My Dream Man

My Dream Man

by Marie Solka

Copyright © 2014 by Marie Solka

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real events or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All trademarks belong to their respective holders and are used under trademark fair use.

After an exhausting day of visiting patients at their homes, I pulled into the driveway of my final appointment. The modest two-story was well-cared for. The lawn was recently cut and coordinating plants and flowers weaved around the house, giving it the charm of an English cottage.

I grabbed my bag, shuffled to the front porch and glanced at my notes. I’d already forgotten this new patient’s name. I was terrible with names, but once I got to know a patient I could look at their face and remember everything about them: their symptoms, diagnoses, medications.

I rang the buzzer and repeated the name as I waited. When the door opened, I was rendered speechless. The twenty-something man who answered was wearing a pink terry cloth robe over a crumpled white T-shirt and grey plaid pajama pants. He had pale skin with sandy blond hair and hazel eyes, which were striking.

My face flushed with embarrassment as I forgot the name and had to glance at my notes again. “I’m here to see…Michael Varo,” I eventually said.

The man looked confused. “Ah yes. The nurse. Come in,” he said, bowing as he stepped aside.

I held in a laugh, then walked past him and into the foyer. The place was immaculate. Then I noticed his feet were bare.

“Should I remove my shoes?” I asked.

He eyed them with a frown. “I think that would be wise.”

Okay. Guy’s kinda cute but he’s also a bit of a pretentious oddball.

I took off my shoes and followed him to the dining room, where an older man sat waiting.

“Hello there,” he said in a friendly tone. “You’re my nurse? Holy cow! When did they start hiring supermodels for home health care?” He turned his attention to the man in the robe. “Do you plan on introducing us or are you going to leave me hanging?”

I reached out to shake his hand. “I’m Samantha,” I said.

He shook it, then the younger man wordlessly walked away. “My son,” he said, shaking his head. “He has no manners. Lord knows I didn’t raise him to be like that.”

I smiled. “Well I’m not here to see him, am I?” I had learned it never hurt to use a bit of old fashioned charm. It helped put people at ease. No matter what the patient’s age, they were still like anxious children who were nervous about being prodded and poked, especially by a stranger.

Mr. Varo and I talked and filled out the initial paperwork.

“Call me Michael,” he said. “Mr. Varo makes me feel old.”

I reluctantly agreed. I would have preferred to call him Mr. Varo out of professional respect. Well, that, and respect for my elders, as his chart showed he was sixty, but I went with his suggestion instead.

As I took his blood pressure, his son passed through the room. He seemed to be lost in thought and since he wasn’t paying attention to me, I studied him secretly. He was slim, fit, but not skinny. And his facial features were soft, what some might call baby-faced. He didn’t look much older than me. Probably late twenties.

While staring and trying to guess his age, he unexpectedly turned and made eye contact with me. I froze like a deer in headlights.

Mr. Varo began coughing, and I turned to him. “Are you okay Michael? Do you want some water?”

“I’m fine,” he assured me. “Just a tickle in my throat. Seasonal allergies.”

I returned my focus to my new patient. When I finished his blood pressure, I checked his pulse and notated his most recent glucose level in the computer. Then I pulled out some informational cards with sugar-free shopping tips and handed him one. “I’m giving you a little homework,” I said. “I know you know this, but it’s important to take diet seriously. Diabetes isn’t the kind of disease you want to toy with, you know? I made these cards myself, so if you don’t use them I’m going to be disappointed.” I made a faux sad face and it prompted a pleasant laugh.

“Well, I certainly don’t want to disappoint you,” he said.

“Now keep an eye on that foot. Make sure to trim the toenails and clean and dry the skin thoroughly before putting on socks. And if your allergies flare up, get Allegra D. You don’t need a prescription for that.”

“I will,” he said. Grinning, he added, “I don’t want to get too healthy though, because then you won’t have to come back next week.”

“Very funny,” I said, pointing a finger. “Until then, you take care. And lay off the sweets.”

I packed up my things and said goodbye, then showed myself to the door. As I reached for the handle I heard an “ahem” behind me.

I turned.

“Don’t forget to put your shoes back on before you leave,” Michael’s son said.

I glanced at my feet and felt like an idiot. At least my socks didn’t have holes. “Thanks,” I said.

He stood there with a smug look on his face and watched me put on my shoes. Then, as I opened the door and stepped outside, he said, “Are you going to check out the supermoon tonight? It’s supposed to be amazing. The celestial event of the season.”

I gazed at the sky, noting it had gotten dark since I’d arrived. “I’ll try,” I said, surprised, and a little unnerved by his sudden interest in making conversation. I fumbled for my keys. “Well, have a good evening.”

“Night-night,” he said while holding my gaze.

As I walked to my car I sensed he was still watching me. The man was strange. He never even told me his name.

My apartment wasn’t far from the last appointment, so I was home in minutes. I heated up leftovers and checked voicemail. My mom had called, reminding me to look into restaurant pricing for my younger sister’s high school graduation dinner.

Crap. I had totally spaced on that. I said I’d do it last week, but if I don’t write stuff down it slips my mind. Here I was only twenty-three-years old and couldn’t remember things. Probably a candidate for early Alzheimer’s.

I walked over to the kitchen counter and made a note for myself. “Check out restaurants.” Then I sat down to stare at the TV just long enough to realize how tired I was. Every muscle in my body ached for sleep and I was out right when my head hit the pillow.

Then I drifted into a dream about Mr. Varo’s son.

He had pressed me against the wall and was kissing me passionately, like I’d never been kissed before. First on the lips, then he made his way to my neck, setting my body ablaze. I panted and groped him with a ferocity that was alien to me. We began undressing each other like in the movies – tearing at each other’s clothes like animals in heat.

He removed my bra and cupped my breasts in his hands. He looked me in the eye and asked, “Have you been a good kitten today?”

I could barely breathe. “Uh huh.”

He began sucking my breast, and the sensation of his lips and tongue on such a sensitive spot made me tingly. That, combined with his amazing scent – a mixture of sweat and a hint of men’s cologne – made me lose my mind. I felt crazed. I wanted to devour him, so I dropped to my knees and took him in my mouth.

Moments later I woke up, trembling from the ripples of ecstasy that shook me from my slumber.

I lay there, a paradox of nerves and satisfaction.

I knew immediately what I couldn’t have known until that moment. I had finally had my first orgasm.

It felt amazing.

When I opened my eyes I was almost blinded. The moon – the supermoon – shined so bright through the window it bathed the exposed parts of my skin in its luminescent glow.

I admired my body in the moonlight, noticing how familiar yet foreign it was. Another paradox, but one that made me feel beautiful. I stretched and got up to use the restroom. I peed, washed my hands, and checked my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed and my skin looked radiant. I smiled, remembering what Mr. Varo’s son had said: “It’s the celestial event of the season.”

That it was. No argument there.

I sighed, then changed into fresh underwear. As I lay back in bed I tried to recall the intense feelings from the dream. I’d never been able to get excited before with my old boyfriend, who was a much more traditional hottie – the kind all women drool over. And we tried everything. In real life, while I was awake.

We weren’t even having sex in the dream. It was just foreplay.

Could women even orgasm in their sleep? Was it possible? It had to be possible, because it just happened to me.

Then I laughed to myself, thinking how hysterical it was: I had my first orgasm while dreaming of giving a blow job to a man that walks around his house in a pink robe!

When I woke the next morning I felt great. I hopped in the shower with an extra spring in my step and turned on the hot water. As it beat against my skin flashes of the dream invaded my mind, sensuous images that shook me. I found myself aching for a guy I didn’t know in real life. A guy who wasn’t my type.

Brian, who I’d met in college, was pure eye candy. The cute jock everyone wanted to date. He was always so polished and perfect. All the girls wanted him, but he picked me.

I was never one to fuss with too much makeup or be overly obsessed with fashion, but I’d been told my long, strawberry blonde hair and green eyes were a stunning combination. I never had trouble getting asked on dates.

I broke up with Brian after one year. He was as nice a guy as he was good looking, but things just fizzled out. No chemistry. Afterward I focused on my studies, raising my GPA to a respectable 3.8. I’d worked hard in high school too and graduated top in my class. Even took extra courses in summer that weren’t required. That had been my pattern, work hard and do my best to help people. That’s what I enjoyed most.

Now a part of me was awakened I hadn’t known existed. An animalistic side I didn’t recognize. I stepped out of the shower and stared at my naked reflection in the mirror. I noticed the soft curve of my hips, the fullness of my breasts. Then I forced myself to look into my own eyes, something I found difficult to do.

Who are you? I wondered.

The ringing of my cell phone interrupted this rare moment of contemplation. I walked to the bedroom and pulled it off the dresser and checked the screen. It was Mrs. Myszkowski, my first appointment. She’d gotten into the annoying habit of asking me to pick things up for her on my way over, like I was a delivery service. Diagnosed with emphysema, she had the nerve to ask me to buy her cigarettes. Of course I said no to her every request, but that didn’t stop her from asking. It was a little game we played. A power struggle she must have known I would never let her win.

I smirked. The lady was the picture of persistence. Age didn’t take that from her.

I arrived at her house and rang the doorbell. I knew there’d be a wait because she was in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank attached.

The door opened and she looked me over. “You come empty-handed?” she asked in her signature scratchy voice.

“Afraid so,” I shrugged. “I’m here to improve your health, not hamper it.”

Mrs. Myszkowski frowned. “You don’t know,” she complained.

I stepped in the foyer, grabbed hold of the wheelchair handles and slowly pushed her to our usual spot. Then I turned to face her. “I know what’s best for you,” I said.

“Ack,” she waved her hand in disgust.

“How about you let me take care of you,” I suggested in a soft voice, like I was speaking to a toddler. “Don’t fight me today.”

She glared at me.

“So how have you been feeling?” I asked.

“Old.”

I sighed, trying to hide my frustration, but failing. “Do you have any new symptoms I should be aware of?”

“Let’s see,” she said, raising her bony hand to her mouth, tapping her fingers against her lips. “I want to have a cigarette, but for some reason the people around me want to deprive me of the one thing I enjoy before I die. Does that count as a symptom?”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“Then I don’t have any new symptoms.”

I notated it in my computer. “Good to hear.” I held her gaze. “Now I know you don’t care for this, but I have to draw blood today.”

“Great! You’ve come to torture me too.”

“I promise to be gentle. I swear.”

“Fine. Let’s just get it over with then.”

I nodded, then reached into my bag and pulled out the tourniquet. After securing it on her upper arm and making sure it was snug, I wiped the bulging vein with an alcohol swab. Then I prepared the needle. After finding the best spot, I went to insert it into her vein, but something out of the corner of my eye distracted me.

A pair of pink slippers.

“Ouch!” she cried out.

I looked down in horror. I’d missed the vein.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry,” I said while removing the needle. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m not okay. You just stuck me like a voodoo doll. How do you think I’m doing?”

Her face was a ball of wrinkled fury. I felt like an idiot. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’ve never had that happen before. May I try again?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked bitterly, then shook her head in disgust.

I got the needle ready again and focused, letting nothing in my mind but the current task. When I had finished I said, “There. All done.”

“Thank God,” she groaned, gripping her arm. “You’d think for all you’ve put me through you’d at least give me a cigarette.”

She reminded me of a child trying to manipulate a parent. “You know I can’t do that Anna. It’s against the rules,” I smiled. She never asked me to call her by her first name, but I chose to anyway, in an attempt to make her listen.

I slipped the oximeter on her fingertip and took her pulse, then finished with her other weekly vitals and notated all the results. “That’s everything for this week,” I said. “Your oxygen tank is in good shape, but if you feel any shortness of breath, make sure to call the doctor.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” she said, shooing me.

After I left I swung by my little sister’s favorite restaurant to get package pricing for her graduation dinner, then called my mom.

“That sounds rather expensive,” she said. “Did you see if you could get better pricing?”

“I think it’s a fair price, considering what’s included.”

“So you didn’t try to negotiate…”

“It’s a package deal. Already discounted.”

“Still, it’s a lot of money.” My mom wasn’t upset. She just liked to process things out loud.

“It’s Tabby’s favorite restaurant,” I said. I knew that would seal the deal.

“Of course. Yes. Well, that sounds perfect then. Will you be bringing a date or should I put you down for just one?”

This was my mom’s way of telling me to get a new boyfriend already. My dream man popped into my mind, but I quickly dismissed the idea as crazy. “Just one,” I answered.

“Are you stopping by for dinner tonight?”

“Yep. I’m on my way.”

The first thing I saw when I walked into my mom’s house was my younger sister’s boyfriend Jack. I called him Jackass behind his back, because he seemed like a punk who’s going nowhere. What she saw in the pierced fool I’d never understand.

He nodded at me like he thought he was gangsta. “What’s up?”

“Not much,” I admitted, then passed him to see my sister.

“Mom told me we’re having the party at En Francais,” Tabby said.

“We are. My idea. Only graduate high school once, right?”

Tabby glowed. “True.”

I smiled back at her, while wondering if Jack would be able to find suitable clothing for the event. Maybe they’d break up first. That would be preferable. But then Tabby would be sad, and sad doesn’t go well with graduation celebrations. She can break up with him after.

“Something’s different about you,” Tabby said, interrupting my mental banter. “What is it?”

I gave her a blank face. “Nothing that I can think of.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure,” I replied.

I got self-conscious all of a sudden, wondering if it had something to do with the fact that I finally had an orgasm. Maybe it made me look different. I had no clue. I just knew I was hungry and wanted to eat.

I caught a whiff of burgers on the grill and followed my nose. Tabby trailed me to the kitchen, thankfully dropping her line of questioning.

“Hey honey,” Mom said, giving me a hug. “Food’s almost ready. Tabby, will you set the table?” She nodded and grabbed the plates and a handful of chips, ever the multitasker.

I looked out at the patio. Jack was manning the grill next to my dad. They were actually having a conversation. A normal, human-to-human conversation.

I shook my head. My dad was usually such a good judge of character. I had no idea why he couldn’t see what a horrible boyfriend Jack was for Tabby.

My mom nudged me as she walked passed. “Don’t make it so obvious,” she said out of the side of her mouth.

I smiled at her, then headed to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair. Dad and Jack came in, and Jack plopped into a seat opposite me and winked at Tabby. I wanted to puke, but my interest quickly shifted to observing my parents. Dad used metal tongs to set a juicy burger onto each plate as Mom weaved in and out, placing an ice-cold glass of lemonade in front of each place setting. They were so in sync they didn’t even bump into each other, didn’t have to speak. They were like figure skaters, having mastered the moves of their relationship.

That’s what I wanted.