Meg and the Milkman
This is it; I am Meg’s milkman.
I sell her cream.
I love her to death.
Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure some of you are wondering “where is he going with this? Are we talking metaphors here?” The rationalists among you are saying, “Impossible. Not a real story. Like, home milk deliveries stopped 60 years ago.”
Is it live or is it Memorex? Some of you will get that…
It IS 2010.
This year for my birthday, I decide I’d like a “non-static universe” birthday. This means the party happens wherever we meet. It’s particle fusion in a Trader Joe’s parking lot, the Apple Store at the Beverly Center, or the bar at Lubitsch’s. I give everyone a list should they have the compulsion to give me a present. One of the wishes is “sloppy wet kisses and lipstick stains on my collar.”
I am Meg’s milkman.
I sell her cream.
The day before my birthday, December 9, she walks up to me and says,
“Here’s your gift.”
Yeah, now some of you are wondering, “What gift is that?” Listen, I’m not being enigmatic out of spite. I will only say that, yes, her pink lips were well received.
December 13 is the first night we spend in bed. I don’t hear the screaming of the banshees that night. I can only say we love, fuck, cavort, gambol, suck, nibble, imbibe, nip, teeth, gag and swallow, . And then we sleep. We are blatant with our desire to spoon. 1/3 of the night, I to her. 1/3 of the night, her to me. And 1/3 of the night spine-to-spine knowingly tapping into that larger cosmic thing.
I was. I sold. I was sold. I loved. I decided. I’m sure.
Her bedroom surrounds us each night. The lights are dimmed when the moon has faded and non-existent when it’s full. The walls are eggshell white and essential with built-in drawers, bookshelves filled with books and topped by flowers, and well-appointed nooks and crannies. The scent of her room seems to be of freshly wrinkled and washed cotton sheets. We are romantics living in a world where there is no margin for bullshit. So, after a night of tongue tracing and exploring the cosmic suck, I lie on top of her. Body on body. She slightly spreads her legs apart just enough to give me the space. I slide over Meg, dragging my well-tensioned cock over her own warm and wonderful wooly thing. I grip my cock firm as there is no other way, and guide my head into her just an inch. I begin to circle the circumference of her. And circle. And circle. And circle some more. I then reverse.
It’s nice to hear her breathe and to look into her eyes, isn’t it?
Then the loving gets interesting. I move my knees to the outside of her legs. She brings her thighs together to squeeze what is already squeezed. To bring depth, her depth, her depth to that which is already deep.
Depth? Death? It’s all the same. I said I’d love Meg to death. And I do. We love every night for five months. On the sixth month, she’s gone. On December 25th, she had told me her cancer had metasticized. It takes me an hour to decide.
I’ll hold the line.
I’ll deliver her cream.
I love. I decide. I’m sure.
I’m her milkman.
And that’s it.
