End Game
H. Jekyll

*  *  *  *  *

No story codes. This story contains explicit sex. It is about 
love and commitment and loss.

Copyright 2002 by H. Jekyll. Permission is freely granted to 
post on any site that does not charge for entrance, as long as 
full attribution is given to the author. The story should not 
be read by anyone under the legal age to read sexually 
explicit stories, or by anyone in a location where it is 
illegal to read such stories. 

I appreciate comments and inquiries, even criticisms, and I 
absolutely promise to respond to them. Please send them to: 
h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com

The H. Jekyll stories are archived in the Alt Sex Stories Text 
Repository, at http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/h_jekyll/

Also at "Ruthie's Club" -- http://www.ruthiesclub.com/


*  *  *  *  *


"End Game"


Miriam is dead. Nothing else is important.

You don't die that soon, not after your first surgery, do you? If 
I'd known I'd have gone to her, I don't care who would find out. 
I'd have to. But then, no, I wouldn't. You know that. I couldn't 
let her husband know, her kids know, and leave her dying in bed 
and needing them while they worked through knowing she was a 
whore and had betrayed them.

She wasn't a whore. I'm only saying that because it's what they'd 
have thought. She was just a sweet woman dying. Through most of 
her life she hadn't even been particularly sexual, though I 
hardly believed it when she told me. She said some things just 
seemed different to her with the clock winding down.

So I didn't get to see her again, not really, or say good-bye. I 
didn't get to touch her or kiss her or do any of the things I 
wanted to do. That I still want to do. I did sneak into the 
hospital after they cut on her, after visitors' hours so no one 
would know, but it didn't work out because she sent me away. She 
said she didn't want me to see her like that. I thought, maybe 
later, but she spiraled down. Hospice was called. 

I can't even grieve, not around anyone I know. Her husband could, 
though. He couldn't stop crying at the visitation. He tried to be 
brave, but he couldn't do it. I've never seen anyone so stricken. 
He shook my hand and mumbled "hello" while his daughter held his 
other hand and their minister kept butting in to tell him how all 
things work together for good to them that love God. I think he 
remembered me from when our kids took strings together, but who 
knows? What I remember was feeling his big hand in mine and 
seeing his eyes all wet and his face red and wanting to smack 
that fat, red face. 

She wanted you, you stupid son of a bitch. She wanted you, not 
me. I was just a substitute. It was always you, but you wouldn't 
give her what she needed and now it's too late.

It was crowded in the funeral home. Everyone was there because 
everybody knew Miriam and everyone liked her, so it took forever 
to reach the front of the line. They all knew her, but not like I 
did.

Her body didn't look right. I've never seen one that did, though 
people have told me of lovely dead aunts or grandfathers, but it 
didn't matter. I was only depressed by the shell-like aspect for 
a minute, not more than that, with that awful wig and terrible 
make-up, looking not asleep but as though she'd never been real, 
and then I saw her as she'd looked in bed with me, so thin and 
waiflike, so beautifully pale and smooth, hairless, her breasts 
distinct balls because she'd lost so much weight. They'd put a 
falsie on the corpse to make it look realistic and the fake 
breast made me think of the tiny lump she'd hated me to touch.

I guess I stared at her for a minute, certainly not long enough 
to make people wonder what was going on with me, then I went out 
somewhere, looking for something that doesn't exist.

*  *  *  *  *

God I loved her. I had to be careful how I told her, though, 
because she wanted the fantasy that it was only sex that joined 
us. When I told her I loved her she insisted I really loved my 
wife and she loved Al. I had to say I had enough love for more 
than one woman and that she knew what I meant. I know she really 
did love her husband, and I know the sex really did draw us 
together.

She loved everything about the sex. She liked my penis. Yes, I 
know. Lots of women like penises, and some don't, but this was 
different. She liked mine during sex but also afterwards, when it 
had shriveled and shrunk to almost nothing. She thought it was 
cute.

"Cute? What the hell is 'cute,' Miriam? This thing just fucked 
you, lady!"

"I know, silly, but when it gets so small after sex it's just, 
well, it's cute. And don't use that word!" She made a little 
pout. "Al's is always about the same length. It just gets rounder 
and harder and sticks out when, well, you know."

Oh yes, I knew. She went on,

"But yours. It gets so teensy-weensy when you're done. It's just 
precious!"

I didn't answer her for a moment. It wasn't what she said. She 
had that Carolina accent that always makes people sound simpler 
and more innocent than they really are, so it would have been 
hard not to laugh at the way she said "precious." I was just 
surprised, because it was the first time she had spoken her 
husband's name in bed. That was bad luck for her. It brought the 
guilt on. 

Other places she'd talk about him and her kids all the time. I 
remember walking that path through the hill behind her 
subdivision, through the trees. There's a little creek with mossy 
rocks and dragonflies during the hot months and all those things 
that seem magical though they can't keep you from dying, and 
there we could walk holding hands, and she'd go on and on about 
her family. We could kiss. I could feel her up. Once I moved my 
hand down, all the way down inside her panties, and massaged her 
while I was kissing her, and I got her so high she almost came 
right there, her breath on my face accompanied by little 
whimpering sounds and her eyes completely closed, but when we 
broke away to walk some more she told me how she was arranging 
things to ease the transition as much as possible for Al and the 
kids, when she passed on. It was only in bed that she couldn't 
mention him. Until we got to penile comparisons, it seems.

"You know," I told her, "it would be just as easy to talk about 
how big and hard it gets when you make me all bothered. A little 
pixie dust from you and it can fly."

"Oh you men! You really do have the frailest egos." She had been 
tickling my ear, but now she moved down to my groin and used her 
mouth to boost my ego.

*  *  *  *  *

We'd never have sexed if she hadn't gotten cancer. We didn't know 
each other that well, and when she came over to me at a 
celebration for a professor who had died I didn't recognize her 
at first, because she'd lost so much weight and was wearing a 
straight, blond wig. Her eyes were a little bloodshot and her 
eyelids were inflamed. 

"It's just from the chemotherapy. It was really bad, but I'm 
feeling so much better now. I'm going in for a second round that 
will be shorter, so they can get the tumor shrunk before the 
surgery."

We got together because I didn't react very well to finding out 
about her breast. It wasn't terrible, but enough to eat at me, so 
I sent her an email volunteering to be her sounding board when 
she needed to talk to someone besides her usual family and 
friends. A week later the need was upon her.

*  *  *  *  *

In my mind I can see the transformation happen. I see it from all 
angles, the two of us on the hiking path in Towne Park, passing 
through that wooded patch where no one can see us. It's warm and 
sunny, awfully warm for October, so the red dogwood leaves seem 
out of place. We're holding hands. It's innocent. I took her hand 
because she was a little down and I thought it would help, and 
neither of us feels disposed to let go.

What were we talking about a second ago? I don't remember that. 
How did we come around to it? I don't know. It isn't out of the 
blue, though. Something leads to something else. It isn't out of 
the blue when she stops walking and jerks her hand from mine. She 
turns half away from me and says, "They're going to cut my breast 
off and I'm going to die and my husband won't even make love to 
me!"

She is looking at the ground and I don't for all the world know 
what to say. No one ever prepares you for that, do they? She 
isn't crying but it's terrible. Because I never know what to say, 
I've learned not to be stupid and to say nothing. I don't croak 
"you're not gonna die," because she'd think it was dumb and it's 
only part of her point. The one thing I can think to do is step 
to her and put a hand on her shoulder. Then, because she doesn't 
respond, I lean forward and kiss her on top of her head. The wig 
isn't like hair. I can't smell or feel her through it.

She leans her forehead against my chest just for a second. When 
she lifts off she has this tight little smile.

"It's not his fault. Really. I didn't mean it that way. I'm just 
a mess right now. My hair is all tufts and scraggles because of 
the chemo. It's like I have mange or something."

"Oh." What should I say next? "I thought all of a person's hair 
fell out from the chemo."

"Maybe it will eventually, but not yet. It's pretty ugly."

From somewhere I get the most brilliant advice in my life. 

"Why don't you shave it smooth?"

"What?"

"Shave it smooth. Um, isn't it the patchiness that's the problem? 
Shave it off and make yourself beautiful."

She smiles at me. "You think a bald head would be beautiful?"

"Ah, sure. Of course. Your legs are bald and they're beautiful, 
aren't they?"

"That's not the same. Who'd want to go to bed with a bald woman?"

"For starters? Me. Not that I'm coming on or anything." I don't 
think I am. Probably I'm not. But I'm starting to feel flirty.

"Bald?" she says.

"Bald. No wig. Lovely smooth skin to caress. Like caressing your 
legs. Did the chemo affect your body hair too?"

"Yes. Not on everyone, but it did on me." 

She's looking at me with a different expression. There's 
something subtly hungry about it.

"Well then take the time you're saving shaving your legs and use 
it on your noggin."

Now she does smile and seems about ready to laugh. "It isn't that 
simple, you goof! My body hair is patchy too."

"Oh. Uh, all your body hair?" I string out the "all". I decide I 
am starting to come on to her.

"You mean ...?" and she gives a quick nod in the general 
direction of her crotch.

"Uh-huh."

She blushes. Oh jeez does she blush. I haven't seen anything like 
that in years. She doesn't look away though. She looks me 
straight on, red-faced and all.

"Well, yes. It's patchy too."

"Then shave it."

"Shave it?"

"Shave it. Make yourself smooth and beautiful."

"And then I suppose you'd want to go to bed with me?"

"Oh that! Shoot, I already want to do that. This would just make 
me want to worship you!"

"You goof!" 

She laughs. I laugh. We're enjoying the silly moment. I say "Come 
here" and pull her in and we hug. That's the instant of the 
transformation. It's quick, a blink. We're hugging and laughing 
and we look each other in the face and I kiss her.

We're not laughing. We're not saying anything. Her eyes grow 
wide, then she leans into me and we're both kissing, mouth over 
mouth, lips touching and brushing, sucking, breathing each 
other's air, our bodies touching all the way down. I can feel my 
penis start to grow between our bellies and I know she can feel 
it too.

Then we're not kissing anymore. She's stepped away and looks 
frightened.

"I'm sorry. I have to go. I really do. I really appreciate your 
talking with me. But... you know."

What have I done? 

"Look, I'm sorry about that kiss. I didn't mean anything. It just 
happened."

"Oh I know. It's just that I really have to go. You know. I'll 
call you later, okay?"

"Sure. I really am sorry."

"No. Don't worry. It's okay."

So we're both fumbling around with words, trying to make 
everything normal between us while we walk to our cars, she 
afraid that she's shamed herself and afraid of the complications, 
me afraid I've fumbled the role of confidant and driven her away, 
and that's how things stand when she starts her car and leaves. 
It's a terrible memory but at least she's alive in it.

*  *  *  *  *

It happened that I was looking for a copy of some book and when I 
turned back Miriam was in my office doorway. Like a spirit. When 
Ebenezer Scrooge first saw Jacob Marley's ghost, it was as a 
transformation in his door-knocker. Miriam was a transformation 
in the space of my doorway, suddenly standing there in a 
raincoat, out of nothing, and I got a chill up my back.

"Hi," I said, finally. "I was a little worried about you."

I had decided she wasn't going to see me again, or return emails, 
or anything. I had given up when she came by.

"Can I come in?" 

Her voice was little, and quiet, and she sounded somehow 
obsequious.

"Sure." 

I rose but didn't walk toward her. What to do?

"Do you have a little time?" 

Of course I did. 

"Can I shut the door?" 

Then, with the door closed, "I have something I want to show you. 
Is it okay?"

"Of course. That's what friends are for."

She looked around the office. It was far too quiet.

She said, "You have to be honest with me, Jake. I couldn't stand 
it if you weren't honest, even if I don't like the truth."

"I will. Whatever you ask, I'll tell the truth." I didn't know if 
I would or not.

She fumbled with her wig and then she was holding it down by her 
hip and her head was smooth and bald.

"Is this... horrible? You have to be honest!" 

I thought she might bolt.

Then I did walk up to her, slowly, to keep from spooking her. I 
thought she was like a young colt, in everything but appearance. 
She was odd looking without hair, but I never thought her ugly, 
just unusual. Just needing getting used to. Like the women in 
"Alien Nation," who were seductively beautiful once you'd seen 
them enough. 

I went up to her and she didn't move, and after a minute I put 
both my hands on her scalp. Just my finger tips at first, then my 
palms, and I moved my hands all over her head. She was silky 
under my hands. She didn't bolt. She didn't move at all, just 
looked up at me from under her eyelids. After a moment I pulled 
her head down a fraction and kissed the top of her head. It was 
enormously better than kissing the wig. I ran my lips over her, 
then pulled back and raised her face by putting the backs of my 
fingers to her cheek. She still hadn't made a sound or a move. 
With her face up we looked in each other's eyes and I knew I 
could kiss her again, and I did.

It was just like in the park, except that she didn't stop things. 
She began panting almost immediately. I think she'd been holding 
her breath. I used my right hand to pull her to me and kept 
caressing her scalp with my left, and my mind was seventeen steps 
ahead because she'd trusted me with all this and I knew what else 
she'd trust me with. 

"You look just fine. Wonderful. Don't ever worry again about how 
you look with a smooth head. Never again." 

We kissed again. We heard someone walking down the hall outside 
the door, and we clung quietly to each other. When the steps were 
past we began kissing again. As a child I had caressed my pillow 
case with my lips. A wonderful thing for a child. Now I did that 
to her skin, a wonderful thing for an adult, but in a minute she 
put both hands up to my chest and softly pushed me back a step.

"There's something else I have to show you."

She undid her belt and began unbuttoning the coat, and I knew 
before she finished one button that she wasn't wearing anything 
under it. With that I knew everything else that was important. 
She had thought about me every day since the kiss and had finally 
shaved her body for me. She must have thought about it a long 
time. Maybe there were false starts and vows to stop being 
stupid, and worries about the sinfulness of it. Shaving off her 
pubic hair would have been the kinkiest thing she'd ever done. 
Did it make her hot to do it? She'd wanted to prepare her body 
for me, and now she was going to offer herself to me. 

"Does it look weird?" 

She let her coat slip down her arms to the floor so that it 
formed a pile against her ankles, and she kept her arms straight 
down by her sides, as though fighting a desire to cover up. Her 
legs were close together. Her head was bowed a little. She wasn't 
looking directly at me. I think she couldn't. Again, I knew what 
she was thinking. What if I rejected the offer? Could I accept 
it?

She must have stood something like that in front of her mirror, 
looking at her body, certain she'd never actually be able to show 
herself to me, or even to Al. Her desperation must have been 
terrible. Nothing in her life had prepared her for such a step, 
but her need would have kept the thought there, the idea of being 
transported by sex. Did she lie in bed at night thinking about 
it, thinking she couldn't die without experiencing it? She must 
have hated how she looked. 

The hate was misplaced. She was thin and marvelously pale. Were 
both from the chemo? I could see her ribs and the bones of her 
chest, and faint bluish veins in her breasts that radiated from 
nipples that were dark and womanly against that white skin. I 
couldn't see a lump. Though she held her legs together I could 
see her labia, slightly darker than the rest of her, and the 
little, reddish slit of her vagina where it disappeared between 
her thighs. It was as shy as the rest of her.

I stepped back up to her and spoke as quietly as I could, "Don't 
move," and I began touching and caressing her everywhere.

*  *  *  *  *

It was far easier to find times and places to fuck than I had 
ever imagined. We did it two or three times a week, in my office 
or at her house or mine. It wasn't enough. For me it wasn't, and 
she said it wasn't for her, and I believed her because she called 
and sent emails to try to set up trysts we couldn't work out. We 
were almost caught only once, and it was so silly that it seemed 
afterward to be almost something from the Three Stooges. We 
laughed about it hysterically when we got together that very 
night.

I wish we could have done it every day. She'd missed out on so 
much, and we just couldn't cover everything. Me, I'm not young 
but everything of mine worked for her and I'd have taught her 
everything I could. Miriam, sister of Moses, found water on the 
desert. Miriam found water in me. I'd get hard at night, trying 
to fall sleep, after we'd fucked that day.

We were so conspiratorial, plotting to do this and that. She 
wanted to try almost everything she'd never done, and she'd done 
very little. A good, Southern Baptist girl in a Southern Baptist 
marriage. Almost everything was sinful. She'd had no ass-play 
ever. Nothing oral beyond a little kissing and licking as 
foreplay. She was afraid to suggest things at first. Was she 
afraid to compound her sin, or was she just shy at the thought 
she would disgust me? That first day, I pushed her down onto the 
couch and knelt between her legs to eat her. I'd never done that 
with a woman who shaved.

"Don't," she said when I started.

"What?"

"You don't have to do that."

"I'm not going to pass up the chance at a naked cunt."

"No, that's not what I mean. And don't use that ...oh!"

She kept saying things, though they became less words and more 
grunts and gasps with time. Later she told me it was the first 
time ever for her, and the experience was overwhelming. By the 
time she told me that, she wanted my mouth almost every time we 
were together. This first time she didn't know how to act, or 
what to expect, and she kept jerking and twisting, and whimpering 
"what are you doing," and "oh God," and "please, please." When 
she began building toward orgasm she grew even louder. I had to 
stop for a minute and wait for her pleasure to subside, so she 
was only gasping, not crying out. 

"I love doing this, but you're going to get us caught. Try 
holding both hands over your mouth."

So she muffled herself and I licked and sucked and she came. She 
yelled into her hands, silencing herself pretty well, though 
anyone walking past the door would have known exactly what was 
happening. 

After she finished she lay on my couch and cried. She was 
inconsolable. I had to hold her for the longest time, and kiss 
her and murmur how everything was going to be fine, before she 
finally quieted. She never told me why she cried. I only have 
guesses.

*  *  *  *  *

She was awfully thin. I could feel her spine and all her ribs 
through her clothes. She was a bird, a sparrow, hollow and empty. 
I thought I could lift her with one arm. We were walking in 
Kilkelly Garden and no one else was around because it was so out 
of season. My left arm was around her waist and I just lifted her 
up and swung her around to face me.

She gave a little shriek.

"Jake, no, don't!" She tried laughing, an embarrassed little 
laugh. Then, "Jake, I can't breathe." She brought both her arms 
to my neck and I held her up with both my arms around her waist. 
She was flying, her legs in the air, and it was so good to kiss 
my little bird, sparrow-like in everything except her breasts, 
which were round and hard against me. She tried to push against 
me and whispered "Please, Jake, I can't... can't breathe." There 
was almost no air behind her words.

So I put her down and loosened my hold, and she leaned against 
me, breathing ragged gasps, my weak little sparrow. I loved her 
more then than before, and I hated myself. It was the first time 
I felt she might actually die-the first time it seemed real to 
me.

*  *  *  *  *

It was always a different place. She couldn't go anywhere without 
running into someone from her church, so our rule was to never be 
seen in the same place twice. She'd be working at this or that 
charity effort, and it was always hard for her to get away on any 
kind of a schedule. It was harder to talk face-to-face than to 
fornicate. 

One memory. She's in the new place, standing, waiting for me. 
It's the best place, closest by, the landscaped courtyard nestled 
between two wings of Old Main building, screened from the curious 
by a raised, enclosed walkway and a hedge of arbor vitae and some 
massive azaleas, a place no one ever goes. It's so protected the 
ferns haven't yet died. She's standing there while I duck in, 
under the walkway. For me she's just stopped crying.

"I showed Al my body last night." 

She smiles fiercely, forcing an ironic grin, then drops the other 
shoe.

"He wasn't interested."

"What do you mean? You mean the dope was shocked because you 
shaved?"

"No. No. It wasn't like that at all. He was surprised, but I told 
him I shaved because of the hair problem. You know. So he 
accepted it."

"And?"

"And, well, it's been so long since we've made love. I said 
'would you like to try it out?' I thought maybe he'd think it was 
sexy, but he just looked away from me and mumbled something about 
how he had some things he had to do."

Oh Jesus. The bastard. 

"So he was shocked."

"No. You don't understand. It was more like he was afraid. Like 
he's afraid of my body or something." 

A tear or two get loose. She can't stop them all, so I get to 
hold her again. It almost doesn't matter that she's miserable, 
because I can hold her and give her comfort. I'll get her naked 
body too, tomorrow or the next day, and she'll forget all about 
Al for a little while. 

"Jake, you wouldn't do that to your wife, would you? You love 
her. You wouldn't deny her, would you?"

Oh no. Not that. That's not your place, darling. You're out of 
line. I want to shake her. You're the other woman, the one who 
causes the breach, or steps into it. You can't be her protector. 
What can I say? Shut the fuck up, my dearest? Butt out, my one, 
true love? Should I tell the truth? Finally I look her full in 
the face and say it as honestly as I can make it sound.

"Of course I wouldn't."

The only "of course" is that life serves up cheap irony and my 
wife wants sex tonight. How seldom does that happen? How much 
water under that bridge? Sometimes we grow so guilty we aren't 
doing it that we do it. I don't want to do it tonight. I really 
don't. But Miriam says I have to love her.

So I take a Viagra and futz in the bathroom forever, until I can 
feel it start to work. In the end it isn't so bad. It never is, 
really, once we get started. With candles I can imagine she's the 
smooth skinned girl I once adored. I can imagine she's Miriam. I 
can fantasize anything. My wife massages me with baby powder and 
plays with my penis, which gets nice and hard. She's a little 
surprised at first but then gets cocky at her power. It's Miriam 
sucking on my balls. It's Miriam licking the head of my cock 
while I masturbate her. We lie down to spoon, me coming in from 
behind, and use her vibrator. Fantasizing Miriam, I come easily 
and don't have to fake it.

Afterwards we touch each other affectionately, tickling and 
kissing, and we say we still have it after all these years.

*  *  *  *  *

Miriam's second round of chemotherapy was hard on her. I couldn't 
see her while she was getting it, and it laid her low. She 
couldn't eat. Everything came right back up. She was weak, and 
when she'd sit up or-especially-try to walk, the world would spin 
and she'd be sick again.

I knew this because she'd call me at my office, from her bed, and 
talk to me in her weakened little voice about it all and about 
nothing. I felt like a teenager who hated having to hang up to 
get my work done. In the middle of one conversation she suddenly 
broke a sentence with "oh wait," and there was silence, and a 
distant retching sound. Then she came back on, and her voice was 
more breathless than before.

"I'm sorry, sweetie pie. My tummy caught me a little by 
surprise."

The next morning she called again.

"Jake," she said, "I'm so horny for you. Can you come over?"

"Are you feeling better?"

"No, but I'm going out of my mind being sexy. I can't move 
without getting dizzy, but I keep thinking of you and touching 
myself. Please, can you come over?"

"Are you alone?"

"Yes, silly. I told Mee-Maw I was feeling a lot better, and that 
I needed some time alone. I acted undizzy, but oh it was hard! 
I'm just finally getting the rockiness back under control."

She was telling the truth. She lay flat on her bed, arms and legs 
half spread, and even my moving on the bed made the world swirl 
and float for her. I undressed her carefully and slowly, 
unbuttoning her teddy and peeling it back but not removing it, 
then pulling off her panties. They were loose and came down 
easily.

She looked completely washed out. Dark bags circled her eyes, but 
the rest of her was all pallor. She'd grown still thinner, and 
her skin hadn't shrunk as much as the rest of her, so it was 
loose over her breasts. Her naked vagina, though, was pink, and I 
could see she'd been touching herself. She'd been doing more than 
that, she was so wet.

I had to be gentle at this.

"Okay, Miriam, nice and easy does it. You just lie here and let 
me play with you."

She tried to stay completely still. I reached between her legs 
and, yes, she was as slippery as she could be. There was almost 
no resistance when I stroked her, moving my fingers up almost 
from her anus, through her vulva all the way up over her little 
stub of a clitoris, to the top of her crease. Then down all the 
way. I was just softly strumming her. A truly wet woman is 
absolutely slick, and no one who has had the opportunity to touch 
her then will ever forget the sensation. I played with her vagina 
like this for several minutes, until her eyes would close during 
the stroke and half open afterwards. She wanted to control her 
breathing for fear she might get sick again, but she still made a 
little gasp of inhalation at every second or third stroke. I 
spread her fluid over her labia with my strokes, then began 
pulling on the labia themselves, letting the slippery things pass 
through my fingers. 

Then I noticed her breast.

There were a few drops of an almost clear fluid coming from her 
nipple. I leaned closer and it was then I saw the lump for the 
first time. Wasn't it supposed to be getting smaller? Maybe it 
showed up better because she'd lost so much weight? My hand must 
have moved up from her vagina on its own, because I found myself 
caressing the breast as softly as possible. The lump was obvious 
to my fingers.

"Don't, Jake," she whispered.

"Shh, love."

"That's what's going to make them cut it off."

"It's not off yet, darling. It's still there for me to love on."

I bent my head to it and tasted the fluid. It was almost nothing, 
maybe the slightest bit sweet. I took her nipple between my lips 
and sucked, and a little fluid came out.

"Don't, Jake."

"Does it hurt?"

"No. But it's poison. The cancer makes it do that."

"I'll suck it all out."

"No, Jake." But I began to suck her harder and a little more 
fluid might have come out, and at the same time I began 
masturbating her again, faster, up and down through her vulva, 
two fingers up and down while I sucked. She crooked her arm up to 
hold my head to her breast and she began breathing harder. Her 
chest rose and fell now, and her gasps became moans and then 
words. One word. My name. She was moaning "Jake... Jake... oh, 
Jake" while I sucked on her diseased breast and masturbated her, 
and then she began to move rhythmically to the hand, the muscles 
of her abdomen and her arms and legs pulling together, and the 
moans grew louder and more ragged, and then she came.

And then she threw up.

In mid-orgasm she twisted toward the side of the bed and made an 
urping sound into a little plastic bowl, then lay there, on her 
side, panting. Of course I stopped masturbating her. I lay my 
hand on her hip, felt her, caressed her. Her skin was clammy and 
I became terrified of what was happening to her. Don't fall 
apart, I told myself. Be a comfort. Finally, slowly, her panting 
subsided, and I could tell she was crying. It was time to be 
strong for her, to pretend everything was fine.

"There, there, darling." I moved up to kiss her cheek, but she 
put a hand back against my face.

"I'm so disgusting! How can you stand me?"

For a minute I stroked her shoulder through the silk of the 
teddy, feeling her tremble with the crying, and tried to control 
my breathing. Finally I thought I could say it, but it was 
obvious from my voice.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Miriam. You're 
the easiest person to stand I've ever known." 

She turned her head around to look at me and saw that I was 
crying too, and she seemed astounded. 

I wiped my eyes and crept off the bed and took the plastic bowl 
into the bathroom. There was a tiny amount of green liquid in it 
that I washed away. I got her a glass of water so she could rinse 
her mouth out. When I came back I brought a fresh towel and dried 
away the clamminess.

"Jake, will you get me some crushed ice, please? I need ice 
chips. I can hold them down." So I got crushed ice from the 
kitchen, and Miriam took a few chips and let them melt in her 
mouth, and I massaged her arms and her legs, each leg and then 
each arm. By and by she became settled and managed a smile.

"You didn't get to come, Jake."

"I don't need to."

"But you're still a little hard. I want you to have the sweetness 
too."

"Well, anything we'd do would make you sick, love. When you're 
feeling better we can do things to our hearts' content."

"No, Jake. That would make me feel worse. Look, I know. You 
masturbated me. Now do yourself, and when you're almost there 
I'll take you in my mouth."

"No. I don't think so."

"Do it, sweetheart. Please. Do it for me."

I'd never masturbated in front of anyone in my life, but Miriam 
made it a test of my love and that was that. She knew I loved 
her. So I stood beside her and grabbed my erection just behind my 
head and began. My foreskin moves back and forth over the head 
when I jerk myself off. Miriam watched it closely, like she was 
fascinated. I think she'd never seen anyone masturbate. Anyway, 
it was difficult with her right there, so I began slowly. After a 
minute she reached out a hand to touch the base of my penis, 
where it emerges from my balls, and she kept her hand there the 
whole time. It helped. I sped up. It was good with her touching 
me, and I began to get breathless like I do when I'm getting 
close. It was almost time. Almost time. It was time, and I gasped 
it out to her,

"Okay. Okay. I'm almost there. I'm going to come."

She opened her mouth and leaned the tiniest bit forward and 
pulled my penis into her mouth. She sucked on it and pulled it 
about twice and my orgasm rushed from my balls all up through my 
body and I came into her, feeling myself pump again and again. I 
half fell onto the bed and had to brace myself on my arms to keep 
from crushing her.

Afterwards she smiled at me while I lay still beside her, 
recovering. She took some ice chips and said,

"See, Jake? It didn't make me the least bit sick. You're my meal 
for today. You'll make me stronger. Maybe you can feed me every 
day."

But I never got to feed her again.

*  *  *  *  *

That night I had a dream. Miriam and I were fucking, and then 
suddenly her breast wasn't there, only a bloody gash, and it was 
shooting poison milk everywhere. I awoke terrified about what 
this might mean. I lay awake for hours, even after the fear had 
passed. I thought of what she would look like mutilated. Would 
the scar affect me? Would I be able to get hard for her? I was 
afraid I'd be like Al.

The next morning she called. They were taking her in. The cancer 
wasn't responding like it should, and they had to decide what to 
do right away. I think she was calling to say good-bye, because 
before she hung up she said, "Jake, you know I love you."

After she crashed there was a special prayer service at her 
church, but I couldn't make myself go to it. Instead I went to 
Towne Park by myself.

God, please don't let her die. Don't let her die. Please, God, 
please. I'll do anything. Let me die. I'll stay away from her. 
I'll join the church and be a good Christian. I know I haven't 
been a believer, but I'll change. I promise. Just don't let her 
die. Please! I'm begging you.

I would have kept my promise. 

*  *  *  *  *

I think it helped Miriam to be a believer. I hope she prayed for 
forgiveness and got the peace that passeth all understanding, but 
I'm not sure she would pray for herself. I'm sure she prayed for 
me, and told God I'm a good person, and to please let the Holy 
Spirit work in me. That prayer is destined to go unanswered. 
Still, I'm trying to be a better person, for her, though she'll 
never know it. 

I know I'm not the only one, that many people are grief-stricken, 
and people recover, and with time the sun shines for them again. 
Maybe some day. Now I just don't know what to do. I've visited 
all the places we went together, but though people have told me 
they suddenly see their beloved everywhere they go, I don't see 
Miriam anywhere. I visited her grave and tried to talk to her, 
but it wasn't any good. She isn't there, either.  

My wife has noticed I've been down a lot lately and I told her 
part of the truth, that it's because Miriam, whose daughter took 
strings with Patty, died. My wife is touched that I'm so affected 
by the death of someone we didn't know well. I've taken to 
snuggling her in bed before we fall asleep. I want solitude, but 
I need to touch someone too. 

Other than that, I take long walks through the parks and in open 
fields, getting away from everyone I know, whenever I can. The 
days are longer now, and warmer, and the breeze pushes through 
the long spring grass, as though it's writing cryptic messages on 
the earth. Sometimes I try to read things into them, but when the 
breeze moves on, the messages disappear.


End.
