THE LOVE THAT NEVER DIES: Erotic Encounters with the Undead

by Christian, M

  "Mr. Pierson, you have excellent taste."

  "Okay. We're going to get over this 'Mr. Pierson' stuff. I'm going to be bold and give you my official 'Welcome to my house' greeting."

  She looked at me with either delight or curiosity. I couldn't tell which, but either would do. I put my arms around her and firmly hugged. "Welcome to my house," I said. "And from here on, it's Allen, all right?" I held her as long as I thought prudent without being too blatant. When we separated, I was relieved to see she was still smiling, enjoying this encounter.

  "Yes sir. From now on it's Allen," she said, giving me a mock salute.

  After a short tour, we settled in the living room with the wine bottle. I sat kitty-cornered from her. Michelle kicked off her shoes and languished on my sofa. I could see the epistle written in stone: Here lies a beautiful twenty-five year old woman with the face and body to make the heavens weep, holding her second glass of wine, preparing to tell me her trials and tribulations. I froze this moment in time, having no right to expect it would get any sweeter.

  Then our journey began.

  "Allen, could I stay with you tonight?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

  Almost choking on a mouthful of rose, I cleared my throat and tried to keep my cool.

  "Why would you want to stay here? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

  "Sort of. I have a problem with the place I'm at right now. A neighbor making unreasonable demands. I hope to have it worked out soon."

  I poured us another glass and drank in her story along with the wine.

  "Someone needs my help and being away from where I usually stay is important. It sounds silly, I know, but..."

  I had plenty of room, but my question for her was, "Why me?"

  "I felt so at ease when we met," she said. "There must be some connection between us. Quite frankly, when I thought about a refuge, you immediately came to mind."

  In spite of all the signals, I gathered my role was to be that of the mature figure. Behind Michelle's green eyes there was a sadness which went beyond her current displacement, but I was delighted to give her shelter. "I think we can work something out," I said, accepting her praise and letting it go, not about to analyze the situation by using common sense.

  We talked until quite late. She seemed forthright, just a young girl in need of some stability. And yet, there was a familiarity about her. It was more than the fact that she'd mysteriously appeared in my photo. She insisted on hearing about my deceased wife, Carol, my son, and past relationships. She told me how brave I'd been and how she admired me. All this flattery, with two and a half bottles of wine consumed between us, would have been more than enough. But then I told her to take her pick of the guest rooms.

  "I hope I don't embarrass you, but I'd rather sleep with you."

  I stopped playing with my wine glass. Parts of my body tightened from want of her. "Are you absolutely sure about that?"

  "Never more sure of anything since my return."

  I moved next to her on the sofa and kissed her parted lips. We kissed again, then fondled, and then we took the remaining wine into my bedroom. Suddenly, all my defenses about age differences were banished. It was as if a new person was thinking inside of me – all the scars and guilt of a lifetime set free as Michelle's beautiful body climbed into bed next to me.

  Intimacy can uplift and heal and I needed something more than quiet understanding – a jolt of life from some outside source. She made it all very easy. We first became like children, cuddling and giggling. I became Pan, the personification of Nature. And Michelle was Syrinx, the Dryad nymph who dances for him in the forest glades. Then with the urgency of a man and woman too long bridled, we began our dance.

  Slowly, gently, I touched my new lover wishing my entire being could somehow crawl within her. I was mesmerized by this lovely girl's bold, unleashed sexuality. The feel of her erased twenty of my years and she seemed as hungry as I for the closeness as if there might not be another chance for our bodies to become one.

  As I explored Michelle, she moaned in phonetic murmurs. Her ivory mounds trembled and sprouted small goose-bumps at first touch. Her sighs were carried aloft in the soft night air. I feasted on her supple skin until the arousal was more than either of us could bear. I truly believed I was playing her as if she were a finely tuned instrument of music.

  When I became fully erect, she straddled me and rubbed my cock against her pubis. She fitted it inside her slowly, like warm molasses flowing out of its bottle, enveloping me with a moaning exhalation. I held her face between my hands like an unexpected prize as her breasts dangled majestically.

  She began to rock, slowly at first, then picking up the pace until she was riding me as if there was someone chasing her. And maybe someone was.

  As Michelle entered the realm of erotica, she let herself fly as only a woman can fly, her arms up and her hands rifling through her hair in apparent ecstasy. I moved with her instinctively, letting our motion stoke the fire inside me.

  Without breaking our connection, I rolled her over a bit roughly, ready to take control as she began to lose hers, her legs widening for me, spreading her thighs in total surrender so I could view the furry target I'd struck. My cock slipped deeper. I was allowed to take this forbidden fruit, to experience the ripeness of her and the possibilities aroused me with the taut, testicle-tightening ache of want.

  Michelle's breasts danced with a life of their own as we vibrated, giggled, and finally trembled in the throes of unmitigated lust. With my manhood buried to its hilt inside her, I lay tender siege to her breasts, kneading them with my hands and taunting their tips. She hissed as heat pooled in her hot spots.

  "Keep touching me, Allen, inside and out."

  This beautiful young creature was mine for the moment. I dared not worry that it might end as quickly as it began. Finally, our voices rose in rapacious splendor reaching matched octaves in our impassioned instant of bliss.

  When my lust subsided, I collapsed next to her, the wetness of our coupling moist and cool. She smiled and enfolded me with her limbs. We contemplated the goodness of life in a deep reverie of peace and fulfillment contained in the safety of each other's arms.

  At this moment, life seemed good. Very good.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Michelle lay with her head on my chest, her breasts against me. As her breathing rose and fell, I reviewed the events of the evening. A young woman had ravished me. We had ravished each other. What a wonderfully delicious night it had been. My sexual stamina had returned with a force more suited to a hungry young man Michelle's age.

  Consummation with this living, breathing piece of art had been satisfying, but no more so than admiring her from afar earlier in the evening. As corny as it may sound, watching this delicate creature sleeping softly next to me was the richest moment. It was truly a time to think, Powers-that-be. If you're going to take me, take me now.

  I thought about her eagerness to please me. The image was haunting because it spoke so eloquently to my need. I'd always been so careful not to make mistakes. How much difference was there between being cautious and being dead? I thought about how nice it had been to sink down in clean sheets with this beautiful woman. I looked at my ceiling and noticed its rough texture. I thought how it contrasted with the silkiness of Michelle's skin. On this morning, everything seemed tactile, vibrant, and more alive.

  When she awoke, she looked up and smiled with an astonishingly familiar expression. "Hi guy."

  "Hey, you."

  She snuggled against the crack between my arm and chest. "Allen?"

  "Mmm?"

  "How do I feel when you make love to me?"

  This is where men often have to concoct a glorious tale of ethereal bliss beyond the physical pleasure they've enjoyed. But in this case, any words I could have strung together would ring hollow compared to the joy I had experienced in Michelle's arms. "Baby, you're the greatest," I said.

  She looked at me, through me, then pinched my c
heek and laughed. "Is that the best you can do? Quote Jackie Gleason?"

  "I'm surprised you know who Jackie Gleason is."

  "I know a lot more than you think. If you're not going to describe romantic thoughts of lust, I might as well get a move on." Michelle crawled over me. "I need a shower. Do you mind?"

  "Mi casa es su casa."

  "Want to join me?"

  I was tempted, but it almost seemed too much of a good thing. "I think I'll just lie here, relax, and think about last night a while longer."

  She laughed, giving me a warm kiss and then dashed to the bathroom. I watched her walk away, her bare bottom swaying with each step. The word "voluptuous" came to mind. I'd almost forgotten how beautiful and erotic the movements of a young woman could be and about the primal urges they could generate that kept the human race reproducing itself.

  While she showered, I heard her humming happily which pleased me. She emerged, wrapped in a towel and began to gather her clothes.

  "Will you be back?" I asked while wishing I'd showered with her.

  She sat next to me. "Allen, you are a caring, tender, unique man. Your age means nothing to me. You're as vital as men half your age, and I think you proved it last night."

  I brushed the loose strands of hair away from her face as my eyes searched for whatever truth might be written there.

  "I hope you don't think this is an act I'm pulling to get a place to stay?" she continued, looking into my eyes.

  "I'm not sure I'd care if it was," I answered, trying to control my emotions.

  "Well, it's not." With mock anger she stood, removed her towel and swatted me.

  Lunging for her, she danced out of my reach and wiggled her finger at me.

  "No, no. No more for you, young man. You had your chance at the shower. I've got to get myself together and go check on something."

  "Can I come with you?"

  Michelle made the saddest smile and was silent for the longest time. Her expression underwent that transformation which preceded tears – her nose reddening, mouth changing shape. I wondered if I had upset her, but her self-control descended and she looked at me.

  "I'm afraid not, but I hope to be back by dark," she finally said. "Some things have to be worked out."

  "With the neighbor?"

  Then she did a queer thing. She leaned forward and whispered two words into my ear. "Heavenly fate," she said.

  These words held no more meaning than an acknowledgement of my hospitality at the time. I was between a rock and a hard place, not wanting to be overbearing or pushy with my affection, while at the same time not wanting to let her out of my sight or even out of reach. Lines had been crossed and there was no way to go back and no way to predict the consequences.

  She dressed while I watched. Wrapped in her discarded towel, I saw her to the door. How long had it been since I'd seen a woman off in this manner? That would take some serious thought.

  I watched her saunter down the walkway admiring her thighs as she rounded the corner. But I also felt a longing which reminded me of Carol in her prime. Middle-aged lust can be a frightening thing when it starts to stalk the streets. I didn't believe a one-night stand was Michelle's curriculum vitae, but why had she come? Bigger questions. The photo? The ice cream shop? Was I being set up for a real heartbreak?

  As Michelle disappeared from sight, I wondered if the poor thing was without wheels. I would have gladly loaned her mine. At this point, I would probably have given her anything.

  She was as strange, unknown, and illusive as the banks of the Amazon. I could still smell her scent, which sent a shiver of excitement through me. I wanted her again. For a moment, I felt angry she'd deserted me, left the bed where something bright and wonderful had happened.

  Feeling like a college boy who'd conquered the Homecoming Queen, I strutted into the bathroom humming, I Believe In Miracles... Where'd you come from, you sexy thing? If I was dreaming, I didn't want to wake up. It was all too beautiful and grand.

  I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. A somewhat drawn and world weary, yet still handsome face looked back. But there was a renewed twinkle in the eye. And along with the gleam came a wild, surging feeling not experienced since my early dating days when I waited on someone's doorstep, or later, when a woman first entered my bedroom.

  "She'll be back. She has to come back."

  * * * *

  That evening, around nine o'clock, while waiting for Michelle, my phone rang.

  It was a detective with some disturbing news that took a while to grasp. My wife's grave had been vandalized.

  "I'm sorry to report that cemetery graves were desecrated and remains disturbed."

  The dark morbidity of Carol's funeral reared its ugly face; the scene of cold mist surrounding the bronze casket covered by a green canvas awning, the wet grass and saturated earth beneath everyone's shoes, the surrounding granite headstones of all shapes and sizes which looked as if the rain had entered the stones, giving them all the same water soaked dullness. Then the mist had become heavier, carried on a wind that seemed to bear the sorrows of the world – weather that perfectly matched the unhappy event while umbrellas bloomed in the standing room only crowd, the rain bouncing off of them, making the sound of popcorn in a covered pan as the eulogy droned on.

  I shook my head in an attempt to chase the dark morbidity, but I knew I was about to hear something profound.

  "Bodies were disturbed?" I asked incredulously.

  "A couple of bodies. Your wife's and that of a young woman buried next to her. It's highly unusual. It appears their caskets were broken into a week ago. No employees had been in that part of the cemetery for several days. The grounds crew found them this morning. I'm terribly sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Pierson. We'll, of course, be investigating, but there is nothing for you to do. The remains were resealed and covered."

  "What was the name on the other grave?" I asked.

  "On the other stone?"

  "Yes, the other tombstone. The one of the young woman. The name."

  "Carol Pierson on your wife's, and let's see...the other one belongs to a Michelle Masterson."

  When I said nothing, the detective added. "Who can figure out the human mind? You have to wonder what makes people do the things they do."

  "Thank you," I simply said and hung up. I put my hands on my head as if to block out what I had heard, or to force my brain to understand, but it didn't help. I had never believed in the paranormal, but the facts seemed to state loudly that it was time to re-evaluate by beliefs.

  I made myself a strong drink then walked to the living room window. I looked across the dark lawn while the ice in my drink melted and knew what I waited for would never come.

  * * * *

  I was destined to see Michelle's name written in stone after all, but far from what I had imagined. She had told me her last photos had not been flattering. I looked up her history. She had indeed been a student who'd been killed in an auto accident two years before Carol died. That meant I had stood next to her grave during my wife's funeral. Her earthly return had been an accident too, I surmised, through same strange and ironic act of vandalism.

  The time with Michelle floats on the surface of my memory like a beautiful, gliding swan where her very much alive emerald eyes and her youthful, eager body beckon to be taken again. She's a spectral whisper in time which comes back to haunt me on sleepless nights.

  Materially, all I have left of Michelle is the photo – my rock lady. I might believe I was ready for the men equipped with butterfly nets and straight-jackets if it wasn't for that. I look at her picture along with one of Carol quite often and try to make sense of what happened. I dream about both of them, but most of all Michelle, about the time at the ice cream parlor and about her body writhing with pleasure beneath mine. I wonder if I can ever lie down again without thinking about our legs intertwined and feeling the heat of my unrequited desire.

  The world isn't logical. We don't really know how any
thing past death works. Some kind of collaboration between my wife's spirit and Michelle's restored body created a revenant capable of transcending time, giving us a few final moments together before the disturbance of the graves was rectified, making it necessary for them to return. Interpreting the detective's thoughts into my own, "Who can figure the power of the spirit whether it is physical or transcendent?" And when the open graves were discovered and refilled, Michelle had to return from where she had come.

  Paranormal: Phenomena that lies outside the area of our accepted knowledge of cause and effect. That definition is far too clinical to explain my experience. The term "supernatural" doesn't cover it either. I had knowledge of flesh and blood. Michelle had used the phone, drank wine, and made love.

  There are times I can feel the presence of both women. An unseen hand will tickle my neck, feeling as real as my pounding heartbeat. I might be inclined to pass the whole thing off to the fanciful imaginings of an aging mind if it weren't for Michelle's picture. Some ghosts should never be exorcised – two women taken before their time. More than ghosts to me, their memory is etched on my soul. My devious mind infects me with a dangerous nostalgia. My lips softly utter the words, "I will miss you forever." I wonder what it would take for one or both of them to come see me again. What would happen if the graves were to be opened once more?

  For there is another dream as well – a nightmare about Michelle's corpse lying in bed next to me. I wrap her cold limbs around me and breathe into her waxen lips. And the scariest part is my certainty that my lust can resurrect her.

  And on still, quiet evenings, it's my rock lady's voice I hear like a gentle wave upon the shore, the sound of her words whispering in my ear to find her ... calling ... calling.

  ALIVE SHE CRIEDDeVITO

  He killed me on a summer night. He was tall and strong and smelled faintly of baby powder. Walking Manhattan's streets at two a.m. was a lonely and risky thing to do, but my apartment was lonelier and the bars were riskier. So I was his first.

  He killed me with his hands. So personal: beads of sweat dripping off his face onto me, calloused palms burning my skin. His hands squeezed my throat. My tongue swelled, filled my mouth.