It’s been a year since we moved to our old farmhouse in Maine. I survived all four seasons. We’re starting to settle in. There are still many unpacked boxes upstairs in the barn, but we’ve started to make some friends. Yay team!
It’s tough being freaks in the real world. Scheduling, for instance, is a challenge. Most people go to work from 9 to 5 on weekdays. That’s when my man and I are free while our kid is in school and after-school activities. When most people are free on weekends, we like to spend our weekends as a family.
I was really psyched to get an email from Will, and then got to know him a little better by phone. He’s an organic farmer, originally from the South, moved up to Maine (Why?) “to get away from the South.” He’s free during the day (hurray!) the earlier the better (say, what?). Well, nobody’s perfect.
Will showed up in our kitchen at a bright and early 10:30 am. It was a cold gray day, and my man was chopping potatoes for soup. Will is 27, tall, blonde hair dreadlocked, blue eyes, beautiful. He brought me flowers and chocolate. Very expensive. The kind I like.
He said he’d like to go to the Philippines someday. (Why?) For the surf. Of course, a surfer! We also got talking about scuba diving and snorkeling. And he mentioned he goes spearfishing with his dad. My mermaid senses were tingling.
As soon as the soup started to simmer, we headed out to what used to be the hayloft in our barn. Now in the absence of hay, we are calling it the party loft. Toys, games, antique furniture, pussies (the kittens, I mean. The kittens have moved out to the barn to get whatever outdoor warmth is left before winter).
“So what kind of games do you guys want to play?” I asked, standing between the two of them in a skimpy dress with hieroglyphics print, a chocolate brown sweater and knee-high brown leather boots. My dark hair fell straight down to my waist.
Will sat down, not really sure how to respond. I looked over to my man for encouragement, then unbuttoned Will’s fly.
He was nervous and soft at first, but grew big as I pushed him deep inside my mouth, touching the tip of his cock to the back of my throat. I love doing that. It’s like diving in and touching bottom first before exploring the rest of the reef.
I could hear my man instructing Will to hold my hair with both of his hands. “Make her feel taken,” he said, as I felt Will grab handfuls of my hair, holding me in place as he thrust his cock deeply and swiftly into my oral cavity.
Spit was welling up in my throat as I took him, fighting my gag reflex, gurgling as I moaned. My man turned me around to face his cock and show our guest my ass.
“Fuck my ass,” I begged. I was fertile and dripping that morning. “That’s where I like it.”
Will pushed his rock hard cock into my ready ass and plowed me hard, fast and deep. His strong farmer’s hands dug into my ass cheeks, holding me in place as he rammed his cock home.
We’ve got a video of it. Go see.
Sometimes, though, the best stuff happens when the camera isn’t rolling. Like when my man pulled my dress and sweater up to show Will my body. I remember feeling the cool crisp autumn air coming in through the hayloft door tickling the tips of my nipples, my man behind me kissing my mouth, and Will running his hands all over my body, squeezing my breasts hard, finger-fucking my wet cunt.
All too soon the nearby church bells tolled noon, and Will had to go. He was on his way to Brooklyn to pick up his sister and together they were driving cross-country to Humboldt for harvest. He’ll be back after Thanksgiving.
I was still coasting on the high of playing with Will when I logged on to Facebook and found several RIP Liam’s on my newsfeed. What??? No! People I’ve fucked don’t die! I saw Mitchell in New York last summer and he was in such a decaying state, I thought for certain he would be first to die among the people I’ve fucked. He may surprise me though, and be like a cockroach that will outlive us all.
I tweeted some half-coherent thing about feeling strange that someone I fucked, an old friend, died, then deleted it. Maybe if I reboot, and re-log on to Facebook Liam won’t be dead and it will just be a funny little glitch that I can laugh about later.
Nope. Still dead. What the fuck! I went on a rampage and @replied to his Facebook comments. Fuck you!!! You’re supposed to be a superhero! You’re supposed to die out at sea, in a gigantic storm, rescuing whales and dolphins. You’re not supposed to OD, you fuck! What an asshole! Come on, defend yourself! (If I delete my comments, ghosts can still read them, right?)
Then I remembered that time when we had a party and Liam came to play music with us. My man said when it was time to go home, Liam seemed to want to be invited to stay.
“He was supposed to stay!” I protested. “That was the original plan. He was supposed to stay overnight, then at the last minute he decided he wanted to go home.”
I realized Liam may have wanted to fuck me that night, but changed his mind after he found me sitting on Sam’s lap while playing my ukulele. Oh, if only…
Do you see where my deluded mind is going here? Like my fuck could have saved him.
I remember how we met. It was the summer of 2001. An old lover of my man’s, Louisa, wanted to make a porno vampire movie. She cast me as the virgin Cherry, who was betrothed to the vampire hunter Rip Van Hymen. She cast her boyfriend, Liam as Minister Geddum, the other innocent who would be corrupted by the vampire. We were to shoot it in what used to be an old church in the Mission in San Francisco.
Liam was a sea captain. He was big and buff, every bit what you imagine a sailor to be. He and I spent the summer making music for the movie, me on my piano and he on his guitar. I wrote us a duet (One of these days I’ll record it.):
Mother said I’ll be a virgin
Until I walk down the church aisle in white
I’ll be singing a love song of longing for your touch
And you’ll know with one look in my eyes
Who I’m singing it to
Just for you…
Minister, my minister
Minister, my sweet minister
All my life I’ve been alone
In the house of the Lord in the service of God
Than one morning an angel came into my life
And awakened me into this world
Soon I’m marrying her
God give me strength, I’m her counselor
(… my minister)
I’ll be baptizing her children
What’s more the bridegroom depends on me
(… my sweet minister)
I cannot betray him
Louisa had this idea that we needed to practice the sex scene in private before we stage it in the church. So one night in our bedroom Liam and I had sex while Louisa shot the scene. I lost the tape on one of our many moves. I wish I could see him moving, feeding me his cock, fucking my pussy, pulling out to cum on the pillowy cheeks of my ass. We were so young.
Liam’s cock was long and went past my gag reflex deep and snug in my throat. I remember dreamily looking up at him as he moved his cock in and out of my throat, seeing that little smile on his lips before he pulled his cock out of my mouth so he could bend down to kiss me. He wasn’t fucking me, he was making love.
The movie fell apart after that. My man and I went on a trip to New York City in September that year and got caught up in the whole 9/11 thing. It hurt to come home to California and find out the project we had been working on all summer was shelved. We all had a falling out.
Many years later Liam and I found each other on myspace, then on Facebook. Whenever he came ashore to San Francisco we’d make plans to see each other and play music. There was a time when any storm would bring my thoughts to him out on the high seas. He was a romantic and he wooed me like I was the mermaid that got away.
I wallowed for days on Liam’s Facebook timeline, a virtual funeral. People who barely knew him wrote long eulogies. An old lady expressed shock at his brother’s anger over the circumstances of his death. It’s strange, grieving on Facebook. It’s not like a real-life funeral, in which you can walk away and it’s over. Facebook is always ongoing. Facebook is forever. Like whenever I log on and look back at some of my profile pictures I’ll find his comments.
The last non-RIP-related post on his timeline was mine. I had tagged Liam for my 15 songs list-let me see your list thing. Two days later his father posted an announcement that Liam died.
My man teased me about killing Liam. “He was writing his list of songs, then he got to number 13 and realized there were more songs and only two slots left. ONLY… TWO… SLOTS… LEFT!?!”
I killed him.
Fare thee well, sailor.