"Can you believe he’d say that?" she asks. "I was stunned! No one else laughed, but I thought it was hysterical. I almost died in the middle of the staff meeting! It’s not just me, right? You see it, too?"

I smile, my head near hers. She's sitting on a red-checked blanket wearing a blue-checked dress.

She always brought a blanket when she visited me. We'd sit here for hours. Sometimes looking at photos. Sometimes in silence. Today she brought a little tumbler of wine, which she clung to with one hand while the other sliced through the air that way it did when she was a little drunk and a little silly.

"That’s crazy," I say, not sure what to add.

"I knew you’d get it," she says, her laughter subsiding. "You always understand my sense of humor."

"What’s not to get?" I ask, rhetorically. "You’re smart. Funny. You always make me laugh. Plus you’re never mean-spirited. You’re easily the nicest person I’ve ever known."

She smiles that way she does when a memory of the past creeps it's way to the present.

"I think about how we met all the time," she says, after a pause. "God, that was so random. I didn’t even like coffee back then. Don’t know why I stopped in. Talk about luck. Did I ever tell you, I told Lucy about you when I got to class, and she said you probably just hung out there every day, waiting to meet girls? She was certain you were a creep! She tried to convince me that you used the same routine on everyone you met, but I defended you."

"I never liked Lucy," I say.

"I know you never liked Lucy!" she adds, at the same time, making me chuckle.

I stand, looking down at her, lost in her own world.

"I miss you," I say, my emotions bumbling up. "I hate being apart. I never wanted it to be this way. I hope you know."

She looks sad. She always looks sad lately.

"This really sucks," she says, finally, her eyes cast downward toward. "I don’t blame you for anything, but I HATE this. Hate that I feel this way. I wake up every morning hoping it’s just a bad dream and that you’ve come home. I’ve been trying to stay strong with everything, all the changes. I know you want that. But it’s too much most of the time. I’m not sure I can keep going."

If I could cry, I would.

"Don’t say that …" I say.

"I know I have to, but it’s hard," she adds. "You’re everywhere I look these days, and nowhere, at the same time."

We stay there, in the quiet. I'm not sure what to say. I was never good at saying the thing that needed to be said when it was needed to be said.

There's a long silence. It feels like ages. I can hear kids laughing a few blocks away and the sound of what I think is a garbage truck backing up. The wind gusts, her brown hair flitting in front of her eyes. I notice she is crying, silently.

Finally, she reaches into her purse, pulling out flowers, placing them on the ground in front of my grave marker.

"I love you," she says, so soft I can barely hear it. "Know that. Please. And I always will. No matter what. You’re forever in my heart, in my thoughts. I just hope, wherever you are, you know I’m still here; I won’t let you go."

***

I was 34 when I died. It's been two months now. I try not to let it get me down. Some people do not live as long. Some people live much longer but never really live at all. I was lucky.

One second I was there, the next I wasn’t. A flash. A moment. That was all it took.

It did not hurt. Dying was painless. Like stepping into a warm bath. One foot in, and half the work is done. The rest is just letting go.

I make it sound easy: letting go. But that is the hard part. Moving on. Checking out. Life is too damn great. The world is beautiful. Memories are forever. A life spent kicking and screaming. A life of taxes and bad Thai food and cold and angst and worry. A life spent dreading the next morning – then suddenly there are no more mornings. And all you want is one more.

You finally get the meaning of life once it is taken from you. That’s the gut punch.

I still feel. It’s a reflex. Love. Loneliness. Despair. It’s like an echo of a previous emotion, but it is still there.

Echoes. I guess that's what keeps me here. Why I can't move on.

***

I saw her today. She was like a ghost. I get the irony of that. But, still, she was. A memory. Something distant and tangible but definitely not real.

It had been weeks since I last saw her, ever since I left the cemetery. I'm not sure why I left. I just did.

Then I wandered around, searching for something I couldn't name. I visited a lot of the places we once frequented. I'm not sure why. I'd just stand there and stare at the people and wish they’d stare back.

I try to remember what it was like to be alive. And I can. Barely.

That's when I see her. She's crossing the street at the coffee shop where we first met. She's either going to work or coming from it, wearing that blue suit she'd wear when she had a big meeting.

I almost say hello. Stop. Let’s talk. It was an impulse. Because it wouldn’t matter. She wouldn't hear me. But I almost do it anyway.

She looks sad in a way she hadn't just a few weeks before. The beauty is still there, but it hides a lot of pain. I assume that is because of me. I know that look. I caused her a lot of pain when I was alive, and it did not stop when I left.

As she nears me, she hesitates -- for a moment, a split second. I feel it. It's a reaction. A small one. But something. I KNOW it was something. It still hurts. For us both.

***

I came back to our house. Where we lived. I held out as long as I could. Six months. Maybe seven. I didn’t want to, but I was drawn there.

I spent days on the lawn, looking in, trying to not go through the door. She left and came back, every day. But I just stood there. I just stared at the dancing lights inside, trapped somewhere between the past and the present.

THEN

"I think this is yours," she said, approaching my table. "My name’s not 'Pete.'"

"Neither is mine," I said with a laugh, taking the coffee. "But, yeah, this my drink. Thanks. They’re, uh, not very good here."

She lingered by my table that way people do when they are not in a hurry to leave. "I agree," she said, flashing the first of a million smiles. "It’s like they’re trying to be bad!"

"I know!" I said, a bit too enthusiastically. "And they’re SOOOO good at it."

"Right?" she said, laughing. "If they sold 'Bad Customer Service' here instead of coffee, they’d have lines around the corner."

We both laugh until we don't. She extends her hand. "Hi, I'm ..."

NOW

And then, like that, I'm inside the house.

That is where I once slept. That is where we made dinner. That is where I proposed to her. That is where I fell and broke my neck and died. And that is where she found me, a lifeless body, and cradled me and screamed and cried until she had no more tears.

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. Not true. All I saw was the fucking stairs. Then the ceiling. Then I was dead and standing here, looking down at myself.

But now that I'm officially dead, ironically, the past is all around me, floating by. Every memory. Every moment.

THEN

"You promise you aren’t peeking!?" she said.

"I swear!" I said, feeling her waving her hand in front of my face to test me.

"OK," she said. "Because if you are, I’ll take it back."

I'd never met a woman who loved surprises more. The bigger, the more elaborate, the better. Luckily I had never spoiled a surprise by learning about it in advance, but I'd sworn to myself that if I ever did, I'd keep my goddamned my shut. I couldn't steal this from her.

She led me by the hand, out the front door, the cool of the winter air shivering my coat-less body.

"All right. Open!"

In front of me was a shiny, vintage convertible. The kind you see in movies starring James Dean.

"What is this?" I said, the practical one. "How could you afford ..."

"Don’t get too excited; I didn't buy it. I just borrowed it from a guy I work with for a few days. But I thought we could go up the coast for the weekend. You know, cruise with the top down."

"Well, it's winter ..." I said.

"Don't ruin it!" she said, laughing. "We can turn the heat on."

I was at a loss of words but not emotions. An unfamiliar place for me to be. Finally I just wrapped my hand around her waist and pulled her tight.

"I … don’t know what to say," I managed. "This is the best birthday I ever had. Seriously. You’re ... awesome. I don’t deserve ..."

NOW

No, your life doesn’t flash before your eyes when you die. That would be easy. A flash is quick.

Instead, your life tortures you. It chokes you. It taunts you, as real as when it first happened. Your life lingers like a shadow you can’t shake.

I sit next to her. I lie beside her while she sleeps, too. Cooks. Cleans. Whenever she’s home, I’m by her side. Waiting. Hoping she feels me here.

She doesn't, of course. Feel me. But she talks to herself when she sleeps, and sometimes, I swear she is talking to me.

She still has our photos up. Even the newest ones look older. Fading. I am surrounded by memories of me. Our life is on constant display.

THEN

"You sure about this?" I asked, wanting to make sure this was her dream, too.

"Yes. 100 percent."

"Because it doesn’t have to be this one. I don’t want you to think …"

"Will you stop?," she said, finally looking at me. "THIS is the house. We both agree. OK? Not the next one or the one before. This. One. Let’s just do it."

We had been standing in the driveway for about an hour weighing the pros and cons. Finally, I admitted I really, really wanted it. She said she did, too. But, like always, when I got what I wanted, I was suddenly not sure.

"But it costs so much," I said, trying to talk us out of the thing I wanted, or trying to test her in some weird way. "We will be paying until we’re …"

"Until we are two old folks STILL living together in this beautiful house?" she said, grabbing my hands. "So? Is that a bad fate? To grow old together in a place we love, until one day, it's ours?"

"We could start a family here," I said, allowing her enthusiasm to pave over my fear.

"We WILL start a family here," she corrected me. "We won’t regret this moment. But if we say no, we will. I know it."

NOW

They say the past makes sense with time and distance. But that’s all I have now, and I … just … feel lost. Angry. Frustrated.

I can’t move on, and I can’t be present. So I wallow in the pain of yesterday, caught in this slowly simmering sea of rage from which I can’t seem to escape.

She went on her first date tonight. It has been a year, from what I can gather. Joyce said she needed to get back “out there.”

The guy took her to a restaurant in Little Italy; I found out later when she called Joyce with the news. I wanted to go with her, but I can't seem to leave the house anymore.

She was polite but told Joyce she did not like him. There was no spark.

I'm relieved. I want her to move on. But I also don’t. Not really.

***

She has seen Paul eight times. He is a new guy. It has been three years since I died. I have watched men come and go, but he is the only one who has stuck.

Paul is a nice guy, from what everyone says.

He works in a furniture store. Maybe he owns it. I don’t know. He always seems happy and kind. It does not make it easier. I knew she’d find another man; I just didn’t want her to find a better one.

For Christmas, he buys her a trip to the Bahamas. She squeals and leaps up and gives him a big hug. She always wanted to go, but we could never afford it.

He asks if she is happy, and she says yes, and I die a little bit more. He calls her "baby," and I wish I could punch him.

Luckily, she rarely brings Paul to our place. Most of the time she goes to meet him. A few times she does not come home at night. I seethe and spin and feel the rage building inside of me. Even though I know I shouldn't.

She needs this. Deserves it. But, still, I am right here. RIGHT HERE.

***

Paul asks her to marry him. She says yes. She jumps and wraps her arms around his neck, standing on her toes to reach him. They kiss. They plan. I seethe.

He is moving into our house in the suburbs, the one with the fence that I never got around to painting, but you just KNOW he will. They'll probably get a dog, because Paul is not allergic. I bet he will do woodworking in the garage when he's not volunteering at the orphanage, or whatever.

He will cut the grass and clean the kitchen and put up the Christmas tree. He will have my life, and I cannot do anything about it.

He will sleep in my bed and be with my wife, and I will just be a tourist. A visitor.

He keeps telling her how much he loves her. I hate Paul.

Why am I still here? This is torture.

***

We visit my grave today. She goes there, and I do, too. It turns out, I guess, that's the only other place I can go.

I had not been out of the house in years.

"I’m sorry I don’t visit as much anymore," she says, crying a bit, but not nearly as much as before. "I’ve tried to find the time, but it’s not easy. … God, I feel guilty … like I’ve let you down … but then I tell myself you’d want me to move on. You only ever wanted me to be happy. But, still, I can’t help but miss you."

It was the first time in a long time she had talked to me, directly to me. When I first came back home, she'd still occasionally talked to me, from time to time, as if I was still there. But that ended when she met Paul.

She says she's getting married. That she's in love. That I would like the guy she's marrying, but I already know I don't. She says she's sorry, and I think she should be.

She says she misses me and that she feels guilty. She cries more.

I try to tell her I did not want her to marry Paul, but nothing comes out. I just stand there, wishing I was in the grave not over it.

She leaves me flowers, and we leave.

***

I've gotten stronger with time. It's been years, but I can finally do things now when I'm really angry.

Sometimes, when Paul is sleeping, I stand over him and try to choke him.

It rarely works. But sometimes it does. He wakes up coughing and sputtering, and she gets him water and comforts him. But I don't care. I love it.

I feel great. Really great. Like I accomplished something.

In the kitchen, I smash plates and glasses and sometimes open cabinets. She and Paul are scared by, but it’s the only way I can show how angry I am. How discontent.

I'm stuck here, watching them, every day. It’s painful. They did this.

I'm always jealous. Angry. I spend most of my time seething. I barely remember who I used to be.

***

She hired someone to do a séance, which did nothing. I was still there. A priest blessed the house, but I was still there. They put up cameras and took photos -- just like those ghost hunting shows on TV that we used to watch -- but they saw nothing. I was still there, though.

I've tormented them with my rage for years, now. I can't see it ending. It's like a faucet I can't turn off.

"I know you can hear me," she says, speaking directly to me for the first time in ... I don't know. Ages? A lifetime?

She says my name. My actual name. It startles me. Frightens me. Not JUST because it had been so long since anyone said it, but because I'd never heard her say it with such ... venom.

She'd never hated me before.

"I know it’s you," she says. "I didn’t want to believe it. But I’m not a fool. Paul knows it’s you, too, but he hasn’t said it."

Her anger builds slowly, leaking out. She gathers herself, her voice low and loud at the same time.

"I want you to listen to what I’m saying: You HAVE to go. LEAVE US ALONE! Leave ME alone. Do you HEAR me? What do I need to say to make you stop? That I don’t LOVE you anymore? This isn’t your home anymore! … Why are you doing this?"

She breaks down in tears; full-body sobs. She is tired. She looks older. She looks frail. She has not slept in days. Weeks?

This is me. I did this. My jealousy and rage and anger destroyed the last thing I had to cling to, her love for me.

"Please ..." she begs, in between sobs.

For the first time in forever, I feel something other than anger. I feel ... everything, all at once. All the emotions. Compassion. Shame. Regret. Remorse. Guilt. Sadness.

They come at me like a reflex. Like a burst.

I used to be human. I used to be real. I used to love something -- someone -- other than my own pain.

So I stop. No smashing things. No rage. No choking. No more. I bottle whatever is there and bury it deep.

I love her. Still. I don't want to forget again.

But ... I'm still here.

***

I've been dead longer than I was alive.

She is older, now. Still beautiful, but older than my parents were when they died. She had surgery last fall and was in the hospital for two weeks.

Paul is old, too. He has a bad hip. He is on blood thinners.

They never had children. They never got a dog. They just lived together, loving each other. Every day.

I have watched their romance unfold for decades. Whatever I tried to do to stop it just made their love stronger.

***

I'm a distant memory. A flickering image. A chill that barely gives you pause.

She will die soon. I will lose her. Her health is in decline, just like Paul's was before he passed. I was there when he died. I saw it happened. She mourned him longer than she mourned me.

I realize that when she dies, so will I. Again. There is no one left who loved me, who remembered me.

Then what? I want desperately to move on to ... something else.

What happens to a memory when no one is left to remember it?

***

I don’t know where they are now that they’ve died, but I’m sure they’re together.

Paul was her true love -- the love of her life -- not me. It's true.

I'm no longer haunted by my past; I'm haunted by there's. I close my eyes and see them laughing. Their moments. Their memories. Their love.

He devoted his life to her for 37 years, with a depth and understanding I could not fathom.

When you think about it, I was just a supporting character in her life. I moved the story forward. I was the guy in the movie you had to get past to get to the real love story. I was an anecdote that gave their past depth, a richness mine never had.

I realize this as I sit alone in this suburban tomb.

Then it hits me: The thing that has kept me here, all these years ... is me. Not her. Not Paul. I was a ghost, yes, but I haunted myself.

I wanted to stay. Pain was my excuse. I warped and twisted my love into an anchor that kept me tethered to this life.

All this hits me in the darkness of our old house, long after it’s too late to fix the pain I caused.

In the end, I became a monster that refused to let go long after she needed me to. I felt entitled to my anger, instead of grateful for her love. I lingered far too long.

I accept my mistakes, and I release the anguish. The hurt. The self loathing. The memories.

I let go of Her, for the first time since she died, since I died.

I feel the flood of the past cease, and I’m just here. Present.

The chains snap, and I’m free.

I see a light now. It's distant but warm. It comforts me. I feel peace and love and grace.

The house fills with this light. It calls to me, and my heart answers it, freeing myself from these shadows. I’m not frightened or alone. I’m at peace, even though I do not know what's next.

Whatever it is, I hope there’s love.

I blink.

I blink, and I am there, with you, at the beginning. Our first date, I think. Maybe the second. You look young. Healthy. It’s 20 years earlier. We are kids, poor in life but rich in hope.

You're wearing the blue dress I loved, and your hair is up. Your nails are red. You stopped painting your nails at some point. I'm not sure when, but I think I know why.

I feel overwhelmed to be in this moment again, not sure why or how. I just stare at you, eyes wide, jaw slack.

I smile, and you smile. Feeling awkward, you kiss me. "What?" you say, seeing the puzzled look on my face.

"I'm just happy," I say. "I can't believe I’m here."

You smile and kiss me again. This time you mean it. My hand touches your cheek, and you lean into it. You're real. This is real.

And I blink.

I blink, and I'm some time else. We're fighting. I'm in the middle of yelling something. Your face is red. Your nails are blue.

It's three years later. A month before the wedding. It was a stressful time. We fought a lot. You threatened to call it off twice. You gave me my ring back a week before the ceremony. Cold feet. That night I went to your apartment, and we fought and then laughed and made up and drank a bottle of wine and decided to elope.

We were married at the court house the next day. Your parents were mad, but we told them we would still go through with the bigger ceremony. It was paid for already, so why not?

But that's not now. That's weeks away. Now I am in your apartment, and you are yelling at me. You call me selfish. You say I'm an asshole. But this me, the me I am now, is not angry. You are here. I don't want to fight.

"You're right," I say. "I am an asshole. I'm sorry."

You look at me oddly, waiting for the "but ..." Waiting for me to regroup and come back harder. I never apologize, and it throws you. You're like a prize fighter whose opponent just went down without a punch. It's a win but a confusing victory.

You glare at me and turn around, without a word. You're still mad, but I'm not. I reach out and squeeze your shoulder. You're warm and alive and real. I don’t want to let go. “Please,” I say. "I need to ..."

And I blink.

I blink, and it's later. Our honeymoon. We're in the ocean, the waves lapping at our legs.

You're in your white bikini, your hair sun-streaked, your skin tan. The moonlight is bouncing on your eyes. Your hand holds mine, and you stare at me with that look you give when I slip away, far away. That look that says to come back home.

"Sorry," I say.

"As long as you're back now," you say, pulling me into your arms.

We kiss, and I taste the salt on your lips. I smell the ocean on your skin. Your body is soft and warm, and I pull you tight, feeling you breathe against me.

I know how this night ends. We make love on a towel on the beach and fall asleep with sand in our hair. This was my favorite night. On my desk at work is a photo of you in this bikini, taken on this beach, on this night.

When it gets bad, when you struggle, and I work late nights to pay the mounting bills, feeling guilty that I have to choose between money or you, I will look at that photo and come back to this moment.

But now I'm here. And I kiss you and squeeze my eyes tight and fight back the tide of emotions. I don't want to leave.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s Christmas. I have Lucy in my hands, and you squeal when you see the puppy. You smile and hug me and tell me you love me.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s New Year’s. We are in Times Square. My company sent me here to help open the new branch, and we lived in a nice apartment for six months, enjoying the big city life. Your hand is in a mitten, and you grip me tight as we stare up at the dropping ball.

“I love you,” I say, but you cannot hear me, because the crowd is so loud. 5. 4. 3. I squeeze your hand tighter. "You're going to miss it," you say.

“Please don’t let me go,” I say to you, to me, to anyone.

And I blink.

I blink, and you are in your bakery. You opened it the week before. I have a dozen roses in my hand, and you are beaming.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s dark. We’re in bed. You are on top of me, and I am inside of you. You ride me, your nails in my chest. You lean down, your hair brushing my face. You moan, and your mouth opens.

I grab your arms and roll over, on top of you now. I stroke your hair and look into your eyes. “What’s wrong?” you say. “Why did you stop? I was close.”

“I know,” I say. “I just don’t want it to end.”

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re on the couch. You have a cold, your head on my chest. I hand you a box of tissues.

"What's happening?" I say.

And I blink.

I blink, and I am at the bar with my friend Bob who is talking about his wife and how annoying she is and how he wishes he could find someone like you.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re eating dinner.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re laughing. You take a sip of wine and tell me to stop.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s snowing outside, and we’re making soup.

And I blink.

And it's dark. I hear you sleeping beside me, on your side, facing the wall. I stare up at the ceiling with the small crack in it as a car alarm goes off in the distance.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. Your hand clenches mine tightly. I had forgotten how strong you were.

You're hoping for a girl. I'm hoping for a boy. The doctor is explaining the risks associated with your pregnancy.

He starts to give us odds and you squeeze harder. I don't want to see what comes next.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re driving, and our song comes on the radio, and you sigh and dab a tissue to your cheek and look out the window. Your nails are green.

We lost the baby a year ago. I remember thinking I wasn't sure if we would make it, and when we did, I was relieved. But that happiness did not last long.

“I want this to stop,” I say. “I know what’s coming up, and I don’t want to live it again.”

You look at me, puzzled. Not really angry, just sad.

And I blink.

I blink, and it's three years ago. You are sick. Frail, already. I skipped past the tests and the treatment and the remission and the hope that slowly turned to the worst fucking part of it all.

We're at our home. We're at the dining room table we bought at the thrift store, the one with the bum leg that I tried to fix but just made worse.

"It will be OK," you say, catching my eyes. "This will work." But it won't.

I smile, emotions overwhelming me. I'm helpless. Useless. We're broke. You closed your bakery the year before. We've already lost all of our savings. My insurance will not cover what is coming, and we will not be able to afford it.

I know how this will end. I know the path we're on, and I can't be strong. Not now. Not this moment.

I was never a great husband. I was a good husband. I tried to be great. But it was beyond my reach. I worked too much. I did not say I love you enough. I was selfish. I took you for granted. I missed too many moments thinking there would be more.

I look in your eyes, and I think of how much you will need me and how little I will be able to do to stop your pain, and I cry. I weep. I wail. I cannot stop. I've never cried like this in front of you before.

"Don't," you say, weakly, your hand cold on my back. "Please ..."

You were always stronger than me. I bury my head in my hands as you wrap your arms around me. I sob, my breath coming in shallow bursts. You pull me tight, and I sink into your arms. I close my eyes tight. Please ...

And I blink.

I blink, and you are in bed, sleeping. I dab a cool cloth on your head. Your eyes open, gingerly. They are glassy because of the drugs, but you manage a smile. “Hi,” you say.

I don't want to see this again.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I wish …”

And I blink.

I blink, and it's two weeks ago. You're gone. I'm alone, sitting in a tiny, cold apartment.

You fought hard. No surprise. You always did. The doctors gave you two months, but you turned it into a year. Every day was difficult, but I hope they were all worth it.

I am at the table. The table with the bad leg. There's a glass of warm whiskey in front of me, brushing against my finger tips, and an uneaten can of tuna.

Lucy is gone, too. She has been for several years. We did not get another dog because it was all too much.

I'm holding a photo of you, framed. Our wedding photo. I'm in a dark place. My head throbs. My eyes are blurry. Not from tears. I haven't been crying.

A stack of condolence cards are to my left. A stack of bills are to my right. Ahead of me is a lonely life full of pain and longing. I have not lived it yet, but it's just as clear to me as the past.

I think about what I have to look forward to and what I lost, and I feel the emptiness of despair. A void is slowly closing over me that numbs my soul and senses. I would cry, if I could, but I am too lost for tears.

"I hate this," I say.

And I blink.

I blink, and I'm in a diner. I'm drinking a cup of coffee.

I recognize this place. It was the 24-hour grease pit near campus, the one I went to almost every night, to study, because my roommate liked to have loud sex with his girlfriend.

My biology text book is open. A half-eaten donut sits on a small saucer beside me. I am a senior in college.

This was where I met you for the first time. This is the night. Five minutes from now you will come in the door with a few friends. You will sit down behind me as I read this book and eat this donut. You will say hi and ask me for some sugar and notice my biology book and ask which class I am taking. I will tell you, and you will ask me if it is hard, because you are looking to take it next semester, and I will say it is, and you will introduce yourself, and pretty soon you have left your friends and are sitting with me, and we're talking about horror films and global warming.

I ask you out. You accept. We date. We fall in love. We marry. We get a dog. You get sick. You leave me. It takes 20 years, but it feels like a blink of the eye.

I know what lies ahead. I know how much I love you but how much pain comes with it. It all starts in less than a minute.

And I blink.

And I'm still here. Waiting for the door to open. My foot twitches as I close my book, ready to get up and leave.

I can walk out the door. I've been given a chance to do it all over again. Take another path. Try another life.

I want to. I need to. I don't think I can do this again.

And I blink.

And the door opens. And you walk in.

You're 22. Your nails are painted yellow. Your hair is in a ponytail.

The woman I loved. The woman I love. You glance at me and smile. I smile back. My heart jumps into my throat, strangling me. My breathing comes in short, shallow bursts. You sit down behind me.

I can smell your perfume. You're inches away.

I know the future. I know what lies ahead. I could leave right now.

You say hi, and that's all it takes. I do not move. I cannot move.

My eyes are wide open. And I do not blink.

This is probably the longest I’ve gone without an orgasm since a year ago February. I know it’s a self-induced penance for my stubbornness combined with my mouth getting me into trouble and pissing him off as I seldom had. However, as I pull myself out of the bath and go lie down on the bed to cool down, I want nothing more than to come. I clench my fists, willing them to stay at my side. I can’t help it. I gently let my fingertips glide over my flesh, flushed from the bath. What am I doing? Sure, he hasn’t said that I may not come, I have made that decision myself. Until he feels he wants to touch me again, I will not let myself come. I lie back and close my eyes. I try to will my desire away. I focus on my breathing. Slowly in, slowly out. I need to shut down my brain because all it’s doing is shouting at me now! now! NOW! I try again. Slow my breathing, slowly my heart rate, focus on his displeasure with you. The desire drains away. I lie there, spread eagle, on offering for whenever he chooses to accept it.

A sound wakes me. I open my eyes, but I see nothing. I panic for a brief moment until I hit on the realisation that there is something covering my eyes rather than my eyesight failing me. A small sound to my left and the light smell of sulphur. I strain my ears to pick up any clues, any ideas as to what is happening around me. Then I hear it, ever so slight, the step of a foot, followed by another step. Approaching. Definitely approaching. I go as if to turn towards the sound and it is only then, as I take full stock of my body, that I realise I am now actually tied, spread eagle to the bed. I am helpless to whatever may come.

I wait. Senses on edge Waiting. Not sure where this is going. Then it hits my flesh and I suck in my breath as the unmistakable light burn of hot wax lands just above my navel. I still and wait. Will it be just that one, and then he will leave me here, or is there more to come. I wait in limbo, listening for any sound, any clue as to what might happen next when the next drip lands, just above the other, and another above that one. Part of me wants to jerk away from the drops, but a bigger part of me wants to arch my back to get closer to the heat, to feel that burn that is both pleasure and pain in one little minuscule drop.

Then it begins, in a steady pace, drip, drip, drip, making a trail of hot wax that leads from my navel to the valley between my breasts. As he reaches the apex, I wonder what will come next. I bite my bottom lip, hungry with anticipation, and then I feel it. Not a single drip, but a steady stream of hot wax, tracing in a circle just above the base of my left breast. No. That wasn’t it. Not a circle, a spiral, winding its way around my breast and then going around again. I thrash, and moan and my breathing comes fast and heavy. ‘Yes, yes,’ I beg, I whimper, but not for him to stop, I want more. I want to take whatever he wishes to dish out to me. As the spiral winds upwards, I have no doubt what will be coming soon and just as my mind makes the connection, the stream stops. Then, I wait. ‘Please, sir, please.’ I wish he could see my eyes, see the apology written there as well as my need. Not just for the sweet little kisses of pain, but for him to want me. Drip. I moan louder. Drip. A quick exhale from between my lips, each drop working together to completely cover my very hard, very excited nipple. Then, nothing. I listen. I wait.

Footsteps. He’s moving. Is he leaving? Leaving me here? Tied down? In need? As my mind urges me to call out, to scream at him not to leave me, I know it’s not the right thing to do. That’s not he wants of me. He wants my obedience. I bite my lower lip harder. I can feel the water in my eyes starting to pool. It’s fear of him deciding he doesn’t want me, buried deep in my heart, that fear. The fear that it isn’t me. That I’m not enough.

As my fear starts to spiral in the darkness, the next drop hits. My body is torn between an exhale of relief and an inhale of pain. A strangled sort of hiccup sound comes out of my mouth. With the next drop, my fears clear, everything tunnels in my mind into the one thought. Taking this pleasure, accepting this pain. Each drip seems to fall precisely between the previous drips, creating another trail from navel to the cleft between my breasts, but this time, when the steady stream of hot wax comes, it spirals up and around my right breast, culminating in the single small drops that eventually covers my right nipple. For the first time that night, I hear his voice. ‘Blow.’ I purse my lips and blow as if there is a birthday cake in front of me. As I hear the flame flicker, a drop of hot wax lands on my chin. Either he has taken the candle away or else I was successful in managing to blow out the candle. I lie there, trying to figure out what will come next, but what I cannot deny is the arousal that was already on a slow simmer before I awoke is now rising in temperature with each and every drop.

Again, that strange sound and the smell of sulphur. I place it now. The striking of a match and then, I guess, the lighting of yet another candle. I furrow my brow, confused, uncertain. What now? What next? I’m utterly perplexed when the next drip lands on the top of my foot, I can’t help it, a small yelp escapes before I can smother it. Never before had we put hot wax on my feet. It was unexpected, painful, but good, still good. I brace myself for the next drop and when it comes, just up from the last, the pain seems even worse, and I manage to piece together a coherent thought. When you tense, it’s worse. I coach my body, begging it to relax. He’s going much slower now, methodical. Each drip lands almost on top of the previous one. My body starts thrashing, I’m moaning, but I can’t make out what I’m saying. Begging for mercy or begging for more, I just don’t know, but there’s a steady stream of pleading flowing out of my mouth while at the same time my hips were thrusting upward, hungry, needy, desperate to be filled, used, satiated.

The wax continues its patient, little march up my foot, then my leg, up my thighs and then the drips bend turning in towards - No! Oh good Lord no! Not! Not! Oh fuck no! Please sir, please, no. I can’t get the whine out of my voice, the cracking that comes along with it as each and every drop gets closer and closer. I thrash, knowing how stupid that is but at this point the pleasure from the pain is too much. I can’t stay still. One wrong twist, though, and I’ll be the one to pay.

Then, it stops. My mind is flailing. My body, jerks and arches up. I pull with all my strength against the bonds that hold me. I must touch myself. I must come or else I’m going to explode. Still, nothing happens. Nothing comes next. I tell my mind to calm. As I feel my frenzy start to settle, I feel it. Drip. Onto my right foot. Drip. Just above that one. The endless march up my leg begins on the other side. By the time the wax hits my knee, I’m no longer coherent, I can hold no thought in my head. I kick and pull and thrash and thrust, I writhe on the bed but I’m not trying to get away, I’m trying to get closer. I want the drips to come faster to assuage this desire that is burning through me and on me. As the trail bends in towards my cunt again. I am swearing and begging and promising anything and everything I can think of just please let me come. Again, it stops. It doesn’t matter, I’m too desperate now, too inflamed. I only feel the need, the want, the desperation.

Two fingers slam into my cunt without any warning. I scream as I try to clamp down and hold those fingers there. For the second time that night, I hear his voice. ‘Wet’. My clenching is to no avail. His fingers slide out of me. I feel the emptiness inside me. I scream in frustration. I am in no fit state as I thrash and grind and grunt in need. I feel his hand again, pulling my cunt lips apart, the cool air brushing against my exposed clit. At the same time, he pushes downward with that hand, pinning me to the mattress, far stronger than me. My head flies back and forth against the pillow. As that single solitary drip of searing hot wax lands on my clit, I scream as my orgasm rushing over me, throwing my body skyward as my shoulders dug into the mattress beneath me. Another drip and a whole new wave washes over me. With the next drip, my scream returns, louder, stronger but it’s pure pleasure this time as I come again and again. I lose track of my mind and I fly.

My voice echoes through the stairwell, clanging off the metal and drifting up, up, up, until it fades, lost in the silence.

We are alone. Still, he keeps me quiet with one hand over my mouth, the other reaching down, tearing at my stockings, ripping them apart. His skin is rough and cold against my warm flesh. I feel his mouth on my neck, biting me. His teeth leave their mark, and his fingers find their way. I moan and lick the palm of his hand.

We are lost in the shadows of a small nook tucked under a stairwell. Above us, life continues. Each landing leads to a floor. Each floor leads to hundreds of lives. Families. Friends. They go about their routines completely unaware of us. We exist in our own world that we shape with lust and longing and the desire to connect.

He was a spontaneous lover. He did not need a bed or a door. When he wanted me, he took me. And I let him.

It was cold outside. We are covered in layers. Jackets. Stockings. Scarves. His hair is still damp from the snow. He had pulled me in, through the lobby, past the security guard, the steel door barely shutting before he pushed against the wall, the concrete pressing into my back.

He kisses me, the scratch of his beard makes my heart race. I lick his face, biting his ear as his fingers fuck me.

“Christ,” he growls, his tongue back in my mouth. His hands pulling up my sweater, finding my breasts. Flesh on flesh. He cups me roughly, pulling my nipples. I bite his lip and slide my hand down to rub his cock. He has on too many clothes. Too much restriction. Boundaries. I claw at them. Desperately.

His belt buckle finally clangs against the marble floor. Relief. I slip my hand under his shorts, and he lifts me, wrapping my thighs around him, the soft leather of his jacket cool against my flesh.

One thrust, and he is in. All the way. I welcome him. He fills me, impales me, grinds against my soft skin. His hands squeeze my ass, and he holds me up, the hard concrete wall provides support.

I moan. Loud. “Shhh,” he says, kissing me again. “Dirty girl.”

Quiet in the stairwell; no signs of life. The wind blows above, howling all around us. But no noise. No movement. Just us. Breathing. Panting. Our tongues lick, tasting. His hips thrust. His cock buried inside of me. I squeeze him tight, and we both almost die. My nails claw at him, with no results, his clothes too thick.

It doesn’t matter. We are animals, caged in our own silence.

He grunts, his pace quickening. He is so strong. His whole body lifting me. I drip down him, down his shaft, down his balls, down his thighs. I am a faucet. He does this to me.

“Fuck!”

“Shhh. Quiet. Dirty, filthy girl.”

So close. So close. He is. I am. We want this. Lost in the shadows, I close my eyes. The world goes numb. The silence of the stairwell envelops me. I cum against him. I bite his neck. I taste the copper of blood. He does not stop, does not scream. He fucks me through it.

His teeth clench. His body tightens. His cock sinks deep into me. I feel him shudder and grunt, like a man dying. I feel warm, his cum inside of me, his head buried into my shoulder. I soothe him as he cums, squeezing him tight into my arms. I feel his lust drip down my thighs and over my torn stockings.

We dress quickly, in silence but with smiles. The steel door slams shut behind us, and we walk briskly past the guard, laughing to ourselves. In the streets, the cold hits us. I feel him still in me, and I am warm inside.

‘I think now is a great time for you to try out using a butt plug, slut.’ He says it so nonchalantly like it isn’t a new thing to me. I shockwave of nerves shoot through me, but equally matched as my level of excitement goes up. I think, if I’m honest, I’ve been looking forward to this moment ever since my butt plugs arrived in the post.

I traipse upstairs to put the folded laundry away. As I go to put his pants in his sock drawer, I say ‘in ya go’ and it makes me laugh because that could be what I’d say to the butt plug.

I walk across to my quiet room. I pull out the medium sized butt plug. I take it out of its tissue wrapping. So shiny and new. I bite my lower lip in anticipation. As a quick side thought, I grab my egg and put it on to charge. We may have want of that later. I pop back downstairs, and into the loo. As soon as I lock the door, I go down on my knees on the bathroom carpet. I lower the lid of the toilet and lean over.

I take the butt plug in my right hand and reach between my legs and put the tip up to my ass. I push lightly as I did with the smaller one. Nope. Too tense. I need to relax. I close my eyes, I see myself, kneeling before you. It calms me. I feel the tension leave my body.

I hear your voice. ‘In slut’. There’s no question, no doubt. Just a pure statement. I push harder against my ass and feel it starting to stretch my asshole. Then, almost with a pop, it goes in to place. Oh holy God that feels so good. THAT’S what people mean by full. Oh man are we going to have fun with this, sir.

Not necessarily today, sir, but there is so much pleasure to be had. I walk out to the garage to start the next load of laundry. Every step, every movement. I am filled up. It moves with me but against me. Oh my. I don’t think I thought. Oh my, sir. My arousal skyrockets. My mind tips sideways as a flood of sensations assault my brain. Every slightest movement, shift of muscle. There it is, sir.

‘Oh my slave. If I'm going to be very busy over the next month, then we can take exactly this - the feeling of being full, being taken, being sexual, being wet all the time - and make you increasingly submissive while I’m away. ’

‘Oh, yes please, sir? Would you do that for me, please, sir? Make me submit more? Take me deeper? Own me more? Sir? Would you, please?’ I can hear the begging and pleading in my voice. Has this one simple thing, this plug in my ass so impacted my submission? Made me spiral? I don’t know, but I’m ready for this overwhelming need to submit to lead and for the rest of me to follow.

‘Of course I will, pet,’ he says as he smiles down at me. A profusion of thanks and gratitude tumble out of my mouth. I’m almost tripping over my words in my keenness to show him just how grateful I am. I sit down on the sofa with my dog next to me. I reach out to pet him. Oh my goodness. Just petting the dog. Jiggle, jiggle, jiggle. Oh, sir, I had no idea. This is mind boggling.

I can tell he is in a reminiscing mood as he asks me to run upstairs and grab a couple of quarters. Oh crap! Run? Upstairs? With this in? Ooooooh my. Now that is an unexpectedly pleasant feeling as the plug rocks with my each step. It pushes in deeper and shifts as i ascend each step. I know what the quarters are for. We’ve played this game before. He does love his games. Coming down the stairs astounds me by being a very different sensation than going up. This sensation is a revelation.

‘So, slut, you know what’s coming, yes? I think you are going to be begging for me to let you come.’ I whimper as I kneel before him and open up my palm to show him the two quarters. I know this game. I swallow hard as his foot starts tapping. That is not a good sign. I refocus on trying to produce the words rather than the shivers running down my spine.

’Yes, sir. Every five minutes while I rub and flick and pinch my clit, I am to flip both coins. If one is heads and the other is tails, I must keep playing with myself, but am not allowed to come. If I flip the coins and they are both heads, I am allowed to come. If you are feeling generous, then if both come out tails you will allow me to come. I may not come before either of those conditions are met, sir.’ I smile, pleased with myself but a blush also steals across my face. I know that when I’d played this game recently, he had me record me playing the game, getting ever more desperate. Dying, begging, pleading, making any promises I could think of but those quarters were not my friends. They deprived me at every turn, and I know he still has that recording, reminding me of my desperation. Granted, that was without a plug in my ass. I hope the quarters are feeling kind.

’Now, for me, I want you to memorise what you feel right now, in this moment. I want to be able to put you back here whenever I desire. This is a place inside you that you can always return to. Do you understand?’

I lower my eyes. ‘Yes, sir. It has made me feel very submissive, sir. Very owned. And I feel as if I am serving you. Just by being.I will do my best to remember it, sir, to keep in firm in my mind so that I can recall it when needed. It feels so very safe, sir. It comforts me and I hold no fear, sir. Thank you for giving me this place, sir.’ As I move to sit down, I tilt my hips. Ooooooh my. Now that is good. I can’t help the small mewling sounds the slip from between my lips.

‘What a filthy slut you are,’ his tone is a taunt, but I can’t deny it. I don’t want to deny it.

‘I am a filthy slut, sir. Luckily, I’m your filthy fucking slut, sir.’

’He’ll yes you are.’ He smiles at me. He’s as pleased as I am with that state of affairs.

Just as I settle in comfortably, the timer goes off. It’s time to change over the laundry loads. Each step, the plus shifts, rubbing me, arousing me. I can feel my cunt start to get wet. As I bring the laundry in and begin to fold the clothes, I accidentally drop a shirt to the floor. A new lesson learned. When filled, do not bend directly over to collect the item of laundry you dropped on the floor. Ohhh my, sir. It does make me wonder. If sir wasn’t so busy working at the moment, would he grab the laundry and scatter it all around the floor, making me go around and collecting each individual piece of clothing. You’d enjoy that game, I’m sure. You’d also enjoy the scene of when I bend over, you‘l be able to see the big gaudy jewel that is the handle of the butt plug. Yes, I think you just might do that. I think maybe I’m thankful you had to work after all. I put the clothes away in an introspective mood.

I sit back in the recliner again. Crossing your legs while sitting is a new experience as well, sir. I think you’d like to see this. The pure distraction, near agitation of the fullness inside me, sir. Thinking of you. You, doing this to me. You, enjoying this moment. Taking whatever I can offer in the moments you can snatch free. You, knowing I’m doing this for you while you work hard. I’m fortunate to be so used, sir. I thank you, sir.

’Good slut. I would fuck you all the time while you do chores. I'd get my chores done and my dick wet...and you’d be in heaven.

‘I would, sir. I’d be begging for even more chores to do for you, sir. Wanting and waiting until you want to fuck me. Maybe only a few good strokes, sir, leaving me wanting more. Hoping that maybe you‘d reward me when all the chores are done, sir. Knowing any moment you wished, you could come and use me. Mouth, cunt, tits, ass. All yours to take and use at your pleasure, sir.’

‘This is what you were made for. My personal submissive housewife.’ A smile spreads across his face. He is well pleased with himself, and I think also with me.

I’d roam the flat naked, searching out tasks. All the while hoping, wishing, sir, that you might have need of me. Use of me, sir. Indeed, sir. It is what I was made for. It feels right. It feels like…home, sir. I would have never thought, sir, that I could see myself, walking around naked, feeling no shame at how I look. But right now, I don’t. It’s your body. You wish to see it. Maybe to show it. It is yours, sir. Oh god, sir, I can see it all, now, clear as day, sir. My service to you. My handing myself completely over to you, sir. The day to day tasks, the time of quiet while you work, the time when you use me or order me. It’s all yours, sir, totally completely. Oh goodness, sir, it’s breathtakingly beautiful. Oh, sir. Oh my. I can’t stop myself as I slide deeper into my submission, further than I‘ve ever gone before.

‘Now you can feel it. Now you can see how we'd make your whole day around what you are.’ He smiles contentedly at me. This revelation of myself, at my core, pleases him. It releases me.

’Yes, yes sir, I can. I’ve never before. Not so wholly sir, but, I can and it’s just…overwhelming. All encompassing sir. Oh my, sir. Just, oh my. I can’t still my heart, sir, it’s beating out of my chest, sir. My very breath is yours, sir. You could stand before me, sir, see the pulse throbbing away on my neck. Visible to you, sir. If you so wished, you could reach out and stop that pulse with a snatch of your hand around my neck. My life in your hands, sir. Keep, extinguish. It’s yours, sir. I am sitting in a haze of submissiveness. If it seems that my state of mind is slowly bleeding away, I clench my muscles around the butt plug and my head goes straight back. There, before you, sir. All of my walls tumble down around me, and I stand there naked to him, all that I am revealed in its purest form.

‘Is it so wrong, sir, if I don’t want to play the quarters game. If I’d rather languish in this near perfect subspace? I do not think I have ever felt so submissive. So given as now, sir.’

‘So mine. Be in this subspace. You could come for me in a breath. You could be calm, forever.’ I nod my head numbly. I could and I would. ‘My dear slut, what do you need before bed?’

‘Tonight, sir? May I just float this evening, please, sir. To enjoy and memorise this near perfect stillness, please, sir. To feel you so close to me, I can feel your breath on my neck, sir. Submitting, giving, accepting, sir.’

‘Float for me slave. Being mine.’

’Yes, sir, yours.’

Kenji and his colleagues sat in the first row of a smoky little theater, somewhere on the outskirts of downtown Bangkok. Each wore the customary blue Japanese business suit, though they'd shed their jackets by now. This was no theater where you could get too comfortable though. The seats were so low that when sitting, your knees were higher than your hips. The first two rows were like a pit in front of the stage.

On the stage itself, melted drops of wax had hardened on the dancer's breasts. She blew out the candle and set it on the floor. When she stood back up she produced a banana, as if by magic, and loosened her bikini bottom. Letting it drop, she kicked it away.

Seductively, the dancer unpeeled the banana, strip by strip. As she swayed to the music, she brought the banana to her mouth. Then she laid down on the floor, raised her legs, spread eagle, and inserted it. Suddenly she jerked up her hips and let her heels hit the floor. Boom! The audience screamed as the banana became projectile. And then gasped as it flew toward Kenji's head.

Kenji jumped a foot from his seat and turned 45 degrees with his hands to his shoulders, his elbows low like a frightened schoolgirl, his face contorted in terror. The banana flew past him and landed in the empty second row.

When the laughter stopped, Kenji took a moment. He was pretty sure his colleagues hadn't seen his girlish fright. He looked left. As far as he could tell, they were attending to the stage again. Then he glanced at his shirt, confirmed the banana hadn't left any traces, and took a sip of his cocktail. Whew, he thought, as his heart raced.

2/22/2025

I pull the blinds down, the moonlight peeking through to get a glimpse of me. I’m in a bra and panties, not my usual underwire and high-waisted underwear. A buttery soft bra cupping my breasts with hungry, eager hands, melting into me as if it were meant for my skin, but strong enough to carry my large breasts.

Running my fingers gently down my arms, I have a fleeting thought - would my touch feel this electrifying to someone else?

With the slightest touch, I seduce myself, teasing my breasts spilling out of my bra. Closing my eyes, I let out a whimpered sigh, and I wonder how the weight of another body would feel on top of me. Would anyone want me? Right now, I want me.

My pudgy belly is aching to be caressed, and tonight, my body weight doesn’t matter. Caressing my soft skin, I’m weightless, giving myself to the darkness under my cool sheets that wrap themselves around me like a lover.

Up, down, around, and behind, teasing my freshly shaved legs. The breeze from my open window breathing on me, goosebumps along every inch of my skin, an intoxicating combination.

I’m dizzy from my own touch.

The following pastiche

poetically pricked prick,

whereby fantasy courtesy Eros

(ἔρως) cow licked

country bumpin videlicet hick

bullied who consider me

on account of a dinky dick.

Me primate chronological

adolescent and emerging adult age evinced

no whoa Biblical flood

thru microsoft billeted gates

bursting viz Dickensian

fleshy prickly sticky stub,

though smallish - male member,

zee tallywhacker proudly, joyously,

and deftly socked

one seminal bang for randy schlong

courtesy garden variety

generic rammy buck,

whose berry pull lite

hello ladies twig, could land

sucker punch damn the torpedo puncturing,

wharf lewd billeted gates

demolish horny rivals scaling

Swiss Alps, thus testosterone

wrested control vis a vis

expunged mighty tsunami

forceful tidal waves jabbed

and pierced boxer shorts

rendering underwear utterly useless as what?...

donut hole? ring without a ding? toothless dad?....

thence retracted whet ragged limp, floppy duff

flay dud discobolus?,

chewed biscuit ova Yankee dew till

birthed Giant via super fresh fielding

acme teenage heterosexual

whet dreams made me

stir crazy experiencing vivid

lifelike erotic fantasies

firm he to feel an ache kin,

beck kin ing , and whisk kin -

with a nod to wink n,

blinkin and nod mine engorged phallus

sought release check kin choking chicken

at cali fornication, per base feral,

hormonal, and primal

antsy animal atavistic antics

brazenly daring me tubby craven,

at least a baker's dozen cunt tree muffins

to embolden issuance qua greeting

with ha "good evening

forte tuff hide meat curtains -

ah hanker ta deux an Aaron" cull

of the wild, and an

SOS tummy doppelganger

bro' blow job, cuz

back in days of young adulthood

at the house at Pooh's Corner

near the intersection of sixty ninth and Arch

bringing to a dead hardened standstill

practically any moving object

like wings at the speed of sound

inflated ma dill dough,

particularly with onset

of raging testosterone,

once upon time introverted primate

felt his cribbed penis

ready to flow with seminal fluid

and only brought to a stop

if feral atavistic urge

think premature ejaculation

way before penile comeuppance

when as an emotionally troubled teen,

he passively attempted to exit -

figurative stage door left -

to avoid exclusion

he ranted reckless rodomontade

rueful boisterous blustering bombasity

alluding to the gooey glop

tooling tug go deeper

thru unguarded Trojan horse eyelet entrance

fired the sexual fantasy

of this then young Eunuch

mox nix to me now,

cuz I may as well be one

(self emasculating) man, whose ordinarily

rather small male gonad

got rock hard like a hoe

especially at most moist tender vittles

inopportune instances; or watching

the backside wiggle of

freshly minted female teacher

did elicit reCAPTCHA verification failed

to this common Joe,

who felt stymied, frustrated,

and jangled and

screwed up with vasocongestion

ribbed skin flute

like any other horny teenager,

would know (or feign)

how to find suitable gamine orifice

and many dudes

bragged about their masculinity

boasting about their

high achieving Ivy League score,

war hie felt chill and chary,

asper suddenly tha air

felt like five bell hoe,

which pent up carnal craving

grudgingly caved into manual stimulation

(a piss poor substitute)

until the august moment

bedding bare naked lady

who allowed, enabled and

provided a proper outlet er...

and/or inlet firm aye

experience absent heterosexual drive

contrary to integral normal predilection

toward physical intimacy,

which natural, sexual union

more healthy than candy,

and delivered to our lives

wholesome buns in the oven, which progeny

we did kindle two tumblr full

daughters both well on their

merry (go round the mulberry bush -

with Cheney saw in hand) way

toward positive future, yet this once

risqué, pesky, and frisky father experienced

a kamikaze nosedive concerning horniness

linkedin to frigidity - ice scribe fluoxetine

(treats mental health conditions

including depression,

obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD)

and last but not least bulimia)

one generic name for prozac

as bad ass pharmacological killer app

that gave masta baiter hiz mortal blow

with nary an slit tiff hide,

who haint so hot fo' teacher, nor petty pussy,

whose when he espies tufted hello kitty.

Noah penile throbbing wracks

ma five feet and ten inch being,

yet arousal to enter the once portal

ova verboten fruit doth bring

measure for measure mush ado a boot

comb thing far this king fro licking in the lair

re: aperture felt envy and forced

to grapple with hearing

signature orgasmic groaning

signifying indubitable braggadocio.

courtesy Facebook kindles being on cloud nine

After receiving friend request invitation

courtesy femme fatale,

an immediate and instantaneous

invisible chemical romance transpires

within the body, mind, and spirit of mein,

a boyish, coy, erudite married sexagenarian

to submissively surrender himself

as a willing subject awaiting

abduction at cunt point,

and breast easy while

role playing "slave" and "master"

witnesses yours truly

binding and pledging

allegiance into thralldom.

In reality, I mimic

mild mannered modesty of Clark Kent,

each of us, whose aura, dogma,

enigma, karma and persona, et cetera

rather (rat a tat tat)

humdrum demeanor mellow fellow

long in the tooth, though I wear dentures -

thank you periodontal disease

diagnosed when less than thirty

racked up orbitz around sun,

or the half life of Matthew Scott Harris,

who experienced significant oral agony

throughout his threescore and six years

courtesy donning braces

(on two separate occasions) ,

getting healthy and local

and wisdom teeth extracted

due to overcrowding, and last

but not least maxillary osteotomy.

Upon first blush,

a veritable stranger

(hypothetically say an attractive fecund woman

of no particular age, creed, ethnicity,

gender affiliation, intelligence,

nationality, race, religion, et cetera)

would never in a million years guess

writer of these words to entertain

such, what some conservative

trumpeting republican might hashtag

as aberrant deviant sexual behavior -

and truth be told mien

strait laced heterosexual,

Norwegian bachelor farmer habitués -

especially behind closed doors of the boudoir

never incorporated anything outrageous,

but on an instantaneous whim

just came upon such out of character antics.

As a last resort,

I would settle for a nice Jewish orthodox girl,

who goes to synagogue,

likes to play board games,

take long walks along a short pier,

converse about climatological,

ideological, theological, et cetera questions

and generally down plays aesthetic appeal

versus emphasizing the intellect,

cuz rarely if ever did boyish good looks

drew the attention of one

extremely introverted, outwardly

socially withdrawn lad, who slunk along

the hallways with head down in an effort

to appear invisible, (and resorted

to anorexia nervosa to cease growing,

which merely stunted development

of body, mind, and spirit,

thus explaining an attempt

to compensate for a "lost" requisite phase

such as experiencing the dating game,

and truth be told, I overcame shyness

after learning about powder milk biscuits,

when a lovely gal named MaryAnn Sage

endured first fumbling intimate encounter

of mine capped with premature ejaculation.

I would embellish more,

but the missus pesters me

to access Tubi web page

since we only own this one MacBook Pro laptop,

but cello phone the next best alternative.