Double Tears
Chapter 140
“To die will be an awfully big adventure.”
—J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
I LOVE MY OLDER GIRLFRIENDS. Wednesday night, I had all three. Granted, V1 thought of all three as cute young girls. But Donna, the youngest, was eleven years older than V3. Add four more years for Sophie, and ten more to that for Nanette. Yes, for those who are slow with math, that makes them 28, 32, and 42. And for some reason or another, these three remarkable women had also fallen in love with a seventeen-year-old boy. And eight fifteen-to-twenty-year-old girls.
I understood the girl love better than I understood why they loved me. After Nanette’s divorce a few years ago, she pretty much gave up on men and had several girlfriends. Sophie had been dominated by Brittany, though I think she was a more than willing participant and had plenty of girl-girl experience before she spent a year in Brittany’s bed. Donna was a different matter. She’d been in a long-term hetero relationship that she broke off, mostly focusing on me but taking the women in the pod as a bonus.
I think one of the things I liked about the older women was that they knew what they wanted. Donna wanted a tongue pushed as far up inside her open pussy as it could get. And when the tongue was done, she wanted the cock. She was sexually adventurous, loving to listen to or read my sex stories. And if I described something she hadn’t done, she wanted to try it. Sophie was a bit submissive, which had given Brittany an edge in seducing her aunt. When she was with me, Sophie wanted to stretch herself to the max, becoming as open as possible for penetration. But she also liked to waggle her butt in the air to entice me to take her from behind. If I was pounding her in that position while her face also happened to be bouncing in one of our mates’ pussies, she was especially happy.
Nanette was a bit dominant. Brittany didn’t know what she was unleashing when she did all the teasing before she turned sixteen. I think Nanette could have led Brittany around on a leash if she’d wanted to express her dominance that way. She didn’t. But Brittany still did whatever Nanette wanted. When I was making love to Nan, she’d told me early on that it took her a little longer to get warmed up than the teen girls. She was more focused than anyone else on developing relationships that went much deeper than our sexual involvement. But when she was warmed up, she was energetic and even demanding sexually. She was the most likely of all my girlfriends to want to change positions during sex.
I think we get our opinion of what sex is supposed to be like from watching porn. You start off with oral. Next is missionary. Next is doggie or cowgirl or both. You get back to oral so the guy can come on the girl’s face. And we think that is what sex should be like. It just isn’t so. Most of my girlfriends, once we were connected, wanted to stay in that position and ride it out to the climax. Oh, we might start with oral before plugging the pieces together, but once plugged in, “Just keep doing what you’re doing!”
So, there I was with three beautiful women nearing their sexual prime. And we all ended up in the same bed that night. Each of us having had at least one glass of wine and all of us being more than a little horny.
Nanette is an unbelievably good kisser and we got out of the shower locked lip to lip. I loved her hard, athletic body. She’d qualified for the Boston Marathon on April 19. Her muscles rippled beneath her skin and she had hardly an ounce of bodyfat. I just kept running my hands over her back and butt as she flexed her muscles.
When we got into the bedroom, Donna had her legs pulled back and open so Sophie could kneel in front of her and lap at her sex. I knew Nanette wasn’t ready to start fucking yet, so when she led me by the cock to get positioned behind Sophie, I didn’t resist at all. There was a chain reaction response. I sank into Sophie with a long low moan. Sophie squealed into Donna’s pussy and lapped harder. Donna opened her mouth in a long moan as Nanette’s pussy descended to cover it. And Nanette sighed deeply as she was met by Donna’s tongue.
It wasn’t a fast and furious coupling—or quadrupling, I guess. We all liked this position and were getting the most out of it. Nanette helped hold Donna’s legs back for Sophie. I nudged Sophie’s legs farther apart so I could stroke in deeper. And for several minutes we just built the feeling of all being connected together. My seventeen-year-old body had the shortest fuse.
“Oh, sweet Jesus!” Sophie screamed when I started to pump my seed into her. Her orgasm took her mouth away from Donna and Sophie rolled to the side, disconnecting us. I wasn’t about to let Donna go unfulfilled and fell forward into that beautiful wide-open snatch. I drove my tongue in as far as I could, trying to reach her g-spot with the tip. Even though I can get deeper into Donna than into any of the other girlfriends, it wasn’t quite enough. I used two fingers inside her as I lashed her clit with my tongue and she moved toward her orgasm rapidly.
In the meantime, when Sophie rolled to the side and onto her back, Nanette practically leapt off Donna’s face and fell onto Sophie in a sixty-nine. I was surprised Nan was so enthusiastic about eating out Sophie’s cream-filled center. I didn’t have time to worry about that, though. Donna had two small orgasms and pulled me by the ears up to cover her. My cock slid effortlessly into her hot core as we kissed the fluids off each other’s face. We held this position, rocking our sex together for several minutes before I began to feel the intensity growing in my balls again.
“I’m near,” I whispered.
“Me, too,” she answered. Her hand wormed its way between us so she could reach her clit with her finger and as I pounded into her depths, she rose to meet my climax with her own.
We held each other and kissed some more in the afterglow until she gave me a little push to take the weight off her. I rolled to the side on my back and Nanette stretched out on top of me. I could support her slight weight without difficulty. I’d softened mostly after my orgasm in Donna. Donna and Sophie were now cuddled together with little kisses and just hugging. I don’t know how long I held Nan in my arms, sharing kisses deep and tender. I knew she had my cock trapped between her legs, using her muscles to massage it until it was hard again. Then she slid down my torso and guided it inside her.
With all the oral stimulation she’d had, she was well lubricated and we moved smoothly together.
“Your teenage cock is in my cougar pussy,” she whispered. “The great hairy snatch, so unlike your teen girlfriends. It’s a monster swallowing you whole and not giving you up until you feed it your sweet nectar.”
“You, my love, are no cougar. I pursued you relentlessly before you succumbed to my wild youthful charm.”
“It was only when I discovered how many sweet teen girls came as part of the package that I gave you a second look.”
“Yet here we are, making love.”
“Making love.”
She pushed herself up so she could use her powerful abs to work back and forth on my cock for a while and then tugged at me to roll us into missionary position. I supported my weight over her as I pressed into her and she met me thrust for thrust. I bent my head down to suck on a nipple, perched atop a barely bulging breast. I felt her start her climax first. Her incredible control of pelvic floor muscles quickly brought me to a conclusion following her. I shrank fast this time and we rolled to our sides. My back was against Donna’s. I held Nanette in my arms, Donna held Sophie.
And the four of us slept a blissful sleep.
I somehow managed to finish my essay over the weekend and handed it in on Monday morning. It’s a funny thing about teachers who are into writing—in my vast experience of dealing with two. They like paper. Oh, they prefer neatly typewritten paper and not illegible chicken scratches, no doubt. But even though both Donna and Ms. Faber accepted papers electronically, they always seemed pleased when I handed in my neatly typed essays and stories on crisp, clean paper.
I had a few hundred books on my Kindle. Donna had a few hundred on her bookshelves. It’s almost like words and paper were meant to go together.
All of us were swamped the rest of the week. The grading period ended Friday and I had tests in every class—including our ensemble playing in front of the class and LeBlanc critiquing our performance. I liked playing with the smaller group much better than with the full orchestra. Sitting back where I did normally, I felt like anything the guitar could contribute to the sound was overwhelmed by the number of instruments playing. I just couldn’t play loud enough to contribute. Nonetheless, LeBlanc kept me playing and working on pieces with the full orchestra—I think just to improve my music skills.
Which made me question the letter from the National School of the Arts. I needed to check into them more carefully. It didn’t seem that guitar would be typical of a school training musicians for the American Youth Orchestra. Which made me puzzle even more over the letter I received from the PNSAT Monday.
“I got one, too,” Rachel said. “We should call Ray and ask him what to do. Do you suppose they put together a test that would detect people who were manipulating the aptitudes?”
“Good question, but I don’t think so,” Livy said. “I got a letter but I’m supposed to come prepared to work out. Remember when they said I got a gold rating for the athletic program? I still have to try out. They’ve established I have an athletic aptitude but not that I have the necessary skills.”
“When are you supposed to go in?” I asked.
“It just says to set up a time at the National Service Office by the coliseum. Since I’m still in pretty top condition from basketball season, I was thinking of doing it this weekend.”
“If Ray approves, we could set up our expanded tests at the same time,” Rachel said. “Interesting that they asked me after the NSAT and you after the PNSAT. Do you think they’re tracking us?”
“Of course they are,” Beca said. “Everyone gets tracked from cradle to grave. We should find out if anyone else in the school has received letters like these.” We agreed, but pending Ray’s advice figured we’d go over for the expanded tests on Saturday.
I got an A on my essay when Ms. Faber handed it back on Friday. She scowled at me, though.
“It is a stretch for me, but your factual information is presented with authority. Is it true?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. It is a true experience in my life and the opinions and conclusions I’ve drawn from it.”
“Three times?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Just a bit of personal advice: Don’t do it again.”
I agreed. Dying isn’t high on my list of things to do. But I guess the paper was okay. So, here it is.
A Thin Thread
Heaven. The other side. Across the rainbow bridge. In a better place. At peace. Passed away. In Abraham’s bosom. Promoted to Glory.
Pushing up daisies. The big chill. Meet your maker. Happy Hunting Ground. Croaked. Bought the farm. Bit the dust.
Why can’t we just say, ‘He died’?
This essay isn’t really about dying. It’s about coming back to life and the thin thread that holds us to our fragile mortal existence.
First, let me say that I don’t know what to call it. Some say we have a soul and die when the soul leaves the body. Some say it is the spirit, the consciousness, or the immortal part of our existence. I don’t know what happens to that ethereal presence when we die. Does it go to heaven? Hell? Into the universal consciousness? Off to be reborn? How can anyone know that? I’ll just call it ‘life.’ Our physical body has life. When we die, the life is gone.
But what holds our life to our physical body? What keeps us from simply walking down a hallway and stopping living?
It is a thin thread.
And while there are catastrophic events, disease, and age that can simply overwhelm that thread, it is still surprisingly strong. Barring the complete inability of the body to continue supporting life, a life that has left the body can be brought back into it if the thread has not been severed. And it may not be entirely up to the person living that life. Another, with strong enough willpower, may draw the life back to the body.
Who am I to speak so authoritatively about this? I’m sure scientists and metaphysicians have studied the subject inconclusively for centuries. I can speak about this with a degree of authority.
I died.
When I felt the sands cover my body, fill in over my head and block out all air, I knew I was dead. I was only eight years old. The hole I’d dug on the shore of Lake Michigan, as my sister lay on a towel next to me, might not have been big enough to be a grave had I been a man. But when the sands caved in and buried me in their wet embrace, I died.
The only anchor I had as I let go of life was my sister who caught my hand in hers. Her arm was buried to the shoulder as she cried and screamed for help, refusing to let go of me, body or soul. I was buried for ten or twelve minutes as volunteers frantically raced to dig me out, following my sister’s arm to the body in the sand. Loss of consciousness occurs within seconds after the flow of oxygen to the brain has been cut off. Permanent brain damage results within four to six minutes. Irrecoverable death within ten minutes. But my sister refused to let go of the thin thread of my life and held it in our joined hands until I breathed again.
I doubt the veracity of personal experience when speaking of science. One of the basic principles of the scientific method is that an experiment must be repeatable. And who is going to volunteer to die just to see if they can be brought back to life?
But circumstances sometimes conspire against us and at the age of fourteen, I met a bus head-on.
I died.
In the hospital, doctors said there was no brain activity. My body was being mechanically manipulated to keep the heart beating and the lungs breathing. They counseled my parents that I was dead and the kind thing to do would be to unplug the machines.
But my sister would not let go. She held my hand and gathered the thin thread of my life and willed it back into my body. Oh! The pain! My life was reattached to my body but the body still had to recover from its injuries. Broken limbs, concussion, broken ribs, lacerations. There were times I wanted to give up, but my sister held the thin thread of my life attached to my body and would not let go.
It could have been a coincidence. The machines could have misregistered my lack of brain activity. But the truth was held in my hand—my sister.
I have no desire to die again. I love my life, my girlfriends, my music, and my sister. And so, it was a shock when a clot from the injured limbs broke loose nine months later and impacted my heart. My heart stopped—an infarction of the upper left chamber.
I died.
But my sister would not let go. Nor would I. This time I could see that thin thread held in her hand as she pounded on my chest. And I grabbed hold of it and refused to let go, crushing the clot and restarting my heart.
It was only after that third time that I was able to remember the first. And then to realize that my life was a single thin thread attached to this meat suit I walk around in.
And it will stay attached for as long as my sister refuses to let go.
Friday night, as the pod gathered at Donna’s farmhouse, I called my sister and Beca conferenced in Joan. I read the essay to my girlfriends. They all knew about the accident and my recovery with a flood of past life memories. Just three besides Em and me knew about the episode when we were children. And I’d told no one about the heart attack when I first made love to Em.
“I love you, J,” Em said over the phone. “And I will never let go.”
As we talked quietly, the haunting sound of Cindy’s Shakuhachi, a Japanese bamboo flute, floated through the room. I looked around and Donna pointed to the door. Cindy had slipped outside and was playing to the night sky. The tones of her flute drifted through the open doorway and we were all mesmerized. This was no concert composed by Mozart, but rather a meditation on death and resurrection. Perfect, I thought, to open our Easter sunrise service.
The sound of the flute died eventually, the intensity of the emotion she’d felt finally dissipating. None of us were sure how long we’d been listening but when the sound died, my girlfriends began shuffling off to bed, holding each other. I slipped outside where Cindy was still standing on the deck and wrapped my arms around her as we looked up into the night sky.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Will you hold me tonight?” she asked.
“Yes.”
We didn’t really dress for bed. Everyone was wearing soft clothes. Cindy and I used Donna’s master bath to brush our teeth and then I just grabbed a blanket and pillow and headed for the sofa in the sunroom. Cindy cuddled up against me with her head on my chest and soon was asleep.
I lay awake for a long time listening to her breathe and contemplating the fragility of this thing we call life.
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