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I first read this book when I was fresh out of highschool, and living in a Saturn SL1. I had bought it a year before I moved out of my parents house, not because I knew who the author was, or because I even liked anything but sword and sorcery fantasy at the time. Nope, I bought it because the cover was cool, and the description of a sexually transmitted dream city tickled my inner teenage horn-dog.

I ended up finding out that the book, while it had pleanty of sex, was definately not sexy, or anything to jerk too while you're trying not to freeze to death in the winter, living in a car. The characters are all damaged, they have found a place that they can be themselves and be free, and they are also clearly addicted to it. This isn't sexy addiction, but real addiction. The kind of addiction where you'll get on your knees to suck off the most disgusting man you can imagine just for the chance to go back to your dreamworld. It was a short read, but it enthralled me because it helped me realize, yeah, I had it bad at the time, but not that bad. I even liked the ending back then, because the main characters get what they want.

On this reread, I no longer think that though. I think back then I wanted my own dreamworld to escape too. I never got that. Instead I enlisted, served in the USMC, broke my body for the GI Bill, and got a degree that lead to a job I love. Now that I read it again, I don't like that the main characters got what they wanted; to run the risk of going too far towards the Rolling Stones, I wanted them at the end of this reread to get what they needed. They escaped to a dream world, but none of them actually moved past their traumas. Hell, one of them ends up letting his memories get erased so he will spend the rest of his life thinking the construct he is boning is the ghost of his sister instead of a construct that is pretending to be what he thinks his sister, who he never actually met, was like. It kills me, there is a hole in my heart for each of them.

At the same time, real life is often like that. How many addicts die with their last thoughts being something pleasant, but here, in sober reality, they are slumped down on a floor sitting in a pool of their own piss and shit?

One last thought. The author, she is a damn good writer. Unfortunately, she fucking knows it, and has to make sure you know it too. There are times, especially in the beginning, where the wording is awkward as hell because of this. Fortunately, she gets past it a few chapters in...or maybe I just got used to it. I'll probably read this book again in another decade. It is addicting.