I wake up with my s*x slick and throbbing and my stomach churning with nausea. Out of all the tricks my brain’s been playing on me, these perverted dreams are the worst. I can understand the panic attacks and the paranoia—they’re a natural result of what I’ve been through—but there’s nothing natural about the s****l slant of these nightmares. Just thinking about them makes me physically ill with shame.
Getting up, I pull on a robe over my pajamas and go down to the kitchen. My breathing is unsteady and my heart is racing, but this time, it’s not from fear. I feel flushed and agitated, my body aching with frustrated arousal.
I almost came during that dream. Another few seconds, and I would’ve orgasmed—like I’ve orgasmed during these dreams twice before.
Self-disgust is a heavy brick in m
