The Chosen

just worrying over the opening, she knew.

It was the dreams.

The lewd dreams seated in her inexplicable sexual fantasy. The hands, she thought, and hung up her tulip wrap-dress. The hands slowly caressing her into a frenzy. The fantasy lover was Kyle, or at least she guessed it was, and that made even less sense. Why fantasize about someone you can’t stand? she wondered. Perhaps it was all Freudian. Nevertheless, each night the fantasy seduced her to the point of touching herself. Then she’d fall asleep, and the dreams would begin…

She slipped out of her panties, unclasped her bra. Her amethyst necklace sparkled against her bosom. She lay it on the marble counter and eased into the warm tub.

She dreaded the dreams because they made her feel ashamed, and she felt ashamed because…she enjoyed them. They reduced her to a slut. Maybe I’m a slut and don’t know it, she attempted to make a joke of it. She could not believe the things that happened in the nightly dream. She couldn’t even believe how her subconscious could conjure such things…

The dream was always the same, just blurred in certain details. The hands, somehow, were the catalyst. They’d repeat their ministration of the fantasy, goading her, setting her off. Then they’d urge her to her hands and knees. Doggie style, she thought now. She’d never even liked it that way. It seemed insincere, whory, indulgent. When she made love for real, she liked to be face to face with her lover, not just a back and buttocks. It turned lovemaking into a faceless antic, a joining of bodies with no identities. Was the dream orchestrating her aversions, playing out acts she didn’t consciously condone? If so, why? Why was her mind not only including a person she didn’t like but also a sexual position she didn’t enjoy?

She enjoyed it in the dream, however. It brought tumultuous orgasms, and sensations so erotic it dizzied her to think of them now. It seemed to go on all night. Her sex would be plumbed from behind, while the hands reached around and plied her clitoris. The penis felt huge; she could scarcely take it all. Eventually it would withdraw and release its ejaculation onto her back. The dream-lover would then push her back down onto her belly, straddle her, and massage her back and shoulders as though the long gouts of seed were body lotion. And next, the hands would urge her up, gently position her to sit at the edge of the bed. No words were spoken, none needed to be. The figure would merely stand before, with hands on hips as if in wait. What it awaited was clear. Without reservation, Vera would eagerly lean forward to admit the massive organ into her mouth.

And that was only the beginning…

I should see a shrink, she considered now. My mind has become a garbage can. She lay inert in the tub, staring up not so much at the ceiling as at the confusing images of herself that had never presented themselves until now.

Why? she thought. Her toes diddled with drips from the faucet. And why now? How come I’m not sleeping well? How come I feel like I’m falling apart? And why the hell am I all of a sudden having these gross dreams?

She had no idea.

Nor did she have any idea whatsoever that all of these things had one very specific common denominator:

The Inn.

««—»»

Lee popped the Gun Club tape into his boom box and boogied. He always worked better with good music. The Gun Club was kick-out-the-jambs rock. He also worked better with a beer. He’d conned Donna into copping him a few bottles of EKU Maibock before she’d locked the service cage for the night. What was the big deal anyway? A few beers, aw so what? Dishwasher was always the last man out and it was the groatiest job, so why shouldn’t he be allowed to toss a few while wrapping the kitchen up?

He jammed to the tunes, a song about Elvis from hell, as he off-loaded the last rack of plates from the Hobart. Dishwasher was an erroneous job title—you didn’t