The Slit Dream

Image [via] Historical Anatomies on the Web


The slit dream began as a fantasy of violence, a mugging or rape of a particularly beautiful boy I had chased down an alley for just that purpose. It was an expression of my frustrations, a role reversal of the typical dream where one is helplessly chased down unfamiliar alleys by someone who ultimately overpowers you. I am ashamed to admit that (even as a fantasy, which means in real life I would hurt no one), my anger was such that a crowbar would often be used, a personal reenactment of that scene in a Clockwork Orange. Thus, I eventually I switched from simply hurting to immobilizing, and from there to fucking, and from there it evolved into a much stranger fantasy.

The boy in question was first replace by Jaime. After our failed trip to NYC he was also a subject of much frustration, while also being a source of lust. His belly, sometimes of Jesus-Christ-he-swallowed-a-basketball dimensions after a drinking bout, was ideal for the new purpose that I had suddenly conceived. He'd be secured standing to the wall behind him, and I'd tease him as to what was inside it: kittens? Perhaps it was filled with candy, like a pinata?

At this stage I had switched from a crowbar to a single knife. The effect was something like Mr. Flynn rappelling his way down the sail of a pirate ship.

Now my inventive mind has made things much easier: the boy comes pre-perforated, like toilet paper. Having secured him--his hands are bound above his head, always, by immoveable metal staples into a rough brick wall--there is very little foreplay. If he began the fantasy by wearing a shirt, by the time I--or Mister Six, I sometimes imagine it from the POV of either--is ready, any clothing he has above the waist has magically dissolved. A gripping of the flesh on either side of his belly, a sharp tug, and there he is, open.

The boy may struggle at this point, but there is never any pain. Nor is there any blood, though there may be a thin veil of red covering the major organs to give them sheen. Mainly, I imagine his insides to be clean and white, with a touch of blue here and there on the brain-like wrinkles of his intestines or the membrane of his stomach, which may already be much larger than normal. Ideally, the boy will have been been pre-prepared for me so that his internal organs are full and swollen--and therefore, most sensitive.

Here the fantasy may have a small hitch, for I have heard that there are no nerves in the internal organs, and therefore the pleasure I am about to give him will be for myself only. And sometimes I try to go on with the fantasy like that. But a moment later I decide that he can, and dip my tongue inside his body, running it over the dolphin skin of his stomach or the meaty ridges of his intestines. And another consideration: what does he taste like?

Chicken bullion.

The boy, having expected to be in the most agonizing pain of his life, followed by certain death afterwards, will instead find himself writhing in the most exquisite pleasure. There will be no penetration in this dream--how vulgar and stupid, when he is already more open than he has ever been in his life!--and I, or Mister Six, will smile with pleasure as we run our tongues over all the most deliciously secret places of his insides, our faces shiny with the clear and delicious broth that we lap from his internal organs. A little bit of steam may rise in the cold air of the alleyway.

This is where the fantasy always ends.