A goth girl on the bus.

I was jerked awake suddenly, as though my subconscious mind was psychically thrust into bathtub full of ice after basking in the Arizona desert sun for an hour. This sudden release from unconsciousness was a direct result of perhaps the most intense wet dream I had ever experienced, resulting in an ejaculation in my pants.

The suddenness and confusion surrounding the circumstances of my awakening were not in any way eased by my current surroundings, not a bed as one might expect, but a bus. A greyhound bus, to be exact. That was when everything was flooding back to me and my confusion simmered down as the events leading up to this point became slowly remembered.

Then came shame. It happened again, and this time in public. I should have known better than to think to take a nap here, my chronic wet dreams could happen literally any time I fell asleep. And the fact that this time it was as intense as if I had spent my entire nap masturbating was definitely worrying to say the least.

I briefly and quickly glanced around at the other passengers, hoping that I didn’t see any alarmed or disgusted faces. It seemed I was safe for the time being, though, as nobody seemed to be paying attention to me. However, someone stood out to me among the meager crowd of people.

She stood out for three reasons. Firstly, she was sitting directly across from me in the seat facing me and I was positive she hadn’t been there before I had fallen asleep, though she wasn’t paying me any mind and simply staring out the window at the fir trees rumbling past our shared window. Secondly, she had an amazing rack barely contained by a black tank top, possibly E-cups that bounced each time the bus went over a bump. And thirdly, she looked exactly like one of the women that had featured in my wet dream. Specifically, she was a woman I had groped relentlessly and who then went down on her knees to suck me off, an act that brought the dream to its literal climax and conclusion. She looked the same down to the last detail, including her goth makeup, ripped jeans, pale skin, and even the piercings on her lip and eyebrows.

I didn’t have time to enjoy her existence, however. I just came in my pants, I needed to take care of that right away. I got up and quickly made my way to the rear end of the bus where the bathroom was, hoping that anyone I passed didn’t get a whiff of my shame, that the bathroom wasn’t occupied, and that my spunk didn’t stain my jeans.

Thankfully, none of these were the case. The bathroom was vacant, my jeans didn’t stain, and nobody seemed to react to any smells as I passed them. After getting myself cleaned up, I returned to my seat to find it occupied by something that I was positive wasn’t there before.

I sat down and picked it up. It was a leather-bound notebook that I did not recognize with the words “Libro Umbra” stamped on the cover. It was pitch black, and the stamped lettering was blood red, it honestly seemed like something the girl in front of me would own, not me.

“Sorry,” I said, trying to get her attention, “this yours?” I held up the book for her to see, but oddly I felt very opposed to the idea of having to give it away.

She took a look at it and shook her head, “It’s yours.” Then she went back to looking out the window.

I blinked, “Oh,” then I looked at it again. Mine, huh? Couldn’t be, I was almost positive I didn’t own this notebook. I opened the cover, hoping to find some contact info on the inner lining. As a matter of fact, I did, but what was written there confused me even more.

Property of Jack Oswald Lantern, if found, call 801-555-8008

Yep, that was my name and my phone number all right. To make matters even weirder, it was definitely my neat and precise handwriting. Still, no memory of this notebook was jumping to my mind, so I decided to turn the first page and saw, yet again, my handwriting adorning this page with a note at the top of the page and then a list of items written out neatly and precisely.

The Cult of Goth

An interesting start. As far as I was aware goths weren’t part of a cult, but it was an interesting idea.

This copy of the Libro Umbra is the exclusive property of the cult’s messiah, Jack Oswald Lantern.

Messiah? What? I must have had some crazy fever dream to have come up with this. It was clearly my handwriting, so I must have done it while asleep. Nevermind that I had never written in my sleep before today. I had strange sleeping habits, but not that strange.

Contained within this copy of the book are the official, publicly recognized commandments of the cult of goth. Members of the cult will knowingly obey these commandments and will have them memorized by heart. Those commandments for which there is a star beside them are commandments that the gothic followers shall not be aware of, but shall obey without intending to.

I briefly looked up at the busty dark beauty across from me. I caught her staring at me for a split second before her attention returned to the scenery outside. Sure, a cult. If only that were true. This girl was the epitome of what I found attractive. It was a shame my hometown never had very many goth chicks, just dolled up fake plastic idiots trying to be the next cookie-cutter celebrity. No originality, no honesty, no uniqueness. It was kind of fun escaping into the fantasy world this notebook presented, so I returned my own gaze to the notebook again.

What followed this cryptic paragraph was a list of items labeled with roman numerals, some of them had the aforementioned stars in the margin to the left of the “commandment”. Amused, I looked at the first item.

I. A goth shall know another member of the cult by their answer to the following question, “When does the nightingale sing?” If you are asked this question, you must reply with “Midnight” so that your fellow can recognize you for what you are.

I chuckled to myself as I read this. It’s a cult all right, even has its own secret handshake. If I had been writing this in my sleep, it was probably what inspired the wet dream now that I thought about it. It was pretty ridiculous.

Unless…

I took a long hard look at the goth girl. Her thick black mascara and matching lips. Her glossy dark nail polish. The sleeve of tattoos depicting something that looked like an H.R. Giger painting. The black tank top and ripped jeans combo complete with a beat-up looking hoodie tied around her waist and, of course, combat boots. Her massive shelf of a rack and deep line of cleavage. What I wouldn’t give for this little fantasy of mine to be reality, for her to be a loyal and devoted cultist dedicated to the worship of me.

What if this notebook was right?

I swallowed and looked at her tits. She noticed my blatant staring, but didn’t seem to care, indifferently staring out the window with her cold blue eyes contrasted starkly by her dark makeup.

“When does the nightingale sing?” I asked, unevenly, deciding to take the plunge.