It's Just One Night

Last night I dreamt I was at my Nanna’s house in Linlithgow. I’ve always believed her house to be haunted. I should know; I spent almost every school holiday there. A faulty radio switches itself on and off and broadcasts loud static (and maybe quiet voices, and maybe not). Curtains billow wildly after dark. I would never spend the night alone there, even now.

In my dream I am fifteen years old. My Nanna’s best friend has had a fall. Nanna is telling me she has to visit her friend to watch her, just until the next morning. “You’ll be alone tonight, hen,” she says. “You’re a brave lassie, you’ll be fine.”

I don’t want to be left alone.

“It’s just one night, hen.”

My Nanna has left. She packed an enormous suitcase (for just one night?) and put it in the boot of a rust-red Morris Minor. Which is strange, because my Nanna doesn’t drive. But this is a dream, and you don’t question things in dreams.

I’m in the bath. I don’t remember undressing, or running the water. The bathroom window is open wide. Outside the sun is setting. The bathroom is orange, then red. There is a mirror on the ceiling, in my dream. (In the waking world, there is no mirror; but this is a dream.) The mirror is misted by condensation but I can make out my reflection. It’s warped and indistinct like an impressionist painting. A small pale girl. A splash of dark paint around her head to symbolise her hair. A smaller splash at her crotch.

My best friend is standing in the doorway. She watches me, silent. In my dream I am fifteen years old so I expect my friend to be similarly reduced in age. But she is not; she is twenty, and tall, and slim, and aloof. She is naked, too, but her body lacks detail, like my reflection in the condensed mirror. I feel a sort of vulnerability, led before her in the bath. My nipples are hard and there is a warmth beginning to grow in my crotch.

My friend turns to leave and I call out after her. I don’t want to be left alone.

She speaks then, in a whisper. Just five words. And what she whispers is this: “It’s just one night, hen.”

The sun sets. The bedroom is dark and the night has come. I twist in the sheets, trying to make myself comfortable. My hair and body are wet. Was I in the bath? Or did I imagine it? The mirror is still above me but now the glass is frosted. The tingling warmth in my lower body is growing stronger. I kick back the damp sheets. I stroke my nipples: I circle each areola, gently pinch each teat. Then I can bear it no longer and I’m reaching down, caressing my chest, my stomach, my mound.

I run my fingers through my pubic hair. The dream is authentic in this detail: although I always trimmed my hair short as a teenager, I only started to fully shave it in recent months. Rather than the coarse and curly hair of my girlfriends, mine is soft and straight. A trait from the Asian half of my family.

With my left hand, I spread my labia and slip the forefinger of my right hand inside to wet it. Then, with my left hand I press against my mons. The pressure encourages my clitoris to peek out from under her hood; I withdraw my finger from inside me and tease her, gently. She starts to swell.

I’m starting to sweat. (Or am I just wet from the bath?) I lick my upper lip, taste salt. I lean back and twist my head in my pillow, tugging at my hair. I’ve always enjoyed having my hair lightly pulled. I start to rock myself in the bed, in time with the teasing of my clit. My labia are now swollen and I can feel my love-honey beginning to drip down between my thighs to the bedsheets.

“She’s about to come,” says my teacher. I’m in a classroom at school. I’m led on the carpet, surrounded by the students from my drama class. The blinds are drawn and it is dark, and my drama teacher is shining a torch at me. I’m in the spotlight, centre of attention, the star of the show. I arch my back and spread my legs as a balloon of bliss inflates inside me. I try to keep my eyes open so I can watch my audience as they watch me. But the pleasure builds. My eyes close. I bite my lip. My cunt is a furnace.

And then I’m plunging into cold water, hissing. The balloon bursts inside me. I feel my whole cunt rising and falling, palpitating and throbbing violently.

“Bravo!” says my teacher.

“Bravo, bravo, well done,” murmur my schoolfriends. There is polite applause.

My orgasm slowly subsides. Occasional tremors of pleasure wash over me as I come down from my high. I open my eyes and look around me. My teacher has passed his torch to one of the students. He directs its beam between my legs and whistles. “Look how wet she is,” he says. Other students crowd around. They stare between my legs. I feel the last ebb of my orgasm lap against me; my cunt clenches, then relaxes.

“Her breasts are so small,” says one of the girls.

“I want to see between her legs,” says one of the boys.

One at a time,” says my teacher. “You can all look, just one at a time.” And then he glances at me. He smiles tenderly and tells me it will be alright. “After all, it’s just one night, hen.”

The sound of waves on the shore are soothing. The boat rocks in the water. I’m still led on my back (why don’t I stand up?) and I can feel the thrum of the engine through the deck. The vibrations feel good and they send shivers down my body. Kurt is stood over me. Like me, he’s naked; like me, he’s fifteen. His smooth hairless chest is glistening with sweat. His pubic area is shaved and his slim penis hangs down, elegantly curved. I open my legs and he stands between them. His eyes linger on my small breasts, then focus on my crotch. His penis bobs. Perhaps it’s the motion of the boat on the water; perhaps it’s the beginnings of an erection. I watch it, fascinated, for signs of growth.

I’ve seen Kurt naked in the waking world, but never erect.

“Will you touch yourself?” he asks me.

I nod. I’m still wet. I start to tease my clit. Kurt says, “No. I mean inside. Touch yourself inside.” His penis is still soft but he’s taken it in one hand and is slowly stroking it.

I’ve never brought myself to orgasm from penetration. I don’t dislike the feeling; but it doesn’t take me to the heights I crave, so I rarely touch myself there, other than to lubricate my fingers. But I want to arouse Kurt. I run the forefinger of my right hand along my cleft, then gradually push it inside me, then retract it. It isn’t long enough, and the angle is all wrong, so I swap to my middle finger and carefully reach inside me again. That’s better. I support the back of my right hand with my left, then rock against it, pressing it deeper and deeper inside me. I place my thumb above my clitoris and with every press it makes contact and sparks an electrical charge throughout my body.

Kurt is breathing heavily. His hair is shorter and he is bearded. He’s twenty years old, standing over me, marvelling at my young body: at my miniature breasts, at my hands between my legs. His penis is now erect. He isn’t touching it any more. It juts out in front of him. Still with a slight curve. His foreskin has retracted, partially exposing his glans.

My best friend is stood behind him. She reaches around and places her hand on his manhood. Kurt grunts as she strokes him.

I focus on the vibrations through the deck of the boat. I focus on my thumb making contact with my clitoris as I rock against my hand. I focus on Kurt’s cock and my friend’s hands and the sound of the ocean.

The curtains are thrashing about violently. Radio static screams in my ears.

And then it was this morning, and I was awake. In my bed, in my house, in Edinburgh. A bright summer day. The windows were open; the breeze was causing the curtains to dance and my nipples to harden. Outside was the sound of someone mowing their lawn. On reflection, I suppose it sounded a little like radio static.

I thought of my dream. I’m no exhibitionist, but the idea of being naked in front of others – my best friend, my drama class, and the first boy I ever had feelings for – was strangely arousing. Haunted by my orgasm, I got up to run myself a bath. My clit was still throbbing and I wanted to relive my dream.