“Lucy Dreaming” by Emma Reed Jones

Neil pulls the blanket back and starts kissing my neck with tongue and teeth, encircling it with one hand while he moves his mouth downward. I shiver. Toward the side of my breast the nipple rises as he brushes its side with his lips. My body tenses all over. He nibbles my nipple, intensifies, pulls the blanket back further. I’m naked. He starts running his hand down my body, just over the rise of my stomach, strokes my breast and stomach slow.

I’m awake now. I reach and get the back of his head, hold on. We kiss slowly then I turn my face and he sinks his teeth in the flesh of my neck. Goosebumps rush across me sideways. I arch my body against his and pull him on top of me, push the blanket aside and raise my legs so his cock can rub against me while he bites my neck. The feeling of his skin against my nipples and stomach shudders wet between my legs. My thighs quiver involuntarily: the tip of his cock’s lightly rubbing the edges of my cunt, rubbing my body crazy.

He’s teasing me, pushing his cock into me as slowly as possible, making me lift my hips and reach. He’s kneeling. He grabs my hips and pulls me forward deep onto his cock, the air in front of my face starting to dissolve. I can’t see. I gasp. The rhythm starting now. Deep inside a burning pleasure is beginning to grow and spread outward. I arch back. It’s orange and quivering opening closing, unspeakable and red.

“Lucy,” he calls me. I sit up, rotate so now he’s underneath me. I fuck him hard, rubbing my clit in circles against his skin. As everything starts to gather there, rising deep inside, the edges start burning. I can hardly breathe. I gasp, “bite me,” and Neil bites my arms, sharply. My body rises many feet off the bed, becomes surrounded by a vibrating glow. I’m starting to come. I cry out over and over, think I’m going to faint, then lean forward and keep fucking.

I have brown curly hair that’s getting long, small nose, green eyes. My body is compact; I am built to withstand. In my mind I grow large and float over city streets. I look down: Neil disappears, Manhattan disappears. Most of all, I disappear.

I’m walking on 85th toward Amsterdam. A tall, thin boy passes by, dressed in black. A Herman Hesse novel sticks out of the back pocket of his black jeans. I chase pigeons with my feet. The sun pours through the trees like honey. I’m smiling.

The clock says something incomprehensible. I dream I’m kissing a girl but a boy wants to fuck her and his cock is hard and I want it, but he wants her instead of me. Everyone’s a family and playing in bathtubs. I tell someone I’m going to my room to masturbate, then I wake up coming. My body rests against Neil’s back. My arm, draped over his chest, begins stroking. I smell the scent of his neck. Without looking at me he takes my hand and pushes it down to his cock. I wonder if he’s awake; his cock is hard.  Touching it, I fall back asleep. I dream I’m getting a piercing in my nose, on the left side, with a ruby. But after it’s done I decide against it.

Communication begins disintegrating, spreading itself apart, dissolving at the seams. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” People ask each other, “Do you know what I mean?”

Brick walls begin to grow up around the people, between them. They sprout like trees, tall and thick as houses. The brick’s red. The people turn round and round. They’re frightened, can’t see each other, don’t know what’s going on. They begin to run, over and over again, crashing their bodies into the brick walls. I am knitting a blanket of complex patterns. I hold it up to the light.

Some of the people say they are becoming disillusioned, but others tell them not to be.

“We’ve been doing this for years,” they say, running.  At the sound of a cracking skull they seem pleased.  They say, “You hear that?” “We’re really getting somewhere,” they say.

In the kitchen, Neil is staring at his hands, not speaking.  We have not yet had breakfast.

“What is it?” I ask him.

“Lucy, I can’t see you anymore,” he tells me in a strained tone. “This relationship is too serious, meaning: this relationship does not exist.” He looks at me expectantly then looks away. His brow wrinkles.

“Oh,” I say.  I am totally crushed.  “I’m glad you’ve decided to mention this to me.” My face feels hot and numb at once.

Neil and I go out for coffee. We don’t talk. Before I leave I stick my tongue in Neil’s ear. He lays his hand against my ass. I leave the coffee shop in tears.

I dream I am married to Neil and he throws my baby out of a window. It lands on the grass, bounces once.  In my dream I go completely insane, begin screaming and can’t stop. I tell Neil he’s insane: I love him, I don’t love him.

When I wake up Neil is lying on the floor in the living room.  He’s awake.  I walk out of the bedroom naked, he stares at me.

“If this relationship does not exist, as you say,” I say to Neil, “then I refuse to stick around. Meaning: I refuse to have you stick around.”

Neil immediately bursts into tears. “My parents never loved me,” he wails, “I don’t know how to love! I love you!”

“Neil,” I say, “you threw my baby out of a window.  There is no excuse.”

“I know,” he says, uncomprehending. “I want to be with you,” he says.

I leave the house and walk along the Hudson river. I’m pretending I’m somewhere else, somewhere with a better river, bridges, pigeons. I’m dreaming: my body is as big as the world. The world is orange on the inside, undulating, black and white on the outside, flickering. The cars chase each other up and down the highway. I close my eyes. I don’t exist.

Posted July 27th, 2011


4 Responses to “Lucy Dreaming” by Emma Reed Jones

  1. Pingback: New Story Posted: “Lucy Dreaming” by Emma Reed Jones | Newhandsweepstakes

  2. Brian McElmurry says:

    Damn!! So powerful. All the images. What’s a dream and what’s real? I’m going to have to read this a few more times. Love the middle to end part, beginning too, but the brick wall bits and baby out the window. Dreams are hard to do in stories–and you really did this well. Kind of had a Beat-feel with the name Neal (Neal Cassady “Adonis of Denver” and all the stuff Kerouac and Ginsberg wrote of him) and the NY-stuff (also Beat-ish) and the wild images point toward Burroughs and Ginsberg. Thanks. I want more.

  3. Emma says:

    Thanks Brian! I do indeed love all the beat literature you referenced, though I had not thought of the Neal Cassady connection. Picked the name at random (or so I thought)! I’m pretty obsessed with using dreams in stories in various ways–but I agree it’s hard to do because, for me at least, I don’t want to do it too straightforwardly, yet at the same I don’t want the dreams to be totally nonsensical. In other words I want them to fit in somehow without being heavy-handed, and also without obviously switching registers, like to a “dream sequence” kind of thing. Glad it worked this time at least. And thanks for reading! There will be more.

  4. Sarah LaChance Adams says:

    I can’t see. Gasp!
    I think I need to go for a run…

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