I wake up with a groan, stretching my body languidly as a familiar sensation winds its way down toward the center of my being. Something feels off and I whimper, feeling vaguely unsatisfied, like I was in the middle of something before I awoke. I blink and reach downward, to relieve some of the tension, the weird pressure, but as the sleepy fog clears from my head, memories from the dream sort of wind their way back into my brain.

The idea that I'd just been having an erotic dream about Artie Abrams has me turning beet red and sitting straight up in my bed. My arms are holding me up as I try not to think about it anymore. Of course, this only because it makes me think about it even more. Especially his hand, in a particular spot… my eyes trail downward, and my whole body feels hot. Except that this time, it's because I'm mortified and not because of well, …other needs.

I blush more deeply (if it's even possible), because although having these particular needs aren't wrong (at least according to my mother and one very awkward birds and the bees talk when I was eleven), but having these particular thoughts about my best friend (who has forgiven me, but it's still awkward sometimes) doesn't feel right.

I wonder if my subconscious is trying to tell me something?

It probably is, but a quick glance at my bedside clock tells me it's three o'clock in the morning, and really, I should be asleep right now. I've got school in the morning, and glee, and a million other things to worry about. Instead, I'm huddled under the blankets, dreaming vaguely erotic dreams about Artie. My best friend. I blame it on taking a second portion of kimchi at dinner tonight.

Even knowing it's probably a bad idea, my fingers reach out to grab the latest mix CD that Artie tossed oh so covertly into my bag after glee this afternoon. His handwriting is neat and tiny, and I admire it, marveling at the detail in the precise print (especially in comparison to the loopy disaster that is my own handwriting). Reaching under my bed, I grab the old portable CD player that I keep especially for the mix CD's he likes to give me, and I press play.

The bass from the music fills my ears, and I close my eyes and let the music overtake me. The mix CD is heavy on the Jimi Hendrix this time, although a quick glance at the track list shows that Bob Dylan and Eric Clapton have also been generously included. I roll my eyes, wondering why my best friend's taste in music has suddenly decided to go back to the 60's and early 70's.

The guitar solo in Layla makes me sit up straight and nearly drop the clunky old portable CD player. Grinning, I close my eyes and reach for my cell phone, which is also doubling as a flashlight. I quickly hammer out a: ur rite, layla is pretty good.

I figure that'll be enough for the night, and I turn off the cd player and remove the earbud. It'll be something to talk about in the morning, I think with a smile as I nestle under the blankets more comfortably. I laugh softly to myself as I fall asleep, and my last coherent thought is that I should try to sneak the Spice Girls on his ipod when it's my turn to swap songs. With this amusing plan in mind, I am rewarded with dreams that are …less confusing than the ones that came before it.

Still, it doesn't mean that the nagging thought (or feeling) goes away entirely.