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Celeste by Dirty Dawg
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
"Celeste" By Dirty Dawg
"We that are true lovers
run into strange capers."
-Touchstone, "As You Like It"
William Shakespeare
-1-
The phone call took me completely by surprise. I was
working in the bedroom I had converted into an office when
my personal line rang. I almost never got calls, and when I
did, more often than not it was a wrong number.
Lifting the reciever, I kept one eye on the computer
screen in front of me and mumbled, "Hello...?"
"Brad?" In an instant, the computer screen was
forgotten, and I was thrust back more than a dozen years, to
a time and place far away from San Diego, to a time when my
life was full of promise and wonder and love. That's the way
it's always been with Celeste; just the sound of her voice
can bring the memories back with a rush, filling my head and
crowding my thoughts.
Celeste, as the saying goes, is the one true love of
my life. For me it had been instant. The first time I'd laid
eyes on her, I knew she was the woman I wanted to marry.
Full of life and happiness and joy and wonder, she gave off
her beauty in waves. Watching her walk across a room was a
treat in and of itself. Like I said, for me, it had been
instant.
For her...it hadn't been. The stark, naked truth of
the matter was that Celeste was just not attracted to me. I
wasn't handsome enough, sexy enough, masculine enough...
whatever it is that attracts women to men, I just wasn't...
enough. We became wonderfully close friends, and I fell
quietly, desperately in love with her. Maybe not so quietly,
though. It became apparant to Celeste what my feelings for
her were, and she told me as gently as possible that she
just didn't...couldn't....feel the same way about me. She
took the emotional responsibility off her shoulders and
thrust it squarely onto mine. It became obvious that I was
once again in control of my life, that Celeste wanted
nothing to do with me in...that way.
When we lived in the same city (Baltimore,), and I
saw her every day, life was indeed hard for me. Because of
our closeness as friends, I got a view of her life that I
would have probably been better off not having. Boyfriends
came and went, none of them in my eyes good enough for my
sweet Celeste. Slowly, a picture of who she was and what she
wanted emerged to my startled, love-struck eyes. To this
day, I still love her, but Celeste was, and is...a bitch.
There is no other way to put it, no nice euphamisims to use.
She is demanding, controlling, and completely unreasonable
in the expections she holds for the men in her life.
She wants the man in her life to have a good body.
Yet, she complains when the man spends time in the gym to
keep that body in shape for her. She claims that she wants
the man to put her at the center of his life, and when they
do, she bitches that they are smothering her. She wants him
to be successful, yet gives them grief when the hours
required at the office cut into time that would otherwise be
spent with her.
I never wanted to delve into the underlying
psychological reasons Celeste was this way. I just held the
knowledge that if she had given me the chance she had given
so many other, lesser (in my view, anyway,) men, that she
would have found what she was looking for. But I never got
that chance; Celeste wouldn't consider a relationship with
me in that way. I was not her type. I didn't turn her on. I
was not a man in her eyes.
There is no way to describe that kind of pain. Men
do a lot of macho posturing about not needing women and
being happy single. I can't speak for anyone else but
myself...Celeste owned me heart and soul. And the fact that
I couldn't be who she needed me to be nearly killed me. The
mood swings that set in whenever she found a new boyfriend
and proudly announced to me that they were sleeping together
grew worse and worse over time. It finally became apparant
that something was going to have to be done. I knew that if
I was in the same city as Celeste that there was no way I
could stay away. She had gotten completely and utterly under
my skin. I had several choices. I could kill myself, a
rather abrupt and final solution, or I could move away. I
chose the latter, and announced my decision to Celeste
without telling her why.
The casual way in which she recieved that little
piece of news should have sealed it for me. She just agreed
with me and mouthed empty words about missing me and hoping
that I was doing what was right for me. The meal continued,
and I silently fumed, knowing two things at once: I
desperately wanted her to beg me to stay, and that she never
would.
After my move to the West Coast, Celeste and I had
kept in touch with occasional phone calls (mostly made by me
in moments of terrible weakness,) letters, (also mostly
written by me. I think she wrote me three times in six
years,) and cards and presents. The relationship had a
strong base in the shared experiences in Baltimore, but
wasn't growing. Slowly, over the last six months, we'd grown
apart, slowly, quietly realising that the relationship was
coming to an end.
That's why the phone call was so surprising.
"Celeste? What's up?"
"Brad...I'm coming to San Diego tomorrow. I was
wondering if I could come and see you." There was something
in her voice, a note I didn't recognize, that sent a chill
down my back and made the hairs on my neck stand up.
"Uh...sure. No problem. I work at home. Anytime is
good."
"Fine. I'll call when I land. See you tomorrow. We..
." She trailed off, and then finished it in a rush. "We have
to talk, Brad. I'll see you tomrrow." And then she hung up.
I sat, listening to a dial tone from three thousand miles
away and wondered what the hell was going on.
I had a hard time returning to my work.
* * * * * * * * * *
I was pacing in the living room when I heard the
taxi stop outside my house. I looked through the curtains
and felt myself frown. Celeste was standing on the curb, two
suitcases at her feet, looking up at the house with what can
only be described as a look of tredipation on her face.
I opened the front door and stepped out onto the
porch, waving. She looked at me and smiled, and then it all
flew back into my head. I had been hiding the memory and
dodging the rememberence almost since the night it had
happened.
The one and only night Celeste and I had spent
together as a man and woman were meant to. One month to the
day before I left Baltimore to come here.
-2-
"A memory is what is left when something
happens that does not completely unhappen."
- Edward de Bono (b. 1933)
British author
Baltimore, three years ago:
It had been a long week, and I was looking forward
to having a few drinks after work at the local watering
hole, a favorite place for the employees of DynaTech, the
company I programmed for. I entered O'Mally's Pub and took a
stool at the bar, Sam the bartender sliding a glass of tap
beer in front of me without asking. He didn't look for money
and I didn't offer. We would settle before I left, and I
trusted him to keep an honest count of the beer I consumed.
Three silent beers later, I heard the jangle of the
door and looked into the mirror to see Celeste entering the
bar. She had a morose, forlorn expression on her face, and
spotting me, made her way over and joined me, taking the
stool to my left.
"Scotch, rocks," she told Sam, and he vanished to
grant her request. We sat in comfortable silence for a few
moments, and then she started talking. Her boyfriend had
broken up with her not minutes before, telling her that she
was a controlling, evil bitch, and that he never wanted to
see her again. Publically, I agreed with Celeste, that he
was a bastard and a jerk, and that it was his loss.
Privately, I admired his backbone. Anyone who had gotten to
know Celeste as well as I had knew how hard it was go get
the woman out of your head.
Celeste was a brunette, hair so dark black that it
was almost blue. She wore it short, just below her shoulder
blades. It cascaded down and looked soft and sweet to the
touch. I didn't know; I'd never touched Celeste in my life.
Not even a friendly hug or a New Years' kiss. Well, to be
completely accurate, the one time I had touched her was was
still fresh in my mind, no matter how hard I tried to
forget. Standing beside her at her desk, trying to show her
how to work a new program I'd written, I leaned over and put
my hand on her shoulder. I felt her stiffen, and slightly
pull away, as though the feel of my skin against her
repulsed and disgusted her. I quickly pulled my hand back
and tried to hide the flush of shame and self-hate that
filled my face. I never tried to touch her again.
Back at the bar, Celeste and I got stinking drunk
over the next four hours. Beers and shots and slammers,
empty glasses accumulating on the bartop. Money ran out
before desire to consume more did, and I helped her to my
car, taking her keys with me. I didn't want her driving,
even though I was in no condition to drive myself. With
typical male macho thinking, I was sure that I was able to
drive better drunk than she was.
They say that the Gods protect babies, fools,
drunks, and ships named "Enterprise," and I qualified on
three of four counts. We made it the two miles to her house
with little trouble and, thankfully, no cops. I got her
upstairs to her apartment and unlocked the door. I turned to
leave, and felt her hand closed around my arm.
"Where you goin'?" she slurred, smiling at me with a
grin I'd never seen on her face before. "Why don't you come
in and stay awhile?" I'd been over her apartment a dozen
times, mostly to install things or fix stuff... I'd never
been just 'invited' over, so this was promising to be a new
experience. Truth be told, there were alarm bells going off
inside my head about this, and I knew were it was leading. I
also knew what the eventual result was going to be, but I
went along anyway. I'd had enough of long lonely nights
spent talking to a pillow instead of a warm body, of
greeting the mornings with no one to kiss hello, of just
being alone all the damn time. The secret promise in
Celeste's eyes was all I needed to allow myself to be
dragged into her apartment...into her web.
You can guess the rest. We had fumbling, sweaty,
intense sex. The best sex of my life, for several reasons.
The alcohol had lessened both of our inhibitions, so some of
the things we did and said to each other have not, at lest
for my part, been repeated since. The best of my life
because it was Celeste, the woman of my dreams, the center
of my life, my reason for living, undulating and thrusting
beneath me as I brought us both to the crest of pleasure
several times that long drunken night.
But when the morning came, you can probably also
guess what happened. A small, freverent part of me wanted
her to wake up and look at me and smile and kiss me softly,
aware that she had found the man of her dreams. But that, as
you know, was not to be.
Her eyes opened, and she took in my form. I saw
confusion cross her face, and then her eyes widened as the
memories of the night before flooded her mind. And then she
got this look on her face, a look that I still have trouble
describing. It was something like disgust and sadness and
determination all mixed together. There is no single word
for all three emotions, but I knew what they added up to. I
could almost predict, to the letter, what she was going to
say next.
"Oh, God," she said. "We didn't."
I nodded, careful not to smile. She threw an arm
across her eyes, blocking out the bright rational sunlight
of morning. "I can't fucking believe it," she said, turning
away from me. I reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, to
make sure, and she pulled away from me as if stung. I needed
no more hints.
Standing, I dressed quickly and left. The night was
never mentioned between us again. It was as if it had never
happened. I never brought it up, alluded to it, and for the
most part, tried to forget it. For Celeste had been a truly
wonderful, exciting, generous lover, who had shown me things
and done things to me that I'd only to that point read about
in various men's magazines. She had completely and utterly
stolen my heart, and my soul, and to be frank, my cock, and
I wanted to spend the rest of my life exploring and
discovering the secrets her mind and body held.
One month later, to the day, I left Baltimore for
San Diego. Three long years had passed, and I hadn't seen
Celeste in any of that time. The occasional phone call, like
I said, and some cards and letters. Mostly letters from me.
Until now.
-3-
"Memory, the priestess,
kills the present
and offers its heart to the shrine of the
dead past."
- Rabindranath Tagore
Indian author, philosopher
Celeste leaned down and grabbed her suitcases, and
slowly walked towards me. In the three years since I'd last
seen her, several things had happened. Firstly, I wasn't
about to stoop and scrape and come running at her beck and
call. She was a strong young woman; she could carry her own
damn bags. Secondly, she had that look on her face, the same
look she always gave me when she wanted something.
And I knew that unless it was something that didn't
have the potential to hurt me, something that I wouldn't
mind giving to a stranger on the street, she wasn't going to
get it from me.
Not this time.
And again, I was wrong. So wrong.
Celeste dropped the suitcases on my porch and was
suddenely in my arms, her own arms around my neck, burying
her face against me. "Brad," she said/moaned, "It's so good
to see you." She pulled her head back and then slowly,
softly kissed me on the lips. It was a friendly, warm,
brotherly kiss, and then it lengthened for a second, grew
some heat, and then was dust.
"Can I come in? We need to talk, big guy." I had
said nothing to this point, and I just nodded, opening the
door and pointing with my chin. If she took offense at my
non-offer of help, she didn't show it. She just bent down,
grabbed her suitcases and followed my lead. She dumped them
at the base of the stairs and found the living room. She sat
on a couch and looked around. I'd had a decorator in about
two years ago, and the place looked good. I knew it, and she
knew it. We were three years and as many thousands of miles
away from Baltimore and those times.
I took a leather wingchair across from the couch and
crossed my legs, folding my hands in my lap, looking
expectantly at the woman who had once filled my life with
joy. I took a fast moment to think about her as she gathered
her own thoughts.
I remember what it was like having her in my life
every day. How I didn't feel complete, didn't feel...whole,
or human, until I'd seen her every day, talked to her, made
her laugh and heard the sound that made the songbirds in the
trees hang their heads in shame. How she made me feel human
when the forces controlling my life consipired to make me
feel less so.
And then I remembered the callous way she'd treated
me, the easy ways she found to crush my spirit and trample
my feelings. Celeste had a cruel streak in her, something
she didn't hesitate to use when she felt trapped or
cornered. She sometimes delighted in seeing people bend to
her will, seeing them flush with anger or embarrasment when
her venomuous tongue hit the mark. She was a bitch, through
and through, and I'd fallen into the ultimate vanity,
thinking I could tame her.
"Brad," she said, her face somber and direct. "I
don't know quite how to say this...I..." she trailed off, I
suppose looking for the right words. I sat silently, not
offering any help or brooking any bullshit.
"Last year," she started, "the company switched
insurance carriers in an effort to control costs. This new
company believes more in preventative medicine than waiting
for something to happen and then worrying about it. Towards
that end, physicals are two dollars, drugs are like six
dollars, most preventative procedures are likewise very
affordable. I hadn't had a physical in about five years, so
I signed up and had a complete one done."
A sudden ball of ice appeared in my stomach, and my
mind started working, getting the denial circuts warmed up.
Somehow, I knew. The only reason Celeste would come three
thousand miles to see me was because she...
"They found something," Celeste confirmed, searching
my face. "They have this new toy, something called an MRI.
Stands for Magnetic-"
"Resonance Imaging," I finished for her. "It can
take crystal clear pictures down to the cellular level.
Thousands of time better than that old Computerixed Axial
Tomography..."
"Yeah. And what they found is..." Shaking her head,
Celeste tapped a finger against her skull. "What they call
'a mass.' I call it a tumor. About the size of a plum."
"Where?" I asked. "Excatly where?"
"I don't know if I can remember it. Hemispheric
something-or-other."
"Hemispheric Bridge?" I asked, fear dripping from
every word.
"Yes," she said, and seeing the look on my face, she
knew I knew.
"It's inoperable, isn't it?" Celeste nodded.
"Chemotherapy? Radiation treatment?"
"Tried and failed. Both of them. My hair just
finished growing back. The mass got bigger. It's now about
the size of a baseball. A small baseball. And it's strike
three for me, Brad. I'm out."
I sighed, all thoughts of turing her away gone from
my mind. "Do you know what the rate of metisis is?"
"What's that?"
"Cancer is so horrible because it's basically
uncontrolled cell growth. The cells keep dividing and
growing. The rate that happens, the rate of growth of the
mass...the tumor, is called the metesis rate. Do you know
how fast it's growing. How...long...?"
Celeste's smile was perhaps the saddest one I'd ever
seen. It spoke of dreams vanquished and hopes dashed, and
made my bowles do a backflip. "I don't know the exact rate.
They said no longer than six months. As I get closer to...
that time...my vision will start to go, I'll get flaky, my
vision will dim...all sorts of bad things are going to
happen, Brad."
My hunger for knowledge and the way I chewed through
reference books of any color had given me a huge base of
information about cancer and cancer patients. I knew that
Celeste would be lucky to last three months, let alone six
months. Her life was ending, right before me, and I was
powerless to do anything about it. Frustration welled up
inside me, threatening to break free and run screaming
around the room.
Back in Baltimore, I'd spent many a night whispering
to the pillow that I'd have given 30 IQ points to be
handsome, that I'd have given almost anything to be
Celeste's hero. To save her from some horrible demon, just
to see the look of gratitude and love on her face. Just to
see her finally acknowledge that I was the man for her. And
now, here, in my living room, thousands of miles and
thousands of days since we'd seen each other, Celeste was
telling me that the biggest, baddest demon of all was slowly
wrapping his cold, smelly hands around her neck and
squeezing, and all I could do is watch.
And I knew that's what she wanted me to do. Watch
her die. Help her die with dignity. I knew then, with a
certainty borne only of complete self-knowledge, that I was
the closest thing to a friend that Celeste had. She'd never
let anyone, least of all me, get close to her, get inside
her, and now, when she needed someone, she'd turned to me,
hoping that there was enough residual love left inside me to
do this one last thing for her.
"Wait here," I said, standing and striding from the
room. I went to my office and closed the door. The office
had been the biggest bedroom in the house, and it now held
what I laughingly called the center of my life. The past
three years had been good to me professionally. I was one of
the highest paid contract programmers in the world, working
on various contracts all the time. I had nothing pressing,
and about two hundred thousand dollars in the bank. I could
put my life on hold, I knew, but did I want to? Did I want
to spend the next ninety days with the one true love of my
life, watching her slowly waste away?
"Shit!" I said, looking at my favorite picture of
her and I. Taken at a company Christmas party, Celeste and I
are standing next to each other, smiling at each other... If
I look at that picture hard enough and long enough, I can
almost imagine us as a couple, together and happy.
There was never any question, never any debate. My
mind and my heart were in total agreement. My life, my
personal life, had been in some kind of holding pattern for
three years. I'd dated off and on, but none of them had been
pretty as Celeste or as smart as Celeste or... enough. They
hadn't been enough like Celeste for me to even think about a
long-term relationship. This would provide...closure. A way
to say goodbye to a time and a person in my life that had
held me for so long. It was horrible, sad news, and I would
have gladly spent the rest of my life quietly and
desperately in love with her, personally stagnant, if it
would mean Celeste got to live. But I didn't get to make
those decisions; the Fates did. All I had to do was live
with them.
All Celeste had to do was die with them. The least I
could do is let her die with some love in her heart and some
dignity in her bearing.
Returning to the living room, I retook my chair and
studied her silently for a moment. There was a look of
hopeful want on Celeste's face, and for a single, cruel
moment I considered dashing her hopes. It would be a sweet
revenge, the dark side of my heart said, one that she truly
deserved. But the good side of my heart won out, and I just
nodded.
"I'll be with you," I said softly. "Until the end."
Relief flooded Celeste's face as she sat back and smiled.
And then she started to cry. Long, wracking sobs that tore
my soul and rended my heart. I joined her on the couch,
wrapping her up in my arms, rocking her gently, stroking her
hair.
And this time, Celeste didn't stiffen, didn't pull
away from my touch or my hug. She gripped me back, her arms
suprisingly strong, as we cried together for almost an hour.
-4-
"The man who gets on best with women
is the one who knows best how to
get on without them."
-Charles Baudelaire
The next week was interesting. We got to know each
other again, and I noticed something different about her.
This may sound strange, but it's true. Celeste had mostly
dealt with the fact that she was dying, and in some strange
way, it had freed her. The cruelty and hate and bitterness
that she'd felt toward the world for all those unknown
reasons had fled her, and she was once again the woman I'd
originally fallen in love with.
She smiled and laughed more than I remembered, or
expected, and we found a wonderful warmth and closeness
still existed between us. Celeste waited three nights before
joining me in my bed, and it came as a wonderful shock and
surprise.
I'd put her in the guest room, not wanting to make
any assumptions. But we'd been touching more, hugging more,
spending time on the couch, watching old movies on TV and
just stroking each other. That night, I'd kissed her neck
and gently tickled her ear with my tongue, and she'd moaned
and pressed herself against me. The movie ended ten minutes
later, and I'd turned in, still excited by the taste of her
skin and the warmth and closeness of her body.
I was almost asleep when my mind announced that
there was someone else in the room. I'd long ago understood
what the concept of the Second Amendment meant, and had a
Baretta 92F 9mm pistol under my pillow ever since. My hand
closed around the grip, and I softly took it off safety. I
wasn't sure who it was, and my half-dream state, I had
forgotten that Celeste was even in the house.
My hand relaxed when I heard her voice. "Are you
awake?" One of the most inane questions in the world.
"Yes," I said softly, and turned to face her. The
moonlight was streaming in from my skylight, casting her in
a silvery puddle of warmth. She was wearing one of my
button-down shirts, and apparantly nothing else. Her hair
was combed out and rested on her lovely shoulders. She had a
haunting look on her face, like she was afraid I was going
to send her away. I peeled the sheets back and patted the
bed next to me, and eagerly, she joined me.
Celeste turned her back to me and snuggled up in
spoon position. The years apart had put some steel into my
backbone, and I didn't shy away from her, letting her feel
my throbbing need pulse against her buttocks.
She laughed, a short, sweet giggle that seemed to
fill the room. "My, my, " she said, "is that all for me?" I
just grunted a little, hunching my hips against her.
Turning to face me, Celeste pressed her palm against
my check and softly kissed me, letting me taste her lips for
the briefest of seconds. "Make love to me, Brad. Please.
Make me feel alive."
Taking my hand in hers, she slid it inside the shirt
and around one of her breasts. The night we'd spent together
flashed across my mind again, and I knew I didn't want a
repeat of that particular morning-after.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
She frowned. "It's not catching, you know." I
laughed with her at that.
"No...I know that. I was just remembering the last
time we did this." Finally, the words had been spoken.
Celeste frowned and then understanding flew across her
features.
"I'm sorry...about the way things went that time,"
she said. "It was...difficult for me to get close to anyone.
And you weren't...what I wanted, what I thought I needed
then. But now-" I silenced her with a kiss and started
exploring her body, the body in thousands of my dreams, with
my hands and mouth and lips and tongue. She was slightly
sweaty and salty under my mouth, and I rejoiced in each
discovery. It was like going back to your childhood home,
finding all the nooks and crannies, all the hidey-spots you
remember from your youth.
Slowly, we became one with the night. Our bodies
joined and seperated, making gentle, passionate love as the
moon slowly marched across the floor. Celeste was wet and
warm and welcoming, her legs caressing my side as I gave
pleasure the best I knew how. We tasted and sucked and
kissed and caressed as the night drew on, and when I finally
spent myself inside her, we collapsed against each other,
sweaty, sticky bodies adhesing with the moisture of our
passion.
* * * * * * * * * *
The next morning came early for me; I'd stayed awake
after Celeste and I'd pulled apart and watched her sleep.
The gentle, graceful curves of her legs and buttocks amazed
me, and I traced the soft, silky skin with my fingers as she
lightly snored.
The sun replaced the moon, golden beams of light
crawling across the floor and up the bed. When they were an
inch from her face, Celeste opened her eyes and smiled at
me. I waited for it.
It didn't come. She lifted her face to mine and
kissed me softly, her tongue playing across my lips. I
opened my mouth, and we shared a passionate greeting to this
new day. One day closer to her death.
We spent the day in bed, tussling and wrestling and
making slow, passionate love. Thrusting into her, supporting
my weight on my arms, I looked down at her face, twisted in
pleasure, her legs crossed over my back, her heels urgently
encouraging me to go faster, deeper, harder, I remembered
now why "Angel Falls" had been my favorite television show
of the Fall 1993 season.
The actress that played Rae Dawn Snow, Chelsa Field,
looked excatly like Celeste. They could have been sisters;
same dark hair, same flashing eyes, same body, same whiskey-
and-honey voice. I'd never put it together before, and that
amazed me. Picking up speed, I emptied myself inside her
just as Celeste joined me, dissolving into climax.
* * * * * * * * * *
The days and weeks settled into a routine. Celeste
let me guide her, showing her new things, trying new things
out. We spent hours on the couch, watching as many old
movies as I could find. She started to learn French under my
expert guidence. We ate Thai food and rented a sailboat.
Every memory recorded for posterity by my handy camcorder.
Once, I asked if I should contact Maryanne,
Celeste's only living relative, an older sister that lived
in Spokane. Celeste's expression clouded, and then she shook
her head.
"She hates me," she stated. When pressed for a
reason, Celeste would only shake her head and refuse to
answer. I let it drop.
Most days we greeted the mornings by making love.
Those interludes stretched and grew until we were spending
most every day in bed until noon. Celste was hungry and
generous, asking to try new things. She wanted to please me,
and this was surprising. I'd always assumed that Celeste was
a selfish, demanding lover. For all I know, she had been
before. But she wasn't now.
We explored our mutual fantasies together,
discovering those hidden pockets of excitement that pushed
buttons and made cocks hard and pussies wet. We spent long
hours between each other's thighs, tasting and licking and
slurping. At first, Celeste was reluctant to let me cum in
her mouth, but after coaching and some time, she began
greedily drinking me, savoring the taste of my ejaculate.
The day she asked me to tie her up was a banner day,
to say the least. With ties and my bathrobe sash, I secured
her to our bed (interesting how quickly it had come from
'my' bed to 'our' bed...) and proceeded to tease and please
her for one rainy California afternoon. Celeste had climaxed
repeatedly, flowing from one to another, soaking the bed and
my crotch with her arousal.
After, I'd untied her, and she'd collapsed into my
arms, kissing and hugging me.
"That was wonderful, Brad," she said. "I never
thought that I'd be able to...trust someone enough to do
that to me. That was so special. I'll never forget it...or
you." Brave words for a woman two months away from her own
death, I thought.
-6-
"It is not death, but dying,
which is terrible."
- Henry Fielding
"He that dies pays all debts."
- Stephano, "The Tempest"
William Shakespeare
One warm afternoon we spent naked, sitting on my
bed, telling each other our life stories. We gently frigged
each other, not so much to arouse the other, just some
friendly touching. My hands were filled with her breasts as
she told me about her parents (both dead now,) and her
sister (aforementioned Spokane problem,) and the boys she
dated and slept with.
Before, when she told me of the men she'd taken to
her bed, I'd been filled with jealousy and anger. Now,
because it was me and not them in her bed, I listened as she
explained why she could never find the man she was looking
for.
Her waning days on this mortal coil had forced
Celeste to examine who she'd become, and why. Back in
Baltimore, she'd discovered that she was a selfish,
controlling bitch, and that she'd pushed away the only man
that had ever cared about her the way she'd wanted. The only
man who had taken her shit again and again and come back for
more. That realization had changed her somehow, softened
her, made her more free and accessible. And that's when
she'd jumped on a plane to spend her last days with me.
As the second of the three months drew to a close,
Celeste started exhibiting changes. She would enter fugue
states that would last up to an hour, and when she came out
of them, she had no memory of ever having been gone. Entire
hours vanished for her, and she had no memory of what'd had
happened while she'd been away. Her vision started to
deteriorate, and after examining a medical text on the
matter, I concluded that she had last then three weeks to
live.
When she was lucid, Celeste and I spent as much time
together as possible, making love constantly. We were hungry
now, trying to cram every last fuck in before the piper had
to be paid. She was constantly wet for me, cornering me in
the shower or the kitchen, begging me to make love to her,
to make her feel alive.
The last two weeks were the worse. The fugue states
came and went with such rapidity that it was almost as if
Celeste were schitzaphernic. One moment we would be making
urgent, hungry love, our bodies slapping togehter wetly as
we wallowed in our pleasure, and in the next I would be
making love to a lump of dead flesh that was staring at the
ceiling. And then she would be back, blinking her eyes and
starting to fuck me again. It played hell with my emotions,
and with hers too. She could see the pain and confusion in
my eyes.
With one week to go, we stopped making love. I
didn't know that she was only six days away from death. It
wasn't like I'd marked the days on the calender. Celeste and
I made out her will, and then I manged to get her sister's
telephone number out of her, to inform her of Celeste's
death... after the fact.
She spent most of the time in bed, talking with me.
Talking about all the things she'd wanted to do, wanted to
see, wanted to read and hear and watch and taste. I held her
in my arms and told her fairy tales, related the plots to
wonderful novels that I'd read, and promised her that I'd
never forget her.
Celeste made me promise that I'd go on with my life
after she was gone, that I'd find someone to love me as much
as I loved her, someone that would treat me well, the way I
deserved to be treated. I made the promise, but in the back
of my mind I wondered if I could keep it. Celeste had once
again become the center of my universe. We were in a little
coccoon, she and I, spending those last days in my
apartment, not going out, just talking and laughing and
holding one another as the cool hand of death slowly
approached.
Celeste died in her sleep. I woke to a bright new
morning, reaching over to shake her awake. The stiffness
told me all I needed to know. I kissed her face once, and
got out of bed. Walking into my office, I sat down at the
desk, called the funderal home, the police department and
Celeste's sister. And I finally found out why Maryanne hated
Celeste so much.
Celeste had seduced her husband and fucked him while
Maryanne watched from the hall. Maryanne said that she was
sorry that Celeste was dead, but that no, she wouldn't be
able to attend the funeral. I promised to foward a copy of
the will, and she thanked me and ended the call.
I buried Celeste two days later, in a cemetary six
blocks from my house. For three months, I visited her grave
every day, leaving flowers and poems. I spent one horrible
drunk night sleeping on the mound of earth, crying out to
the Gods that would do such a thing to me, and to her.
It's been six months since Celeste died. I've got a
new girlfriend now, a woman I met in church. She heard the
entire story of me and Celeste one night, and held me in her
arms as I cried myself to sleep. When the morning came, a
little of Celeste's memory had left me, and Susan was more
in my thoughts. Susan and I are growing closer every day,
and the memory of Celeste is fading equally slowly. I have a
feeling that Susan and I will be married someday, because
she is able to understand why I will never be able to forget
Celeste, and never be able to love anyone else the same
again.
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