“How long have you been living here?” he asks when I return to the living room and hand him his coffee.

“Five years,” I say, sitting down beside him, cradling my own cup and reminiscing. I am lucky that my parents were willing to co-sign on the apartment when I first moved here, helping me get my feet on the ground after I graduated. I loved it so much I decided to stay after they removed their names from the lease.

Though my apartment is small, I have splashes of color everywhere. The sofa is a rich chocolate color and the cushions are a bright yellow. The paintings on the walls are colorful abstracts.

“It suits my needs, and I like to keep things simple. Do you like it?”

“I do,” he says. “It seems to reflect your personality -- colorful, down to earth, and adorable,” he adds with a slow smile.

Damn it, I’m blushing again. I give him a shy smile. As we sip our coffee, he puts his left hand on my thigh and makes small circles, driving me slowly insane.

Suddenly, I panic. What the hell am I doing? I don’t even know this guy! Shit! This isn’t a dream. I’m such an idiot. I get up so fast that I bump Chris’ elbow and he spills his coffee. He jumps off the couch, out of the way of the hot liquid.

“I’m so sorry!” I cry out.

He looks at me with concern. “Is something wrong? Are you alright?”

By this time, I’ve backed myself to the front door, and now I’m leaning against it, shaking my head, eyes tightly closed. I don’t know what to say, how to proceed. How do I ...how do I explain? Will he believe the truth?

Opening my eyes, I look at Chris and say, “I’m sorry. I just ... there’s something I need to tell you, and I don’t know how ...” I stop, unable to continue. My eyes drop to the floor, completely mortified.

Putting the now empty coffee cup on the table in front of the couch, Chris takes a hesitant step toward me.

“Michael, I know we just met, but I already feel a connection building between us. Please, tell me what’s wrong. What can I do to help? Do we need to slow down?” Chris sounds anxious, wanting to make things right and not just looking for a quick fuck.

I take a deep breath. Slowly, in a halting voice, I tell him about my recurring dream.

“You see, you’re everything I ever wanted, ever dreamed of, and I don’t know if I can trust it. Things are happening so fast, I don’t think it’s fair to you, to have to live up to my dream man. You even have a name -- Mr. Muscles.”

Chris looks taken aback. “Mr. Muscles?” he asks, incredulous.

A hollow feeling starts in the pit of my stomach. Great, now he thinks I’m a desperate excuse for a human being, a nut job. But then his expression becomes thoughtful, and changes to a slow, predatory smile that spreads across his face, accentuating his cheekbones.

“Well now,” he says as he walks slowly toward me. “Let’s see if I have this right. I’m the man of your dreams, your Mr. Muscles, and you’re afraid to find out that I’m just a fantasy.”

By this time, he’s standing directly in front of me, his musky scent overwhelming my misgivings.

“One thing I should have mentioned during dinner -- I love a challenge, and you, Michael Stein, just made me the happiest man alive.”

He touches my face with his hand, lifting my chin. I open my eyes, mesmerized by his hazel gaze.

“Let’s see if we can make your dream man a reality.”

Before I can even register shock at this response, he grabs my neck and presses himself against me, sealing his lips to mine.