It was a dream, no a nightmare… no just a dream, a little bad, but nothing terrible, No one died in the dream, no burning buildings or earthquakes, hurricanes or tidal waves. You might call it comedy, but I always felt it was a bit tragedy, I mean you live your life in search of something and then you finally achieve all your dreams and you’re left with nothing really more to dream about. Well, that was how I felt, at least that was how I felt in the dream.
Confusing, yeah I’m confused too, I mean I go to bed one night and there it is, a dream that satisfies all my fantasies and then all to quickly ends, and I am left wishing there was more. It all has to do with proximity, when you get so close to something you can smell it, actually taste it in the air and yet you don’t dare dream more. Well, you do dare for more, but you don’t dare believe it when it happens.

The dream, I dreamt a dream, the dream I always dreamed of dreaming and then suddenly I was asleep and dreaming it. And it was real, as real as any dream I ever had, I could taste, smell and feel every nuance of the dream as it crawled over my body and into my head. Amazing it would happen with something as simple as climbing into bed and placing my head on a pillow and falling asleep.

It was nineteen seventy three and Isadora Wing flew into my life within the pages of Erica Jong’s classic book and I knew I’d never read the same again. I was shocked, stunned and aroused by the understanding that there were women who craved the “zipless fuck” and hell, I might as well be the guy to give it to them. It wouldn’t be hard, it was simply right there in the book, all I had to do was… was… hell, I had no idea and it killed me. So many women wanting nameless, casual sex and I didn’t have a clue on how to get in on it.

From nineteen seventy three until last night I was lost and wondering about it all. Anne Sexton died in seventy four but I didn’t even know about it until years later, people lived and died everyday up until last night and last night it happened. Last night I dreamt I was her zipper.

Not just any zipper, I dreamt I was Erica Jong’s zipper. It was amazing I mean she wasn’t old in the dream, she was young, typing a book that would twist the world off its axis. And when she showered, dried off and pulled on some lace panties I quickly followed, as she took her index finger and thumb and slowly, sensuously pulled me upward as the length of me was drawn tight against the lace panties.

Suddenly, only fractions of a millimeter separated me from the pussy that was connected to the mind that guided the fingers that wrote the words. The very same fingers that held me while zipping up had touched that pussy, slipped themselves inside and then touched the clit, gently caressing it until she came, until Erica Jong came. And then, I was rumpled on the floor listening, or even better, tossed aside on the bed to watch as she spread her legs for her lover, as she took his hard cock and guided inside her.

I felt the rhythmic waves shudder over the bed and listened to her moan deliciously as her lover’s cock moved deep inside her, bringing her closer, yes closer and then watching it all slip away as she’s suddenly flooded with his hot sticky cum. She’d later dress and ooze into her panties, dampening me with his cum, a feeling that was very different from when I felt just her wetness coat me.

Once she didn’t wear any panties and I nuzzled against her delicate lips as her curly hair slipped around me, tangling in my teeth. It hurt her a bit as she unzipped, but each strand of hair that pulled away teased me for days, reminding me of the soft, moist feel of her pussy on me. It was a wild, sexy time being the second closest thing to her pussy as she wrote, as she ached, as she cried and laughed. Each time she moved I could feel the slight variations in her lips, feel the occasionally moistness as she wrote and dreamed of sex.

Of course it all came crashing down with Fear of Flying as she went zipless, and suddenly I became a shackle to her, a symbol of restraint. We drifted apart with time as she aged and style changed and she finally tossed me away with the worn, old fabric that held me, leaving me to wake up in a dumpster. In a single night’s time my dreams were fufilled, my fantasy sated and Erica became a faint memory and a few twisted pubic hairs still tangled around me.

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