I stand like a cut-out so she doesn’t think I’m misreading the hug. And she presses her body flush against mine, front to front, molding all her fun parts to me. Oh, it’s like that, is it? My cheeks flush. I look down and watch as her fingers tiptoe up my chest and loosen my tie. She tugs it toward her, pulling me close. “Never have I ever…. fucked a millionaire.”
Shiiiiit. I throw my head back and laugh. I give her what I hope isn’t a shit-eating grin, and by the time we hit the green room, I can’t stop chuckling. No wonder she gave me so much airtime.
She giggles and throws her glasses, which miss the table. “I knew those were fake.” She winks and pulls two chopsticks out of her bun and shakes loose long, black curls. I lean on the door and watch her breasts swaying in her sleeveless silk shirt. I wonder if she’s wearing a bra. Thoughts of big boobs banging me in the face are interrupted as she asks, “You want to see something else that’s fake?” She undoes a bow at the back of her neck, and with her eyes on mine, she lets go of the ribbon, and her shirt pools at her waist. Yep, no bra.
“Right here?” I snort, using the hand in my pocket to adjust myself.
“Ah ha.” She nods and beckons me with one finger. “All that fuck talk got me ready to fuck. Aren’t you?”
I stand my ground but unbuckle my belt. I like the way she watches me, licking her lips. I shake my pants off and walk, right by her. “Oh, I’m always down to fuck, Mia. I just don’t get the same response when I ask like that.”
She watches me as I walk, cock in hand, to the leather couch. I stroke my shaft as I wait for her. When she comes, it’s in her news-modest heels, which tap across the linoleum floor, her breasts jutting forward. I hike her skirt high, taking a breast in my mouth. She moans, and I use her bunched skirt to pull her closer. Before I suckle the other breast, I say. “These are fakes, huh? I never would’ve guessed.”
She moves my mouth where she wants it, leading me with words, just like she did in the interview. She’s all kinds of fucking sexy.
I loosen the grip on the belt of clothes around her waist and thumb the sides of her lacy black panties.
“Nice,” I murmur while sliding them down her toned legs. Her skin feels like she’s been oiled down, but there’s no greasy after-feel, just gentle softness under my callused hands.
She’s a sex kitten as she murmurs, “My sexual parts want yours, plugged in.”
I laugh as she straddles my thighs and takes over stroking me. Her rhythm is professional, no nonsense. She’s pleasured more than a few cocks. Her hand moves the length of my dick, giving a hard squeeze each time she gets to the base. “Like this, Mason?” she whispers against my mouth, kissing the corner.
“Just like that.”
She pushes me, increasing the rhythm. I lean my head back against the headrest. “Like that, Mia. Just like that.” Her other hand moves to my sac, caressing, kneading, pulling. I move away. “Mia, if you keep that up, I’m going to come.”
She shoves my shoulder back with the other hand. “Oh, Mason. I’m not the hard-ass around here. I would never do that to you. I’m more of a…” She pulls a gold foil package from her waistband and I almost come right there, she’s so tantalizing. “Good cop. They come in and rough you up, and I come in and calm you down. Either way, we always get you to talk.”
Her kisses are deep and hungry. I feel the power she possesses, and my fire is lit. I’m still kissing as she pulls away.
She pushes the corner of the wrapper between my seeking lips. I bite, and she tears, throws the package on the floor, and gets my cock dressed for dinner.
I try again to kiss her, but she pulls back and plants a finger over my lips. “Don’t get too attached, whiskey boy. There’s only room for one on my career ladder.”
I nod, my head bobs, yes, whatever, you say, just get on. I got it, it’s the ‘don’t call me, I’ll call you’ booty call speech.
I’m rewarded with a kiss somewhere else. I lean my head back and count barrels, anything not to blow in her face. She senses it. I’m close and might not be able to control this hose.
“How would you like me to ride your cock, Mason? Fast? Slow?” She licks up one side and down the other. Through gritted teeth, I say, “Fuck.” I’ve now been demoted to caveman. It’s the only thing I can think of.
“Tell me. I want what you want. Anything you want...” With a knowing grin, she swallows my cock, twice.
It’s too much. I take over. I stroke my shaft, checking to make sure she didn’t swallow the condom. “I’m riding you, Mia. That’s what I want. You. Bent over for me.” With my arm around her middle, I cradle her, swing her legs up and we’re moving to the desk.
She squeals as her feet hit the floor, but they’re not staying there. Not if I’ve got any say.
She pushes the phone, flowers, and lamp to the floor.
“Jesus, woman.” I’m impressed.
“Fuck me, Mason.”
I bend my knees, position myself at her clit, and use the head of my cock to rub across it. A slow burn spreads through my body. “So soft.”
I spread her legs further and flick the head of my cock back and forth, faster and faster.
She reaches around and smacks my thigh. “Stop playing with it and fuck it!”
She throws her head back, and I grab a handful of her silky mane, smack her pink ass, and yell, “Yes, ma’am,” before plunging into her velvety depths.
While I put my shoes on, she straightens her hair in the mirror. I feel her eyes on me and I look up. In one hand she holds a folded, crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. “Never have I ever… paid for sex.”
She drops her contribution to the fight against cancer in my lap on the way out.
……
On the drive home, I remember the thousand other things I should have said.
I didn’t even talk about the last wishers. The ones that are the real reason I do this.
I forgot a lot of words that are on the banned list, but I was uncomfortable enough talking about rape and kidnap, I didn’t want to add murder to the mix. Murder banned, surprisingly ‘kill’ is okay.
Has to be. Too many of the last wishers are looking for someone to end it for them. If I banned every single one of them, I’d defeat my own purpose.
A lot of the never have I ever…been murdered requests are from people who are sick and tired of the hand they got dealt. Feeling like they’re at the end of their rope, looking for anything to give them some relief. Anything not to have to suffer through the indignity and humiliation of any end-stage disease. Murder is top of the charts on that side. In their late-night searches, they may stumble across my banner.
I make a mental note to buy ad space on WebMD.
I’m no therapist, but it feels like a rite of passage. Like, they’ve asked, I’ve said no, moving on. As if they had to try, and once that’s out of the way, they may as well ask for the thing they really wanted in the first place.
But I don’t ban them. No. I listen to them. Gram listens. Even a few of her nurse friends have been recruited. Trying to find something that they’ve never ever and set a plan into motion, which sometimes is still sadly murder. To those, I say good luck and send them on their way. I’m not a hitman.
The others? I try to find another solution, another way. Whether it be floor seats at the Garden, a vacation of a lifetime, seeing friends and family one last time. Fuck it, if it’s within my power, I give it to them. I’m a softie for a sufferer.
That was good. “I should’ve said it like that,” I groan to myself.
Business is pouring in, even now, with this ridiculous protest, which incidentally just skyrocketed my website into the stratosphere, which reminds me. I send my lead programmer a text, okaying bigger servers to deal with the increased workload.
I mean, who’s getting hurt? Nobody, that’s who. And every once in a while, I do something that Mom would be proud of.
This too will pass. Big crisis averted, thanks to Mia. At least, I think it is, and
I head home.
Where no one waits to greet me or congratulate me on successfully turning around that interview.
I hit the lights and the stereo, trying to give my hollow space some life. Some warmth. I don’t feel sorry for myself. Mia just fucked me seven ways to Sunday, but I wish she would’ve wanted to come home with me. Maybe discuss the highlights of the interview over dinner.
I light the candles on the table and am hit with the sweet aroma of apple pie. A gift from Gram to cover the guy smell. But it gives off the impression that someone’s been cooking for me all day. I blow it out. No one’s cooked for me since Gram.
Takeout it is. I order, change into shorts, and do the one thing I’ve been waiting to do all day. Check my private messages.
That’s the rule. Each one deserves my undivided attention. I don’t read them on my phone. It’s rude to anyone I’m with, and it’s disrespectful to them. My last wishers.
My program specifically filters these to Gram, and her team, then to me. I’m grouped with anyone who’s in need. If I cannot help, I know how to find someone who will. No extra charge. No charge at all. They can be messy, are more than expensive, and that’s not even tapping the whole hornet’s nest of problems they can bring, but when one comes together, it’s magic. I read through them while I wait for my food.
Shelly M., 58, dying of ovarian cancer. All avenues traveled and exhausted. At the end of her rope and money, she just wants help getting back home to Boston. Says she’s lonely, only moved here for treatment and has no way back to her sister and the rest of her family. Treatment’s over, along with her savings account. With no money, she asks for two one-way train tickets.
“A train from California? She might not even make the trip!” That’s not going to happen. Not on my watch.
I text her back directly, trading in her boring bucket list item for a swankier F#ck It list one with all the bells and whistles.
As we’re texting, it becomes apparent she’s totally tapped out.
Cancer’s wicked expensive.
It would be so much easier if people would just say what it is they want instead of beating around the damn bush for thirty minutes.
I have her text me the full names and birthdays of who will be traveling as I start searching flights. Bingo! Two days from now, you’ve got two first class seats to Logan Airport. I’ve attached your tickets. Do you have Square?
She doesn’t. After explaining what it is, I find out she’s got PayPal. Perfect. Whatever she’s comfortable with. In the spur of the moment, I drop 10,000 F#ck It dollars into her PayPal account, charge it to petty cash, and check Shelly off my list just as my food arrives.
A person who didn’t know any better might think I’m a sucker.
Easily taken advantage of—a buyer of the Brooklyn Bridge. And that’s okay. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the same way. But I’m protected. I’ve got my own department of built-in bullshit detectors. A background check is done before anything’s forwarded to me. I trust their judgment.
By the time my head hits the pillow, I’ve booked flights, sent money, and talked with my favorite quarterback. I love the guy, and he loves to give. We met at a charity golf fundraiser. I supplied the alcohol and got plenty of business cards and offers of help from celebrities that want to give but don’t want to end up on TMZ when they do. Whiskey opens a lot of doors.
He returns my call just as I’m ready to call it a night. “Hey 12, I need a solid. Any way to get a firefighter and his family in to watch practice this week? His wife sent in the request. He’s a hero, without the parade, dying of lung cancer.”
“Anything for you, baby. But why practice? I’ve got a meet-and-greet charity game coming up in two weeks. Lots of big names. One-on-one real quality time with all the players. They can have my box. The family’s out of town. I’ll give them the signed jersey and pics treatment. Dinner in the clubhouse after, because…fuck it, right?”
A little more small talk, smoothing shit out, forwarding his people’s number to my people—Gram.
Before my last text of the night, Fuck it! Pack your bags, you’re going to Foxboro, courtesy of The Goat #12.
It’s all about connections, I think, as I try to find sleep in a lonely bed.
……
Chloe
The night I reintroduced myself to my parents as Cancer Chloe, the one without the bright future to look forward to, that was my one night reserved for crying, a real sob fest, feeling sorry for myself under my favorite blanket. One night to let it all out. I had to. Roxy and I had worked too long to get to this point.
Roxy, Lola’s twin, is the next best thing when I can’t have the original. Their mom had a thing for 80s rock.
Roxy’s my sounding board. Never once has she told me to get a grip or get over it. Was at every one of my pity parties—first to come, last to leave, and more importantly, she listened.
Roxy’s the kind of person who knows how to focus, really zero in on another person. When I talk to her, I know she’s hearing every complaint, every ache and pain, every sorrowful word. Not thinking of what to say next. No, she hears.
But never told, dammit!
I thought she would. That it would be too much of a temptation not to spill her guts to her twin sister so I wouldn’t have to. Save me from telling my best friend in the whole world that I am living on borrowed time.
That’s how it started. Nightly pep talks became my therapy. I don’t want to go back to that dark place and waste what little time I have left bitching and moaning to my poor me friend, Roxy.
That’s what I call her, my poor me friend. Just as there’s a song for every occasion, I’ve got a friend for each, too. Partly because I hang out with twins. I watched how their mother gave them each separate attention. Never treated one better than the other, but was always attuned to their individual qualities, and I just carried it over into all of my friendships.
I spent a lot of time with poor me when I was first diagnosed.
No, I don’t want to go back to that. So just tonight it is, then.
As I cry in my pillow, it hits me. I’m grieving the life I know I won’t have much longer. I’ve got a month, maybe two to “get my affairs in order,” but that, I kept to myself. Even when they asked, I just shook my head. Mom got it, and didn’t ask again. I didn’t have the heart to burst all my family’s bubbles in one sitting. If I would’ve divulged that little tidbit I’d be in the emergency room right now, because I think even super fit Ronny would have had a heart attack if he heard about my expiration date.
Two months, barely any time at all. That’s why the time had come. I didn’t want them to hear from some stranger at the morgue that I’d died.
I thought I’d have more time! After a solid hour of tears and torture, I can’t take any more. It’s hot under my blanket and smells funny. I stand up, to put it in the wash and almost keel over. The whole room’s spinning like a carnival ride. I catch myself, avoiding a nasty spill, and explain it away as dizziness from eating like a bird at dinner. But the dizzy spells are getting more regular, and even I have a hard time swallowing that excuse.
But I did eat like a bird, worried how my family was going to take my news.
Surprisingly well, actually. They let me leave.
When I feel like I can walk without falling, I start looking for something to eat. As I’m not much of a cooker—more of an opener and button-pusher—I really have to dig. I want something that is both nutritious and doesn’t turn my stomach. All the stuff in the fridge—unidentifiable and furry—smells like the bottom of a dirty trashcan. Ewwww. I need to go shopping at some point.
I almost puke from the smell. I think about throwing it away, but then the whole place will stink, so I shove it back in, spray the inside with a shot of Febreeze and shut the door tight.
That Tupperware container full of fur goes into the dumpster at first light! I promise myself as I cruise my freezer. After breaking off two stalagmites of ice, I find a half-g
allon of ice cream smooshed in the back. A sad flattened thing, missing its lid, but it still smells like oranges with a just a hint of freezer burn.
I scoop the icicles off the top before taking it back to my blanket cave.
“I don’t even like sherbet!” I wail as I shovel it in.
The good part? I only throw half of it up. Progress, but my stomach doesn’t know that. I still feel sick as a dog after everything I eat. I’ve had prescriptions for four different nausea medications, two of them not even legal in the United States, but nothing works. Well, scratch that. Marijuana works. The antiemetic of the gods. That four-letter word that everyone whispers about. Weed.
“Could be why all my friends think I’m a giant pothead,” I say as I take a drag from my medicinal pipe.
All the hard edges take on a blurry quality, I’ve been staring at my cat’s twitching tail for thirty minutes before I realize I’m good and stoned. Wait… Yep, nausea gone, too. I get up to pee, take my pills—I promised my Paulo—and wash my sticky hands.
Paul, I think, was supposed to be my happily ever after. We met in a foreign country, under very suspect circumstances, but love blossomed among the weeds of Tijuana. Giggling— I’m so flowery when I’m high—I reach over and grab the photo of him. The frame is a collage of assorted Mexican tiles, painted with different hearts. My homage to him. My soulmate, the one who was meant just for me. But I know I wasn’t meant to be more than a tiny blip on his radar. Younger than me by two years, he still has a very long road ahead of him.
I don’t want to be that girl. Stalkery ghost girl, lurking around, always putting a damper on his dates, hampering any of his future prospects, always hovering around. No, thank you. I giggle a bit more, drink some Gatorade, and continue watching Queen Sheba’s tail swish.
So, even though he was hooked, I released him. Back to the wild. To hunt, gather, mate, breed, whatever, just live his life. He didn’t cooperate. He was like a dog that follows you home and won’t leave, no matter how hard you try to scare it away. Would not go. It was killing him that I refused to see him, to even talk to him. I was hurting him needlessly.
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