Dreamside

Hair.

He got rid of every single hair on his body using the most advanced laser hair removal tech available at the time. Completely smooth from the eyebrows down. He did it even before moving to the States.

Expensive. Precise. Final.

According to him, it became one of the single most important events of his entire life — an occasion he officially dubbed “Indehaired Day.”

That said, Alex Gonshorowski (last name gently Americanized for convenience) wouldn’t be Alex Gonshorowski if he hadn’t managed to completely forget the actual date. So now he celebrates it randomly. Whichever day feels right.

That alone tells you enough about him.

This slightly ridiculous detail is actually a core piece of who he is—something you could call a touch childish at first glance, and something he’s happily kept well into his twenty-nine years.

From the earliest age this pale-skinned, green-eyed transplant from the Eastern Hemisphere has been genuinely exceptional in exactly three things:

masturbate to five times a day (okay, maybe not that exceptional),

having bizarrely cinematic dreams that come in sequels like a Netflix series,

and turning all of the above into completely original worlds and stories.

As he grew up, those fantasies became steadily more and more erotic in flavor. Until one day he quietly became one of the most distinctive erotic writers on the entire Dreamside scene. Probably in all of California.

Dreamside is what one of America’s fairly conservative media figures back in the 2000s famously called on his podcast: “America’s worst nightmare since Roosevelt.”

Judge for yourself.

The hippie movement somehow survived the 1970s. Then in the 1980s and 1990s it didn’t just hang on. It exploded. Grew fangs. Culturally and politically swallowed California whole.

San Francisco. Los Angeles. Hollywood. All of it got eaten.

The catch? By 1993 your average male hippie no longer looked like a barefoot, long-haired stoner strumming a guitar. He looked like a sharply-dressed, short-haired businessman-slash-“multi-hyphenate influencer” straight out of a Vogue cover shoot.

As any philosophizing philosopher would put it: “respectability is always about the suits,” and “everything in this world eventually gets monetized.”

So these suited, influential ex-hippies (or neo-hippies, depending who you ask) quietly lobbied through the idea that the country desperately needed something called SACZ—Special Autonomous Creative Zone—somewhere inside California.

The official pitch was all about “protecting, concentrating, and accelerating the nation’s creative and scientific potential.” You get the vibe.

The fact that SACZ sounds suspiciously close to “sucks” was, of course, just a delicious little middle finger from the founding fathers themselves.

And so several fairly large, fairly bizarre artistic-and-tech gated communities sprang up across California. By the 2000s they had ballooned to tens of thousands of residents and earned official “gated town” status.

Now, in 2024, Dreamside, right on the edge of Los Angeles, is the poster child of these places.

A full-on gated town packed with endless crowds of creative people of every age and income bracket. They hang out in ultra-luxe mansion-communes (there’s even a dedicated district just for that kind of party-house / group-estate lifestyle), living the ultimate bohemian Southern California dream.

The only real shadow over the whole idyll? The residents’ relentless, almost Olympic-level drive to outdo each other—creatively, sexually, you name it—without ever having to worry about a single paparazzi lens sneaking inside the gates.

Alex Gonshorowski has been living in one of these mansions for the past four years now, officially as its owner.

The massive place is built in the French style and goes by the name Château des Rêves. Besides Alex, his girlfriend lives there too (they’re not in any official relationship), along with roughly another 500 people.

Formally, these are staff of various levels of privilege and access, hired through what Alex himself calls “nepo-HR.”

In reality, it’s all friends of his girlfriend and friends of their friends—which has created this ongoing atmosphere of grown adults in creative professions playing perpetual college dorm life, 24/7 and seven days a week.

To an unprepared outside observer, the surreal vibe gets amplified by the fact that Alex is pretty introverted and has a history of intense panic attacks. That’s why, during almost every weekly party at Château des Rêves, he ends up retreating to his study on the third floor to hide out.

Those parties aren’t really about getting wasted on booze and weed. They’re more like structured networking sessions: building horizontal connections, swapping ideas, closing deals.

The Shaved Dolphin (one of Alex’s nicknames, thanks to the full-body laser job and his generally easygoing, agreeable nature) stands out a bit from the crowd because of his traditional monogamous relationship with his girlfriend, Kate Norwin.

But given the dynamic of their relationship (he calls her Goddess, she calls him Baby Boy), plus the protective oversight from his 21-year-old assistant Lila (who functions like an older sister to him), the house manager Amy, and his personal doctor Madi (30 and 26 respectively, both affectionately referred to as “Alex’s mommies”), he actually fits right in as a completely normal, typical resident of Dreamside.

In some ways, he’s even kind of sweet—especially compared to someone like Danton Beaudouin, the 32-year-old famous arthouse director and cinematography instructor at DreamArts College.

Danton doesn’t bother hiding the fact that he’s simultaneously dating a bunch of his students, can’t go five minutes without dropping a sexualized joke, and will corner anyone who crosses his path to tell them all about the “100 gorgeous women” in his life who supposedly made him who he is today.

February 3, 2024, 7 AM. Successful photographer and model Aria Vale speeds down the highway in her pink Porsche convertible. She wears a sexy black top with a plunging neckline, a short black miniskirt, a black choker, and black ankle boots. Her long dark brown hair is pulled back into a high ponytail. Light makeup highlights her baby face and large almond-shaped brown eyes.

She’s headed to the home of her best friend, Kate Norwin, who lives with her boyfriend, Alex. Their place is Château des Rêves, a sprawling French-style mansion. An hour ago Kate left for the Swag&Pop gallery to set up an exhibition. Aria knows this. She’s on her way to see Alex.

A week earlier, after another Friday night party, Aria floated a fun idea to Kate over glasses of Domaine Leroy Musigny Grand Cru. Kate was intrigued. Now Aria wants to pitch it to Alex—and she’s not at all sure he’ll like it.

Aria thrives on sexual and social experiments. She’s cut from the same cloth as Kate’s other party showgirl, Cheryl Bloomfield—except Cheryl’s erotic games never leave the party scene. Aria’s ideas do. This one isn’t some basic girls’ night pantyless dare. It’s sharper, more cunning, almost cruel.

The mansion’s silhouette rises on the horizon. Most of the house is still asleep, except for Kate (now at the gallery and aware of the visit), Alex, and the butler, Kae Asano.

Aria exits the highway, glides through the automatic gates, and parks beside the main building. She steps out and strides toward the entrance.

Kae waits on the doorstep in tight black leggings and a white Calvin Klein bra.

“Oh, hi, bitch!” she calls cheerfully. “Here to round up the drunken stragglers from last night, or looking for Kate? Your bestie already bolted to the gallery this morning, by the way…”

Kae pauses, then grins slyly.

“Ohhh. I get it. Our romantic dreamer is back in the office. Probably lost in his thoughts again.” She giggles, leaning against the doorframe.

“What a surprise,” Aria smirks.

Alex wasn’t getting anything done this morning, so he decided to take a quick break. Dressed in loose black shorts and an oversized blue T-shirt, he was interrupted right as the knock came.

He groans inwardly, slams the tabs shut, and quickly adjusts his shorts. He has no problem with Aria—hell, she’s Kate’s best friend—but he’d rather finish first. Still, he knows better than to keep her waiting.

“Come in!” he shouts, frantically opening random browser tabs to fake productivity. He rakes a hand through his short dark hair and exhales, trying to look like he’s deep in artistic thought.

Aria slips inside, closes the door with a soft click, and gives him a slow, knowing look. She stands with arms crossed, one hip cocked. She looks stunning, as always—the tight black top clings to her petite frame, the choker hugs her slender neck, and her perfect ponytail sways when she tilts her head.

The office is bright and airy, light colors everywhere, white-and-gray parquet floor. The window is open; the AC is off. Opposite Alex’s desk sits a comfy guest chair. On the desk: laptop, a few scattered papers, ballpoint pens, a pencil, and a long ruler.

“So… didn’t Kae tell you Kate’s at Swag&Pop?” Alex says, crossing his arms and leaning back. “Oh wait. You already knew. So you’re here to torture me again, huh?”

Aria lets out a soft, melodic laugh and saunters closer, heels clicking lightly on the parquet. She stops at his desk, plants both hands on the edge, and leans forward slightly. Her dark eyes sparkle with mischief as she pouts dramatically.

“Torture? Baby, I’m just here to keep you company while Kate plays art-gallery queen,” she purrs, batting her lashes in fake innocence. She shifts her weight, making her hips move. “Besides, I think someone might need a little… creative inspiration.” She winks, resting her chin on her hands and studying him with exaggerated curiosity.

Alex sighs, pretending to be unfazed, but his gaze keeps drifting.

“So why are you really here?” he asks, smirking. “Spit it out. Kate’s not around, so there’s no one to perform for.”

Aria grins wide, her pout melting into something wicked. She slides her hands up the edge of the desk until they’re right in front of Alex’s face, then leans in close, ponytail brushing her shoulder.

“Oh honey, I don’t need Kate to flaunt myself,” she murmurs, voice dropping to a husky whisper. Her perfume—sweet floral with a spicy kick—fills the space between them. “Besides, I figured if anyone needed distracting from work, it was you.” She winks, then straightens with a dramatic flick of her hair. “So…”

“So… what?” Alex asks, failing to drag his eyes away from her curves.

“I know you never drop by just to chat. Especially on a Saturday morning without Kate around. What do you need?”