by Maggie Gray
(05/22/02)

I fuck the dying.

Certain things are sexy, others erotic. A cellophane-glossed girl, celluloid breasts spilling out of a white lace demi-bra, nipples airbrushed, is sexy. The same girl, wearing a black bra and glasses, sitting at a desk with a book open (below the desk her thighs are open; you can see her fingertips barely touching slickness) is erotic.

Certain things are neither sexy nor erotic. Small fluffy animals. Especially, say, those baby seals on television commercials, begging for your money. Mothers. My mother, definitely.

Old people are taboo, but there's a small niche for elderly porn. This is marketed to other old people and to young people with grandma fetishes. The dead are taboo. Although some must find them arousing, for there is the word: necrophilia.

But what of the dying? Are they off-limits? Those riddled with tumors and God-awful, crying-out pain? I see why they could be a turn-off. But they are still sexual beings. They feel, more intensely. They love.

I fuck the dying.

I work, quietly, through a visiting nurse agency, if you can believe it. The nurses send me e-mails with addresses, diagnoses, the specifics. I don't fuck heart problems. I don't want to kill them.

I'm no hooker with a heart of gold; this is strictly volunteer work and I have another, paying, nonsexual job. And no, I'm not John Irving's Jenny; I'm not trying to steal their seed. Think of me as a cheerleader, or a hospital candy-striper. I bring a too-brief release from the pain that accompanies the slow leak of life from a body.

I have been seeing, lately, a man who is dying of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. NHL is a disease of both the young and the old, like the benign comedy of Bill Cosby. A girl I knew in high school had NHL; she got all puffy from the treatment and then she was okay, she came back to school. But Chad is different; he has aggressive large-cell something or other. Aggressive: not Bill Cosby. He has the Sam Kinison of NHL. And nothing can shut it up. Not radiation. Not chemo, clinical trial after clinical trial until he maxed out. Now they're just trying to manage the pain.

Chad lives with his parents. When I come to the house, Chad's parents murmur quiet hellos and return to the kitchen to do crossword puzzles and watch daytime television. They know what I'm doing, but they also know their son is happier and calmer when I've visited. He needs less Oxycontin.

I knock on Chad's bedroom door and enter, not waiting for him to tell me to come in. I don't want him to expend any unnecessary energy.

He's lying in bed. The sheets are crisp blue and white, like an Oxford shirt. He's wearing soft cotton pajama bottoms and no top. Chad is good-looking, but pale. If he was ever puffy from his treatment, the puffiness is gone now. His hair has grown back, curly in the back. He's thin, but I've seen his high school senior portrait, and photos clipped from the local newspaper of his football glories are thumb-tacked to the wall above his desk. I know where the muscles used to be.

"Hey," I say softly. He grins.

I close the door.

I don't bother with how-are-you, or hand-holding, or any of that. That's not why I'm here. Besides, I know how he is. He's dying.

I kick off my sneakers and slip out of my jeans, leaving them on the floor. I walk over to the bed, and straddle Chad on my knees. I begin unbuttoning my silk blouse, and his hands reach to help me. I push his hands gently back down to the bed.

"Save it," I whisper.

"Okay," he says, watching me.

My blouse is unbuttoned, and I run my hands over my bra. I lift my breasts slightly so that my nipples peek out over the tops of the cups. I touch my finger to Chad's mouth and he opens his lips, letting me wet my finger on his tongue. I circle my wet fingertip around my nipples, making them hard. I unhook the front clasp of my bra.

I slide my shirt and bra off together, so that I'm straddling Chad in just my panties. I lean forward so that my breasts hang over his face, my nipples grazing his lips. He takes one nipple in his mouth and sucks, and I moan. I'm not faking. I move so that he can switch to the other nipple, can even out my pleasure.

I start to kiss him, starting at his forehead, and then his cheeks, and then his mouth. Our tongues meet and I suck on his tongue, letting him know what else is in store. I continue moving my mouth down his body. His chest, now frail where barreling muscles used to be. His stomach, and the sinews that connect the stomach and hips and pelvis. I make a purring noise. This part of a man is always sexy to me.

Chad's dick is already half-hard. It never ceases to amaze me, the power of even a dying man's dick. I run the tip of my tongue from the base, near his balls, to the tip of the head. I taste the head in small licks. I slide my lips over his cock and work my way down. Chad groans and finds my breasts with his hands. He pinches my nipples and I groan with him. I slide my panties down and finger myself while I suck him.

Once I have Chad good and hard, and we are both slippery wet, I stop. I kick off my panties and rise up on my knees so that Chad can see my breasts again. I rub my clit against his dick, slowly, back and forth. I ease myself onto him, and he closes his eyes. There are pindrop tears at the outer corners of his eyes.

"Open your eyes," I whisper. "Watch me." Chad is twenty-one. I know what he wants.

"I'm your own private porno flick," I whisper, and he grins at me. I love his grin. I cup my breasts in my hands and squeeze my nipples, I throw my head back so that my hair grazes my back. I rock back and forth, up and down on Chad's dick. I let go of my breasts and reach back with my hands to cup his balls. I think, it's a good thing the cancer has not metastasized to his testes. I think about how luck is relative.

He starts to moan, and I know he's ready to come. I lean forward so my chest is against his and nuzzle my mouth into his neck, hot breath and kisses and small whispers. I keep rocking.

He comes inside me. I know the results of his bloodwork: he's clean. I don't need a condom. And I know I'm clear, and frankly, even if I wasn't, at this point it's irrelevant to Chad anyway. I stay where I am, letting Chad ease out of my warmth when he's ready. I'm careful to support my weight with my thigh muscles, not to rest on his body.

I move so that I am lying next to Chad and pull the sheet over us. I rest my arm on his chest, the only time I've put any weight on him.

"God, that felt great," I say.

Chad lets out a laugh. "To say the least," he says.

"I'm glad," I say.

"I wish I wasn't...you know," he begins.

"I know."

"No, I mean, I wish I wasn't dying so that I could keep doing this forever."

"But if you weren't dying, I wouldn't be here, sweetie. I'd be off fucking some other dying guy."

"Lucky me," Chad says.

"Yeah, well." Luck is relative. To say the least.

"I just wish," he says.

"Me too."

"This sucks."

"Yeah."

"Dying really sucks."

I hold his hand and put my face against his shoulder.

"I know it does," I say.

"I'm glad you don't say you're sorry. I am so sick of people saying to me, I'm sorry. Fuck that," he says. "I'm the one dying. I'm the one who's fucking sorry."

"Well, fuck sorry," I say, laughing.

"No, fuck me. Next week, right?"

"Yes," I say, "fuck you, next week."

"Cool," he says, closing his eyes. "Fuck dying."

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