“We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity – in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern.”
Anne Morrow Lindbergh – Gift From the Sea
For a few months now, Lola and I have been like the dancers upon a large stage – not like the partners doing a sexy Spanish tango, but like performers of some contemporary choreography who move at a great distance from each other, yet always aware of the presence of the other. Her work has demanded long hours and travel around the country. My work has kept me at the office on weekends. We have seen each other only occasionally – hastily preparing and eating dinner, a ride to and from work, a quick fuck before sleep.
Realizing the monotonous irregularity of our relationship, we consciously made an effort to set aside a weekend for a “love-in”: two days of nothing but lying in bed together, rediscovering each other’s bodies, reading naked next to one another, watching movies, and preparing luxurious meals – all in the comfort of our own home. Laundry can wait. Work can wait. Life can be put on hold.
But fate had something else in store for us. On the Friday that was to kick off our cocoon habitation, Lo got word of the unexpected death of her friend Cammy’s husband’s aunt. When Lo relayed this to me, at first I thought, “So?” I didn’t expect that such a tangential relation would in any way impinge upon our reunion weekend. But, it turns out, Cammy is very anxious about death and dying, is prone to panic attacks, and since her new husband would be needed at the memorial and funeral services, Cammy pleaded with Lo to come along for moral support. Lo graciously agreed.
“It’s only for Saturday,” said Lo.
“That’s fifty percent of our love-in.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” she said, seductively. “Promise.”
“Can’t Cammy handle this herself?”
“No, she can’t. Besides, I already said I’d go with her.”
I was in a foul mood. I grunted something incomprehensible, but clearly expressed my displeasure.
“I’ll be back tomorrow night and we still have tonight.”
It was no use. My mood was spoiled. Lo said to me that I was spoiled, and, in retrospect, she was right.
Friday we went to bed and I rolled away from Lo as she lay there naked next to me in the dark. “Daddio, you realize don’t you that you could have me now.”
Grunt.
“Do you realize how many men would pay – would die – to have a naked nympho next to them in bed, wet, waiting, and willing to fuck?! Do you? You big grouch. Come here. Put your face in my cleavage, suck my tits, grab my ass and fuck me,” she said, pulling on my arm.
“No,” I said like a child. “I don’t want a quick fuck and then sleep. I want to have you all weekend, all to myself.”
She didn’t respond. She just reached over and grabbed my cock and began to rub it under the blankets.
“I can feel you getting hard. I know you want to have me.” She was right.
After some manipulation, I rolled over to her. I got on top of her, spread her legs and entered her.
“That’s it, Daddio. Have me. Use me. Use me like so many guys have used me. Fuck me. Get your rocks off on me.”
She continued to encourage me like that. Though her voice was soft and breathy, I could tell she wasn’t getting off herself. Her breath wasn’t becoming short and rapid. Her hips weren’t moving to meet mine. She wasn’t using her body to help herself climax. But she kept talking to me and the sound of her sexy voice was enough to stir me to a swift conclusion.
“Yes. Cum on me. Cum on my face. Cum on my tits,” she said without cumming herself.
When I was done, I said, “You didn’t like it.”
“No, Daddio. I did.”
“Then why didn’t you cum too?”
“Because, I just wanted you to use me. Sometimes I like to do that.”
“You like to fuck. You like to orgasm. You like to do it all again. I know what you like.”
“Sometimes I just want to be your fuck-toy that you use to get your rocks off. It was so hot seeing you cum on my face.”
As odd as it sounds, when Lo doesn’t cum, even if I do, it leaves me feeling like our romp was anticlimactic. I went to sleep feeling worse than I did before.
Saturday came and Lo got decked out in her little black dress and black leather boots.
“Do I look ok for a funeral?”
“You look like the stereotypical mistress who follows a funeral.”
“What?!”
“Lo, your skirt doesn’t even cover your knees and that top really makes your chest. . . er. . . prominent.”
“You think so?” she said, perking up.
“Yeah.”
“Shucks, you know how to compliment a lady.”
“Good grief!”
“Wish me luck,” she said as she gave me a peck on the cheek.
“Luck?” I asked, surprised.
“Or, whatever one wishes when one goes to a funeral.”
Off she went and I went to the office, thinking that she’d be rather late returning.
Half past three, and I before I even had a chance to go to lunch, I got a text from Lo – “I’m home. Where are you?”
I closed up shop and sped home to see her. When I got in, there she was, greeting me at the door.
“Oh, hello,” I said, seeing her still in her mourner’s basic black.
“Hello ole’ man.”
“How was your, er, funeral?”
“My funeral.”
“I mean, the funeral you. . .”
“It was fine.”
“Fine?”
“Well, better than fine – for a funeral.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Come to the bedroom and I’ll tell you.”
When I got to the bedroom, she had already hopped on the bed and lifted her skirt up over her waist, showing her bare ass.
“Lo!” I said, taken aback, “You didn’t wear panties to a funeral in December?!”
“How else is a girl supposed to amuse herself at a funeral?”
“Seriously?”
“Don’t you like?” she asked, wagging her ass in the air.
“Um.”
“Well, I can tell you, there were boys at the funeral who were very happy to see me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Get yourself out of those pants and I’ll explain.”
I dropped my trousers immediately and pulled up behind her.
“That’s it, old man. Pound it. Drive it home.”
“Lo, why are you so randy today?”
“When am I not?” she retorted, followed by a moan.
“What got into you at that funeral?”
“You should be asking who got into me.”
“Lo, you didn’t.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy, but I was like the song.”
“The song?”
“You know: ‘I gotta stay high all the time to keep you off my mind.’ Bad habits, you know.”
“They say bad habits never die.”
“Ha,” she laughed, “It wasn’t a funeral for my habits, that’s for sure.”
“What did you do?”
“Remember the wedding we went to?”
“Which one?”
“The one where we got it on in the powder-room.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s what I did, but at a funeral. Same difference.”
“But, I wasn’t there.”
“I had no idea you were so fond of funerals.”
“I had no idea you were so irreverent.”
“Irreverent? Don’t you think that it’s very respectful of the dead to enjoy life?”
“Not that way!”
“Sex is the emblem of life and orgasm its crowning achievement.”
“The French call orgasm le petit mort – the little death.”
“Well, then I died many times at that funeral! Slay me once more.”
“Lola!”
“Do you like fucking me knowing that two other guys were in me earlier today?”
I went at her with great vigor and she came as she talked dirty to me about it. After she did, I pushed her body flat on the bed and ejaculated all over her back.
“Fuck!” she yelled out, “My dress!”
Her mourner’s gown was now my cum rag. I fell down next to her on the bed. Between deep gasps, I said, “That’s how you should greet me every time I come home.”
“Even from work?”
“Especially from work?”
“Even when you just go out to the bar?”
“Yes, when I go out to the bar. When I go out to do grocery shopping. When I take out the trash. When I enter through that door you should greet me just like that.”