Man of his dreams part 1

By Anonymous
published October 11, 2019

A man searches for the man of his dreams with certain complications

When i wake up, I know it’s happened again… I can tell by the feeling of the breath as I inhale and exhale, by the weight of my arms against my body, even by the way the ceiling above me looks. This has happened often enough that I know I have to be careful when I get up, because invariably my center of gravity will be different from what I’ve grown used to… I lie here for a few more minutes, hoping, willing, wishing that it hasn’t happened one more time, and my mind drifts off to how this all began..

I was an average gay guy, and that was the problem. I was bland, vanilla, forgettable. I was 5’9" tall, 180 pounds, sandy brown hair, even my name was unremarkable, Kevin Smith. I was well educated, thoughtful, sort of funny, again, nothing special. Now I struggle every day just to recall who that i person s…

My problem was I wasn’t at all attracted to other average, normal gay guys. No, that of course, would have been too easy. Instead I was only attracted to extremes, gay archetypes if you will, and they were never interested in me. For years I’d looked longingly at buff blondes with perfect tans and abs, beefy bears with hairy arms and lumberjack beards, tatted up skater bois, gymnasts, gym rats, leather men, anyone who stood out and wasn’t boring, plain old me.

As my twenties melted into my thirties, I knew something had to change, I had to change. I didn’t have it in my personality to step out on the edge myself, I knew it. So, if I couldn’t change my personality, I would have to figure out why I was only attracted to extremes. That led me to the office of Dr. Damon Okabe, therapist, and as I found out later, occultist. We explored my childhood, talked about my feelings, role played scenarios meant to push me beyond my boundaries, all to no real effect. Finally, one day Dr. D, as he liked to be called, asked me to lie down across his sofa… he dimmed the lights and closed the blinds, and pulled a deep red candle from his desk. Using his fingernail, he scratched something into the surface of the candle, lit it, and placed it on the table near my head. I could smell the scent of the candle, heavy, musky, spicy… the scent made me a bit drowsy actually, in fact more than a bit, I was drifting off, bit by bit losing myself in the complexity of the Fragrance.

The last thing I remember was Dr. D. saying in his low, melodious voice, " In order to find the man of your dreams, you must first become the man of your dreams."

He continued to speak, but the language made no sense, it sounded foreign, insistent, ancient. I tried to pay attention, but I was so sleepy, so hard to focus, so… as my eyes fluttered closed for the final time, I saw the candle go out with a spark.

The next thing I remember is waking up in my own bed, the morning sun hitting the corner of the dresser, the same as every morning. Had I dreamt it all? I looked at my phone, it was Tuesday, staff meeting day at the office, I really didn’t have time to think. I grab a bagel and cup of coffee, wolf both down, take a quick shower, and I’m out the door into the unseasonably warm autumn day. I jump into my gray Honda Civic, and pray to the traffic gods that there are no delays on my way. Of course, the traffic gods don’t listen to me, and now I’m sitting on the 610 loop waiting for any type of movement. That’s when I look over and see him, the guy on the Harley weaving in and out of the stalled traffic. If there was a recruitment poster for motorcycle gangs, this guy was it, tall, bearded, long dark hair blowing in the wind… he was wearing oil stained jeans, dark heavy boots, a well worn Sturgis tee shirt with the arms cut off, and a leather vest with a giant patch for his club on the back. His arms were heavy with both muscles and tattoos. I watched him weave past me and sighed… even if he was gay, I’d never get near anyone remotely like him.

Eventually, I reached the office for a perfectly ordinary day in my ordinary life. Nothing could have prepared me for that night. After dinner and a couple hours of television, I went to bed as usual, and fell into a deep sleep. I dreamed the most intense, vivid dreams, dreams of the open road, dreams of drinking and fighting, dreams of sleeping under the stars, dreams of rough sex in truck stop bathrooms, dreams like I’d never had before. I woke up suddenly, groggy and disoriented, with the hardest cock I’ve ever remembered having, instinctively I gave it a few tugs, when I felt something was off. This wasn’t my perfectly average dick, this thing was huge, both thick and long, and it was pierced? I opened my eyes, and looked at a veiny 10 inch beer can thick cock standing at full attention in my hand, except it wasn’t my hand, this hand was thick and heavy, with calluses and blocky fingers that were none too clean. The hands ended a thick wrists that led to fully sleeved muscular arms, and this wasn’t pretty gym boy muscle, this was the muscle of hard labor on a frame that was built for work. I chuckle to myself, I must still be dreaming…

But fuck, this feels real, I don’t feel like myself, everything feels different, off, strange. I stand up, and feel hair fall across my shoulders and back. I get my bearings after nearly toppling over with my first steps. That’s when I realize this isn’t my apartment with it’s perfectly coordinated Pottery Barn decor, this place is small, dirty, cluttered with dirty clothes, greasy mechanical parts, and fast food wrappers. The bed is really just a mattress and box springs on the floor, jammed up against a kitchen counter. Nearby stood a table filled with greasy parts. I made a note that the carburetor had to be finished for Little Stevie before tomorrow…

The fuck? Carburetor? Little Stevie? How did I know any of this? My name is Kevin … something, and fuck, while riding my Harley is a hobby, I don’t know nothing about repairing things…

I think about yesterday, and my visit to that doctor the day before, that Dr. D, but fuck, what was his real name? i can’t remember it, if I could, I could fucking call him, but when I pull out my phone, and look through the list I don’t see no doctors listed. There’s names of guys in my crew, there’s numbers for part stores and salvage yards, there’s a couple of bars, a wrecker service, but no docs. I can remember his office in the fancy part of town, damn I hate those fuckers “in the Loop,” but I know I was there, and somehow I know this man got the answer to whatever the fucks going on, why I ain’t me, if that fucking makes sense. Well, if I can’t call, but I know the way it makes Goddamn fuckin’ sense to go find this doc and find out what’s goin’ on, don’t it? Damn fine day for a ride, anyway… Stevie’s works gonna have to wait, but he was one of my crew, he’d wait…

I get another good stretch, smell my fuckin’ man scent, that mix of unwashed pits, tobacco, grease, and sex. Fuck my dick chubs at that smell. I think about jerking off for a hot minute, but I gotta see that doc, so instead I grab me a tee shirt that I cut the sleeves off years ago off the pile, it don’t smell too bad so I pull it on, same with a pair of oil stained jeans… I wore em yesterday, fuck I was wearin’ em two weeks ago, but my belt was already in the loops, and my wallet was still in the pocket, chain hooked onto the jeans, so I was good to go. Socks, boots, my leather vest that marked me as a Demons Disciple, and I was ready to go. There’s a half drunk beer on the counter, so I chug it, and reach into my vest pocket for my first Camel of the day…

I go out the door of my apartment, it’s really just a room at the back of my shop with a kitchenette, a bed, and a shitter, but it does what i need it to… there in the middle of the shop amid stripped down bikes waiting for repair or modification is my baby, shining even in the dim light of the garage. There she is my fuckin’ pride and joy, a 2019 Harley Softail Slim that I modified into the most badass ride in Houston. Posers like the Milwaukee-Eight 107 in her, but they never have rode a bike modified by Big Z. I anped up the power, changing out the mushroom head, refining the carburetor, fucking with the ignition system and exhaust, now that machine designed to haul ass was fuckin’ lethal. My black on black paint job was aces, flames in flat and gloss black over a black glitter finish paint… I ease her out of the garage, lookin’ back with pride at the sign over the doors, Zeke’s Customs, not bad for someone they said was to dumb, too bad, to finish high school. I fuckin’ started working under Chuck Black bein’ his grease monkey twenty years ago, and now i had my own shop, and a reputation for my work.

Soon, I’m on the road, shades covering my eyes, my long dark hair flowing behind me, fuck your Goddamn helmet laws, I weave in and out of traffic, feeling as well as hearing the power of this bike, the feel of freedom, of unbridled masculinity. It felt good, it felt damn good. I almost gave up on finding this doc, because it was so easy to let this be me, let this be my fuckin’ life, but somewhere inside, I still knew it wasn’t. I felt like there was two mes fighting it out, and it pissed me off. I finally pulled into the parking garage of a building on Kirby. I couldn’t remember where the doc was in the building, but after a few minutes reading the names on the address board I figure there’s only one doctor with a D in his name, Damon somethin’ African sounding, so must be him. I ride the elevator up to his floor and find the door with his name on it. I open the door into a small waiting room, there’s no one in it, and the door to another office is part open. I hear a man with a deep voice and heavy accent say, “David, come on in, you’re early, but we can begin…”

I bust into the room, and see the doc behind his desk, shaved head, handsome, ebony skinned, his teeth unearthly white,

" I ain’t David, doc, but i need some answers," I growl, “the fuck is goin’ on?”

“Oh, Kevin, it’s you… hmmm, would nit have thought this was your dream man, but sometimes the magic is not exact… Kevin who are you, look in the mirror, and tell me who you are…”

I step to the mirror, and look, I take in my long hair, my muscles, my tattoos, these worn, filthy clothes, and I suddenly remember, I’m Kevin Smith, but this body is the body of the biker I lusted after in traffic the other day. I know this is the body of Big Zeke Guidry, owner of Zeke’s Customs, member of the Demon’s Disciples, hellraiser, and brawler…. but how?

"Dr. D has pulled out some old book with weird carvings on the covers, he reads aloud the wotds I remembet from before I fell asleep and then he says to me, “I think I see your problem, you don’t understand love, just lust, so the man of your dreams is all about lust. I’m afraid you’re going to jump body to body until you find a body that understands love, and isn’t fueled soley by lust, each time becoming the object of whoever your host body is focused on… all i can do is give you the choice, do you want to know who you are, or do you want to forget as you were today, becoming each person completely until they find that object of their desire… perhaps better I choose for you… you will remember, but only from dawn until noon on the day of the transformation, then you shall totally be the new person, body and soul, until you change again…”

“Doc, that ain’t fair, I don’t want, I don’t want…”

The next thing I know, I’m out on my bike, pulling into some random Buckees. i’m fuckin’ horny as hell, and in the line of trucks I see Rebel’s rig. Reb ain’t much to look at, fuckin old, fat as fuck, but damn, he was what i need right now. It’s time for some rough and dirty sex, and Reb’s got a loose hole, and a sweet mouth so I know I’ll get what I need….

I’m crossing the parking lot heading to his rig when a white Benz cuts me off, some asshole on a cell gets out, and fuck if he’s not some preppy frat bot, blond hair, tanned, tatted, he looks like hes comin from the beach. I feel my cock harden, and I’m about to go up and show pretty boy who’s boss, when I hear Reb call out to me.., I look over at him, his gut hanging below his shirt, his beard gray and tangled, and my dick tells me it’s time to forget about the boy and to fuck the man. My need, my fuckin’ need wins out so I head toward Reb’s truck, and I get the need taken care of. Satisfied, I leave him, and make my way home… weird fuckin’ day, got shit done, but I’m to tired to care, I drop on my bed and I dream…

Please use the controls below to rate this story
Mind control
Wanking material
You've created tags exclusively for this story! Please avoid exclusive tags!