didn't marry her, did I?" he asked.



It amused me that I had ever even considered it a possibility.  Marriage was

to me then (and still is to me now, actually) a spectre of mythological

fascination.  It seemed to strike people down in the prime of life almost

without warning, although in consensus reality it was assumed to be a matter

of choice and deliberation.  It frightened me, and although instinctively I

felt that plunging into a steady heterosexual relationship was probably a way

of putting myself in marital jeopardy, I did not actually know this to be the

case and so was prepared to risk it and perhaps plead ignorance at the altar

if the time came.



"No," I said, and almost added that they would be broken up within several

weeks.  I decided that this comment would somehow go over the bounds of what a

temporal alien could wisely admit, and kept it to myself.



He initiated our sexual activity, which surprised me a great deal during the

dream (I was still trying to decide on a seduction method) but is less

surprising to me now, remembering my hormone level at the time.  I was

inclined, as a young collegiate, to want to jump on anything representing a

possible willing orifice, and nobody is less likely to refuse than yourself, I

suppose.



We stripped, separately, and then I guided him over to the bed with a hand on

the small of his back.  He lay down and I began to suck him off -- he made so

much noise!  I remember really enjoying oral sex when I was younger, but I

don't remember being so loud.  On impulse, I got up and looked in each of the

two places I remember keeping the K-Y when I was in the dorms (I found it

secretively stashed behind the thesaurus).



Lying on the bed next to him, I continued to suck, and he joined in for 69

(which was, and still is, my personal favorite).  Then I slowly worked a well-

lubed finger up his asshole, a treat which in real life would have to wait for

his second girlfriend.  This was doing well for us both, but I did want to

give him as many different experiences as possible at once (dream invader as

faux-benevolent big-brother figure plays strongly in my ethical overcom-

pensation both during the dream and upon awakening).



I removed my finger, sat up and spread my knees apart on either side of his

waist.  I then applied a dollop of K-Y to his erection, and holding it firmly

behind me, sat down slowly on it.  He was mostly silent, staring at my face

and alternately cringing and gasping as I impaled myself.



It was wonderful, and miraculously timed -- him coming with enormous

adolescent bucks as I pumped myself empty onto his hairless chest and belly.

A real winner, even by dream standards, although my dream faded away before I

could collapse into what I think would have been a pleasant, though perhaps

somewhat fraternal, post-coital embrace.





	Chapter 3:

	==========



I have had another dream.  In a way this was the most upsetting one of all,

although, thank goodness, I was not compelled to reach further into the past

and talk my infant self out of his diapers.  No, this dream was a freak, one

that I suspect I wasn't supposed to remember (and if it were not for the

garbage truck accidentally backing into my house at five thirty this morning,

I suspect that it would have passed ungrasped through the still fingers of my

sleeping memory).



I was the visitee this time, and was visited by a bearded me some five to ten

years my senior.  He came into my bedroom while I was asleep; I woke up when I

heard him going through my dresser drawers and closets.  I said, "Hello," and

he replied in kind, and asked me how old I was.  I told him, and then asked

him if I were still living in M----- and if I were still working for C-----.

He said that he was not.



I tried to think of other questions to ask, but the dream playwright cruelly

disallows the presence of mind that it would take to ask the better ones -- Am

I happy?  What would you do differently if you could start at my age again?

Do you have any advice for me?  I was lucky to have been able to ask what I

did.  I tried to remember what the young selves I visited asked me when I came

into their lives, but all of the previous encounters blurred into an

indistinct collection of memories I knew I owned but could not summon.



"Turn over," he said, and I did.  He went straight to the bedstand and pulled

out a tube of skin lotion that my girlfriend (who was not in the room of the

dream) uses.  I felt his knee push the mattress down.  He pulled back the

sheets and unceremoniously slapped a generous handful of cold lotion in the

general vicinity of my anus.  Before I had time to even wonder he was on top

of me, heavy enough to make breathing difficult, and pushing in heavily with

three painful thrusts.



I am a fan of (and no stranger to) penetration, and in my dreams I find it

especially pleasurable, but this was no party.  The older me was thrusting

into me with a rape-like violence that I could feel in my spine -- it was a

mean-spirited fucking that I never considered myself capable of, and that I

could not imagine enjoying.  Over and over, he was saying, "You're a sick

fuck," or "You're a really sick fuck."



Is this really representative of the person I'm going to be years from now?

Or, as in the classic time travel motif, is this just one of many possible

futures, Ebenezer Scrooge, and I can choose another?  Or is it merely a man

tormented by the same dream night after night who is no longer able to feel

the least bit of sympathy for the however-cherubic demons of his nightmare

imagination?



What crimes has he committed in his sleep?  What tortures is he capable of,

each one remaining somewhere in his memory as the perpetrator (and in this one

case at least, the memory of the victim), and building upon the last, until

the victim and criminal are morally separated only in time -- the punishment

is the crime, but why?  Some perverse William Burroughesque nightly turn of

the karmic wheel -- an impassionate natural law gone bezerk visited upon me by

chance or by divine fiat, like original sin or the condemnation of ignorant

heathens, dropping bewildered from death into the inferno.



He was having difficulty reaching orgasm, and had by this time varied his

mantra to "You're a really fucking sick fuck."  I was pinned by his weight,

and by the general inertia of dream world coenesthetic tunnel vision, could do

little but time my breathing, and feel the ripping of my anus and compression

of my prostate and ripples of pain and pressure up and down my lower back.



He finally came (by then I had become "a really fucking sick fucking fuck"),

and was probably transported out of his dream, although in mine, he was a

sleeping dead weight on my back, dripping semen, blood, and skin lotion down

my upper thigh.  I moved slowly out from under him, and went out into the

living room, where an animated, well-dressed crowd was engaging in ballroom

dancing to the accompaniment of a big-band style orchestra.  I just wanted to

get some orange juice, but I wasn't wearing anything, so I snuck around behind

potted plants and the grand piano (thankfully not catching anyone's

attention).  When I got to the kitchen, there wasn't any orange juice left in

the refrigerator, and then the garbage truck backed into my house and I woke

up and remembered it all.



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