That Good Dick


We got married two years ago. Tom’s a good guy. He’s got a great job, is kind to me, and now, pretty much every day since we got married, I can get that good dick.

It would be unfair to say I’m insatiable. My sex drive is high, yes, but what my husband gives me is enough. I don’t crave any more than what he brings to the bedroom. It’s just enough. It’s perfect. And, like I said, it’s good. If you’ve had anything like it, you know what I’m talking about.

Last night, after we’d finished up and were getting ready for bed, I whispered to him my appreciation for everything he does. He does so much. He smiled and kissed my nose and we went to sleep, content and basking in a haze of afterglow.

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Death Looking into the Window of One Dying


As Andrew got sicker, he’d point to perceived smudges on our bedroom window. Nothing discernible to him. Not at first. But the decline in my partner’s health brought with it a growing realization. “It’s a face,” he told me. “It’s someone’s face.”

I saw nothing.

I sat with Andrew through it all. Every sleepless night. Every shriek of terror as nightmares tore through him. Every sobbing declaration that he wasn’t ready. In the mornings, the smudged face would be there, ever clearer to him. He was terrified of it. Still, I saw nothing.

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