My Dreams, My Love and You (1987): “She dreamt of him long before she ever touched him—so why did her body already remember?”

Opening the Door Between Flesh and Fantasy

There are films that flirt with sensuality.
And then there’s My Dreams, My Love and You—a quiet, fevered plunge into the secret places where desire simmers, where touch doesn’t begin with skin but with thought.

This 1987 cult gem isn’t just erotic—it’s haunted by lust. It follows a woman not at war with her desires, but seduced by them in dreams so vivid, they bleed into the day. Her name isn’t important. What matters is the ache that begins in her sleep and doesn’t end when she wakes.

The Body Remembers What the Mind Tries to Forget

She lies alone at night.
But in her dreams, she’s never untouched. A faceless man traces her every curve, every sigh. The camera lingers like a voyeur, never rushing, never cutting away from the slow burn of anticipation. It watches her fall—again and again—into a realm where surrender isn’t weakness, but worship.

What makes this film irresistible is its patience.
It doesn’t shove sex into the light. It lets it bloom in darkness.

And she isn’t just a dreamer. She’s a woman unraveling. As her real life grows colder, her dream world grows warmer—sweatier, hungrier, more dangerous.

When Dreams Taste Like Skin

There’s a scene—unassuming, gentle—where she wakes and reaches between her thighs, as if trying to hold onto the ghost of him. Nothing is shown. Everything is felt.
That’s My Dreams, My Love and You. It doesn’t shock. It seduces.

And when she finally meets someone in real life who looks like the man from her dreams, the line between illusion and flesh collapses.
Is she chasing him? Or is he hunting her—through sleep, through longing, through the wet heat of unspoken need?

A Whisper, Not a Scream

This isn’t pornography.
It’s poetry dipped in sweat.
It’s a woman’s inner monologue turned inside out, her fears and cravings stitched together with silk and shadows.

My Dreams, My Love and You doesn’t just invite you into her mind. It lets you taste the salt on her lips, the tremble in her voice, the pulse beneath her ribcage.
This is not a movie for the impatient.
It’s for the watchers.
The feelers.
The ones who understand that sometimes the most intense sex isn’t about what you do—it’s about what you imagine.

She wasn’t looking for love.
She was looking for a feeling so deep, it could only be found in sleep—until her body decided it wanted more than dreams.