"To be one's self, and unafraid whether right or wrong, is more admirable than the easy cowardice of surrender to conformity." (Irving Wallace)
"To see the right and not to do it is cowardice." (Confucius)
k.d. lang, her voice like a bell, was going crazy imitating coyotes howling at the full moon of love. She, or rather her CD, entertained my seventeen-year old daughter and me while we sorted through the years of junk that had accumulated in our basement. Faith would've preferred working to the accompaniment of other, cooler music, but she made no complaints and claimed to enjoy hearing k.d. again, "�after all these years."
We were having a good time at this task that I'd avoided for so long. Both of us had our hair tied back with kerchiefs, the universal symbol for "Caution: Female at Work". However, the job meandered along due to pleasant interruptions whenever one of us uncovered a memento. We'd stop, gush or laugh, and reminisce over pictures, kindergarten artwork, and other family artefacts. It was quality time, mother-daughter bonding, and a host of other psycho-babble terms.
k.d. had just started crooning about fallen leaves and arms opening like school doors to summer holidays, when Faith called out, "Mum, who's in this picture with you? She's gorgeous. I've never seen her before. She looks like Salma Hayek. Look at the two of you! You must've driven the boys wild."
Without looking, I knew which photo my daughter held. It was a Polaroid of Vera and me. We were dressed for an evening out, young and confident, and around her neck hung the green silk scarf that I'd bought for her birthday.
I first laid eyes on her at a wedding reception for a classmate in the spring of '79.
Although the wedding took place in a small church, it was a large, lively affair with plenty of odd but charming customs. The reception itself was held in the church basement hall. Many of the guests were recent immigrants with thick accents, so I was one of the few who didn't belong to their ethnic group.
I noticed her as soon as she entered the room. So did many others, especially the men, and they flocked around her, greeting her with kisses on her cheek. I was wowed by her dress: gold silk material, high neckline with a scooped back, tight and fitted�amplifying her curves�with a tapered calf-length hemline straight out of the '50's. But I was more impressed by how she wore it. On me it would've looked loud, flashy, and pretentious, but on her it was beautiful, natural, and sophisticated.
Initially, her style, class, and long neck reminded me of an olive-skinned Audrey Hepburn. Yet Audrey never struck me as someone who'd get down and dirty. This girl, on the other hand, most certainly possessed that earthy quality. Finally, it hit me that her looks, walk, and figure resembled those of a smaller-busted Sophia Loren. A part of me fancied that she'd just walked off the set of Houseboat, so I wondered with silent amusement if, while swinging her hips, she'd break into song: "Presto, Presto; Do your very best-o!"
One of the ushers led her to our table, causing me to palpitate, which surprised me. Upon introducing herself, she took me aback. I'd expected an accent, but she spoke without a trace of one, other than the pronunciation of her name. "Hello, my name is Vera." Not Vee-ra with a slurred r, but Ve-rra: the e as in bed and the r lovingly tongued and trilled.
She sat next to me and we hit it off, soon chatting away like long-time friends. Conversation flowed from her with animation and passion. Her hands, occasionally stopping to light a cigarette, waved about while she talked. And her eyes, perpetually dancing and accenting her expressions, captivated me as we exchanged our stories.
Her exotic face kidnapped my breath. Large, almond-shaped dark brown eyes served as the centrepiece. They, in turn, were capped by full black brows and underscored by magnificent high cheekbones. The long, prominent nose suited her well; a cute little ski jump would've looked ridiculous. Her dark, flawless skin, Mediterranean in tone, made her teeth all the whiter. The shoulder-length straight black mane framed her dazzling face perfectly. A slight gap between her top front teeth, potentially an imperfection, added all the more to her allure. It obviously didn't bother her: Everyone received her smiles.
I watched her as she spoke and discovered that we were the same age, twenty-one. She was born in Europe but had lived in Canada most of her life. Although Toronto was home for both of us, we were finishing our third year of undergraduate studies in other cities. She attended the University of Western Ontario, in London, enrolled in an arts program, while I went to Queen's, in Kingston, studying economics.
She adopted me that night, introducing me to her friends and trying, in vain, to teach me the most basic steps of the folk dancing that whirled around us. Some of the melodies were sultry and seductive, conjuring decadent images of belly dancing. Vera seemed to enjoy dancing to these the most. With her eyes closed, she'd smile in rapture and let her entire body shimmer to the music while her feet capered with nimble precision.
She invited me to a party at a friend's place that night. We left the reception together at about 11 p.m., ending up in a house shared by several guys Vera had introduced me to earlier in the evening. I'd expected the party to be a continuation of the wedding, with ethnic music and dancing. Instead, my nostrils detected the sweet smell of pot while my ears absorbed a deafening Joe Strummer snarling questions about whether making tea at the BBC or being a cop were desirable careers.
A joint came Vera's way; she inhaled expertly and passed it to me. I chuckled, took a toke, and handed it off, remarking, "I'm surprised. I didn't expect to run into pot heads here."
"Normally we sit around telling folk tales and crocheting, but tonight's a change of pace," she joked without rancour. She could've easily shown petulance, but wearing a chip, I discovered, wasn't Vera's style.
My new friends were a bit of an enigma. They switched seamlessly from earthy peasant charm to chic Euro cool. Vera proved especially chameleon-like in her transitions, one minute gushing with old world enthusiasm over baby pictures of someone's nephew ("Look, B, isn't he adorable!"), and the next arguing, through a haze of smoke and over the din of XTC, about the shifting balance of power portrayed in Wertmuller's Swept Away ("It's not misogynistic!").
I tried emulating her stylish sense that avoided fads. So for her birthday that summer, I saved to buy her an oversized green Italian silk scarf that had caught my eye. It was a significant amount of money, especially for a student, to spend on a square piece of material. But I wanted to please and give her something of value. Besides, I knew that the quality of the scarf wouldn't be lost on her.
So we became close friends that summer, and there were few topics we didn't discuss. Men, sex, hopes and dreams, fashion, politics�we talked about all of these. But, by far, music was our favourite subject.
At that age, music isn't a diversion; it's a statement. One's taste in song spoke volumes about one's values and beliefs, or so we naively thought. We were fans of new wave, alternative, whatever you wanted to call it: The Jam, Elvis Costello, The Talking Heads, to name a few artists. Although neither of us had a favourite band, we loved the wealth of material that was coming out.
However, our hearts belonged to an earlier generation. I was mad about The Beatles, and for Vera, nothing could touch The Rolling Stones. She always seemed be grooving to one of their records.
On one occasion, within seconds of us walking into her house, she slapped down some vinyl. In no time, Charlie started tapping on the cowbell and soon pounded out the beat with his bass and snare drums. Keith joined in with that oh-so-raunchy guitar riff. Finally, Mick began slurring about Memphis barroom queens, blown noses, blown minds, and those honky-tonk women. The volume was high, so it wasn't long before Vera's mother, Nada, showed up to complain.
"Vera! Vhat is da metter vit you!? Are you krezy? Is too loud!" Vera danced across the room to her mother and, giving her a big kiss and hug, tried getting her to dance to Mick and the boys. Nada strove but failed to maintain a stern fa�ade. Dancing to the Stones wasn't going to happen, not in this lifetime, but she couldn't help smiling at her daughter's infectious, fun-loving nature.
I loved Vera for that. She didn't shy away from her immigrant mother in childish embarrassment but instead embraced her openly. And if someone didn't like it, tough shit for them. If there were fun to be had, everyone was invited, even the clad-in-black women of her culture.
When she'd visit my house, I took my turn at indoctrinating her with The Beatles. I was particularly fond of Rubber Soul and Revolver: Paul enthusing about having just seen a face sweet enough to dream about, George deadpanning about carving numbers on walls, and John foreshadowing about remembering people and places and loving them all. Vera politely paid attention, but the mop tops weren't displacing the Stones in her heart, not by a long shot!
She suspended her studies to return home for the arduous chemotherapy and radiation sessions. I visited as often as I could, travelling from Kingston to Toronto to see her on weekends. As the treatments progressed, she changed. Yes, her raven hair fell out, her gorgeous facial features lost their sharpness, her body bloated, and her skin took on a pallor. But it was her eyes that broke my heart: They were empty of all hope and faith.
It's strange when humorous episodes occur against a backdrop of misfortune. Vera's oncologist suggested, off the record, that marijuana might help her cope with the nausea caused by chemotherapy. She, in turn, informed Nada, who immediately gave Vera money to buy the weed.
Vera and I laughed endlessly about it, especially once we'd get high on the grass scored through Nada's love and generosity. The image of Nada�conservative, traditional, constantly working in the kitchen and clad in widow's black�as a drug peddler would send us into marijuana-induced hysterics. Which was good, for Vera needed to laugh, even if it was at her wonderful mother's expense.
Vera eventually gained enough confidence to venture into public again. Her wig couldn't compare to her own hair, but she'd rather endure inquisitive looks than remain cooped up at home. She longed for social intercourse.
She came to visit me in Kingston for a few days, and one night we went out to see All That Jazz. As we left the cinema, I noticed Gavin, a friend of one of my classmates. Gavin, who was in the music program at Queen's, had blue eyes and was boyishly handsome despite his out-of-style Prince Valiant haircut. He was somewhat shy, but once he knew you, his guard dropped, allowing his wit and intelligence to show.
I caught his attention by waving at him, and he came over. After introductions and some chit-chat, the three of us decided to go to a nearby pub for a drink. Gavin was enthusiastic about the movie and especially attracted by the idea of Jessica Lange as Death. But Vera thought the device was over the top; she saw nothing attractive about dying. As they debated this, I held my breath, waiting for her to announce that she had a rather different perspective than he and, perhaps, to chide him over his silly, romantic notions about death. But that just wasn't Vera: They were discussing a movie, and she kept it at that level.
That was their first meeting. I could tell that Gavin was drawn to her, and a few days later he phoned me to find out more about Vera. I told him about her illness, that she was in remission and continuing to recover. None of this seemed to bother him�in fact, it seemed to intrigue him�and he began pursuing her.
They started going out that spring, and I took glee in teasing her that Gavin looked nothing like Mick but uncannily like Paul. She endured my gibes easily: She was happy and in love. He'd returned the beautiful sparkle to her eyes, and I loved him for that.
She began making regular trips to Kingston to visit Gavin. As a result, I saw more of her, but her attention was elsewhere. She fell head-over-heels for him. Vera, in her classy way, was able to convey, without giving me intimate details, that their relationship was extremely physical.
Yet as time passed, their love affair waned, largely due to an increasing disregard from Gavin. Oddly, the more she recovered and returned to her former glory, the more he seemed dissatisfied with her. By mid-summer, Gavin broke with Vera.
She took it hard and often complained to me about Gavin. Why didn't he phone? Why didn't he want to see her anymore? Why did he like her when she was sick but now that she was better show disinterest? I had no answers for her but tried to comfort her as much as possible.
Nevertheless, Vera fell into a funk. Similar to the summer before, we were again inseparable, only this time our pot smoking, instead of providing us with giddy highs, acted as a bass note for her despondency. I tried to steer our conversations and activities away from anything related to Gavin. Eventually, I began cursing the day that I'd introduced him into her life.
Late one August night in a Queen St. club, we sat at the bar, talking and drinking more than usual. Vera was uncommonly animated that evening. The Tubes' "What Do You Want From Life?" played in the background while a cigarette held between her long, slim fingers flitted to and fro as she gesticulated about her young life.
"B, I want to grab what I can, while I can."
"Vera, you're fine now. You'll live to be a hundred."
She exploded, "Fucking hell, B! Please, not you. You've been the only one throughout this�this fucking nightmare�that hasn't fed me bullshit. Not you. I couldn't take it."
She was right. It was a trite thing to say; I apologised immediately. "So what are some of the things you want?" I asked.
"I want to have a baby."
"A baby!" I blurted. "And if you die, who'd take care of it?" She wanted honesty, so I gave her honesty.
"Look, the chemo's probably ended my chances for pregnancy. But if it happened, my mother would gladly do it. It'd be a surrogate for me once I'm gone."
I wanted to say, "I'd take care of it," but I bit my tongue. Instead, I asked if Gavin would father it. The booze had clouded my thinking; otherwise, I'd have never asked that stupid question.
"Fuck him, the son-of-a-bitch! Yes, I want him to father it!" A tear bulged in the corner of her eye and slid down her beautiful cheek, the path marked by smeared eyeliner.
She was in a bad way, letting it all out, so I said, "Fuck Gavin. You don't need him. There are heaps of guys who would fuck a cancer patient."
For a second, her eyes bulged in shock, but then she threw her head back and laughed. "Thanks for putting up with me, B," kissing me on the cheek while giving me hug.
Carole Pope came over the speakers singing "Birds of a Feather". "What else?" I asked, taking a healthy slug of scotch.
"Travel, explore sex more thoroughly� "
She'd once expressed a disgust at oral sex, but had since meeting Gavin confessed that I was right�it wasn't that bad. Perhaps Vera wanted to expand further?
"�maybe even try sex with a woman."
I gawked at her, staggered by what she said, but she stared straight ahead at the rows of glinting liquor bottles and dragged on her cigarette.
"Well, go for it," I finally stammered, trying to regain my balance. "The only serious thing is having a baby. And you're right; your mother would cherish the child."
But while Bryan Ferry extolled the virtues of mother of pearl, my mind wheeled in numerous directions, all in response to her last remark. With whom did she want to have sex? We were best friends, so was it me? If so, how would I react?
Ian Drury's "Hit Me" came on. Vera stood and swayed her way onto the dance floor, her arms raised, the red glow of her cigarette making traces above her head in the dark bar. God, she could dance. Her hips seemed to lead a life of their own.
She loved that silly song. I took another sip of whisky and joined her. We shimmied about, miming the words, trying to outdo each other with our antics, and laughing at our actions.
We partied hard the rest of the night, but her remark kept prodding me. As if to reaffirm our heterosexuality, we both left the bar that night with a man. I have no idea how Vera's adventure turned out, we never mentioned it, but mine was uninspired.
So in early September we went off to Montreal, travelling by train. Vera's appearance belied her illness; she was her stunning self again. She had short hair, for reasons obvious to me, but it was styled and suited her. And the further away we got from Toronto, the more she loosened up, transforming into the Vera I knew before cancer had set her back.
Shortly after the train left Union Station, we ambled and swayed our way to the bar car. Once there, several men struck up conversations, buying us drinks and sharing laughs. When we passed through Kingston, she quieted somewhat but became chatty again once the train resumed its journey. In Montreal, we said goodbye to our temporary friends, disembarked, and took a taxi to our hotel.
We stayed in a small hotel on Sherbrooke near St. Denis, close to the shops and night clubs. Neither of us had mentioned anything since that evening when she confessed her bisexual curiosity. But now, suddenly, tension and nervousness appeared between us. In retrospect, perhaps we wondered if either of us would make an overture and whether the other would accept. The fact that our room contained a single queen-sized bed compounded our anxiety in all likelihood.
The first night passed without incident. However, I slept fitfully, conscious of her warmth and breathing. Our legs and feet occasionally brushed each other, but they quickly retreated upon contact.
The following day, Friday, we spent shopping. Vera often travelled to Montreal and knew her way around. I followed her into numerous funky boutiques in which we tried on all sorts of clothes. In one store, I slid into a lime green dress that fit and suited me perfectly. It hugged my body, accentuating my curves, and showed an ample length of leg.
Vera insisted on buying it for me, enthusing about how good it looked and knowing that I couldn't afford such a dress. I argued with her�Nada had paid for my travel and accommodation costs; they'd done so much already�but she persisted, so I eventually weakened and accepted her gift by thanking her with a big hug.
We shopped all day, until our feet ached and backs stiffened. I bought some lingerie, a frilly lace bra and matching panties, and other odds and ends. Vera, who with her beautiful skin looked good in any colour, finally settled on a tight, knee-length red dress. It exposed a significant amount of cleavage and lots of bare back. Indeed, I thought it was a touch out of her character, but she looked undeniably superb in it.
We'd spent the entire day cruising shops and had overlooked having lunch. Both of us were famished, so after dropping off our prizes in the hotel room and freshening up, we went out for some supper at La Fourchette Parisienne on St. Hubert.
For some time I chuckled inwardly at the name of the restaurant until I finally summoned enough courage to say, "Vera, in anatomy, the fourchette is the bottom of the vulva, the membrane where the inner lips meet."
She laughed and quipped, "Well, what the fork, I guess we're eating Parisian pussy tonight." I giggled along with her but not without agitation. Her looks and her hand resting on the tablecloth attracted me. I pondered whether to reach out for it, but I chickened out in the end.
After the meal, we went back to our room to spruce ourselves up for some Montreal nightlife. Vera rolled a joint, lit it, inhaled, and passed it to me. I took a breath, filling my lungs with the sweet smoke. When I exhaled, I expelled not only the fumes but also everything that I knew, or thought I knew, every convention, every inhibition.
A silence ensued. My brain buzzed while I listened to the traffic outside and to the footsteps and muffled conversation in the hallway. She broke the stillness suddenly by asking me to try on the lingerie that I'd bought, to model it for her. I grabbed the bag and, practically prancing into the bathroom, simply chirped, "OK."
I changed quickly, looked in the mirror, and adjusted my hair. When I returned, her gaze made me blush. She sat in a chair, legs crossed, toe pointed downward, her head tilted to one side, smiling and smoking a cigarette.
I stood in the middle of the room while she praised me and gushed about my legs and ass, telling me how good they looked in the frilly undergarments. Vera, clothed and in her heels, extinguished the cigarette, raised herself out of the chair, and walked around me in examination. I felt flush when she approached me from behind and stopped.
The first touch was light: A single finger on my spine, between my shoulder blades, trailed down to the small of my back, stopping at the top of my panties to play with the elastic. My breathing quickened even more when her hands caressed my shoulders and neck. Her fingers then slipped beneath my bra straps and slid them over my shoulders and down my arms. I felt my bra tighten and her fingers brush my back as she pulled the bands together to undo the clasp. The bra dropped to the floor, releasing my breasts yet tightening my nipples even more.
Vera still stood behind me, but closer, her hands upon my stomach, one tracing the top of my underwear, the other moving upwards towards my tits. I savoured the gentlest of fingers on my nipple as it traced the shape of the areola. My nipples puckered until they throbbed. Currents started flowing within, moistening and swelling me. She touched them, my breasts, delicately, one then the other, finally both at once, squeezing and massaging.
My arms hung by my side in surrender while my head lolled back towards hers. I whimpered when she whispered that my body was sexy, that she wanted to make it sing. As Vera squeezed, rolled, and tugged my nipples, she breathed into my ear and described their hardness. My knees came close to buckling when she cooed, with great deliberation, that she longed to feel me, open me, and taste me. At last, she turned me to face her, holding me by a nipple the entire time.
Vera stared at my breasts while tugging on them and then pulled me to her by my tits. I felt her hands move to my ass once our lips met. Her tongue ran along my teeth, top and bottom, pausing with its dental exam now and then so I could suck it. The taste of tobacco dominated her mouth, but it didn't bother me. I lost myself in her embrace and kiss and tumbled onto the bed with her, soon raising my bum to help her remove my panties.
Once they were off, she stopped, stood, and, looking at me as I lay naked, began to strip. I had no time to admire her, for once unclothed, she fell between my legs and started sucking on my pussy, taking no time, eliminating any possibility of halting.
I submitted and split my thighs for her. Vera's head moved gently about, but her mouth maintained the suction on my clit. I guided her with moans and little utterances. My nipples bulged with want, and I plucked them as she ate me. The current that brought us to Montreal now whisked me along, imperceptibly increasing in speed, until it became a wild, rushing torrent. It built like the roar of an approaching waterfall, gaining in intensity, overwhelming my senses, finally sweeping me over the edge, throwing me into a cascading, thundering orgasm.
After I'd calmed, she slid up to kiss me, her chin and mouth shiny with my juices. I tasted myself on her lips while looking in her eyes and then held her tight. Our giggling bubbled up spontaneously�we were ecstatic with what had just happened�frothed quickly into laughter, and finally erupted into pure, giddy peals of joy that echoed within the room.
We quieted and I started examining her, marvelling at her heavy breasts punctuated with large, dark chocolate areolae. Her nipples were flat, and I discovered that weekend that they rose only when suckled or in the throes of orgasm. Several smooth pea-sized moles adorned her body, all strategically placed. One resided on her breast, next to her left nipple, another on her right hip, and yet another, I soon learned, on her outer labia.
I lowered my head to her breasts and mouthed a nipple, forcing a response from the erectile tissue. She watched me with her lips slightly opened, teeth gleaming, her breathing quick. My tongue started inching its way down her torso, and, with my hands still on her breasts, I finally nestled my head between her legs.
Like the rest of her body, her cunt was no less exotic. It bloomed like a rare, tropical flower, and, while staring at her dark, opulent petals, I realised that I'd never been so close to a vulva. I'd looked at mine, using a mirror, on numerous inquisitive occasions, but this was new territory. Her colours amazed me: the pitch black pubic hair, the olive skin, and the nut brown labia, all in contrast to the delicate pink of her insides.
The heady scent intoxicated me, so, like a bee to honey, I drew my mouth to her pussy. My tongue flicked at her hood�that was my first sweet taste�causing her to arch and open fully. I sensed, under my fingers, her nipples rise and harden and used them as a guide to explore every crevice of her cunt. Before long, she grabbed my hair, tensed, and exploded with my mouth locked on her clit.
She kept me there, glued to her pussy, and urged me to keep licking her. My tongue dipped into her hole, as deep as I could stick it. It was all so new and delicious. Her nectar flowed and I guzzled every drop. After tonguing her tunnel, my focus returned to her clit. She started shuddering and convulsing, and in time, I felt her climax again under my mouth.
But she continued to lie on her back, legs high and thighs wide, bucking at my face while holding my hair. The intensity increased until she erupted once more, much harder than her previous two times. At that point, she guided me away from her crotch to cuddle and lie with her.
We held each other, mingling our lips, tongues, and juices, and regained our breath and equilibrium. A long time elapsed before she spoke.
"B, you realise this won't continue past this weekend, right?"
I exhaled deeply and acknowledged, "I know, Vera. It will stay in Montreal and here," I said, pointing to my head. "But let's not worry about that. Let's just enjoy these few days."
We never did go out that night, preferring instead to play in bed with each other. At night, when we slept, our hands, feet, arms, and legs no longer retreated at the touch of flesh. Indeed, we sought each other out in the darkness to hug, cuddle, and spoon, and once, in the early hours, touched until we settled into a 69 position.
On Saturday morning, we shopped again, and while walking down Ste. Catherine, Vera pulled me into one of the numerous sex shops. We snickered and giggled at the various items on display, but she surprised me by selecting a vibrator. At the register, my face blushed uncontrollably. The clerk, however, didn't even blink. Instead, he simply removed the toy from the package, inserted some batteries, and held it against Vera's hand while they spoke in French.
"What was that about?" I asked when we left the store.
"He just wanted to make sure it worked, that's all," Vera replied. I burst with laughter, causing her to join in.
That afternoon we made love again, taking turns using the vibrator on each other. For the first and only time in my life, I might've suffered from penis envy. I longed for a cock to sink into her and, upon feeling her enveloping warmth and wetness, eject some magical seed that would give her the child she craved. Likewise, had she somehow miraculously impregnated me, I'd have gladly borne her baby.
But I kept these crazy thoughts to myself. Vera didn't need me burdening her with my farfetched lunatic notions.
We went out that Saturday night, Vera in her sexy red dress and I in the green one that she'd bought for me. Men paid for our drinks, and in return we chatted, danced, and laughed with them. My French was poor, so Vera translated over the din of the sound system. I grinned to myself, thinking about how she was my tongue both here in the bar and back in the room. Often, one of us would catch the other's eye, launching an exchange of knowing smiles. At closing time, we refused all offers and returned to our hotel alone.
By Sunday, we'd gained confidence. Our lovemaking had transformed from rushed, urgent commutes into languid, inquisitive journeys during which the two of us explored every inch of our bodies. That morning we lazed in bed, naked. She lay on her back, arms above her head, the leg closest to me straight, the other bent and splayed, her delectable cunt sparkling from our latest tryst. I faced her while lying on my side, my top leg slung over her thigh, and ran my fingernail up and down her stomach, from her neck down to the top of her jet-black hairy delta.
I looked in wonder at our bodies and at their differences. My small tits and taut, pink nipples contrasted with her fuller breasts and large, dark areolae. I envied her skin: dark and smooth with just the right amount of hair on her arms. In comparison, my freckled, pale skin seemed ghostly and unhealthy. The bitter irony wasn't lost on me.
But neither did I dwell on it. Instead, I gave her a kiss and playfully said, "Vera, we should find a handsome French guy tonight and bring him back here with us."
She said nothing, answering instead with her hips. I cupped her mound, pressing it, and continued, "We could make him watch us before letting him take turns fucking us. What do you think of that?"
A smile crossed her lips. "Deep down, you're bad, B. That's why I've always liked you," she said, grinning and kissing me.
I straddled her waist and whispered, "Then let's be bad. I want to sit on your gorgeous face and cum. Then I want to fuck you with the vibrator until you pass out." She laughed and with her eyes invited me to proceed.
My transit began as soon as I lowered my cunt onto her mouth. Her tongue ran up and down the length of my slit, stopping on my clit for several flicks before sliding back into my groove. As I rode her face, she'd squeeze my ass cheeks together, increasing my inner pressure. Then she'd spread them, splitting my pussy in the process, and run her tongue deep into my cunt and onto my perineum, causing me to shiver with delight.
She kept repeating the movement, but with each widening of my bum and pussy, her tongue travelled closer to my anus. Finally, she licked it, inducing me to writhe in ecstasy, all while her hand inched closer to my ass. Then, deftly, she replaced her tongue with a finger, entering my anal canal, and returned her mouth to my clit in earnest.
Her finger started pumping my ass while she sucked my pussy, driving me insane. The involuntary twitching of my body encouraged her to continue. I needed to press harder into her mouth, so I split my thighs as wide as possible to further lower my crotch. My pelvis ground circles on her beautiful face, and soon I sensed the currents rise from deep within my core. The potential built and multiplied until enough energy collected to jump�a spark, a white-hot arc�from my clit to my anus, welding my cunt to her mouth. I cried out, shuddering overtop of her, and collapsed in bliss, cradling my head on her belly.
We rested like that for awhile, but I itched to resume our play. The vibrator lay on the bedside table, so I rolled over, retrieved it, and scurried between her legs. I began by buzzing the toy over her thighs and stomach, edging towards her cunt. Her anticipation was evident; her pussy glistened and was slick with secretions.
I eased the tip inside, splitting her lips to reveal her heat and wetness. She responded by elevating her hips and extending her legs in invitation, so I pressed the vibrator forward, impaling her, and eventually buried it, causing its buzzing tone to become low and muffled. The churning began slowly, with long, deliberate strokes. Her billowy flaps encircling the plastic cock transfixed me. With each outward pull they lengthened and clung to the shaft, arousing me to touch myself with my free hand.
"Do you like this, Vera?" I breathed between licks on the back of her thighs and bum, "Do you like me fucking you?" She moaned, nodded her head, and continued jabbing her hips upward, trying to match the vibrator's rhythm.
She was bare and open, so I returned her favour and started teasing her anus with my tongue. Her hand reached down to stretch back her ass cheek, exposing her puckered hole even more and signalling me to continue. Encouraged, my tongue pushed into her ass while I kept fucking her soaking pussy. Rills of juice flowed out and down onto her perineum, lubricating everything, so I eased a finger into her anus and kept it there until the end.
When I raised my head back up, I didn't know whether to look at her face or crotch. But after several minutes, I was hypnotised by her cunt and its consumption of the latex cock. The speed of my plunging kept increasing; similarly, the exquisite squishing noises coming from her vulva quickened and rose in volume. Soon, I fucked her with a deep, delirious rhythm. She bucked and rubbed herself, becoming wilder by the second, until finally bursting with an intensity that was both beautiful and astonishing.
The rest of the day and night we spent in bed, frolicking and playing. We rose for lunch and supper, eating hurriedly on both occasions to return to our room and enjoy each other's body for one last day.
But Monday morning would not be delayed. It arrived and with it came a tired sombreness. We packed, left our hotel, and sat in silence during the cab ride to the station. "Bird on the Wire" by Leonard Cohen played over the car radio. How appropriate, I thought, for a local artist to serenade us as we departed Montreal. But I heard�truly heard for the first time�his words, and confusing images of Gavin, worms, knights, and unborn babies spun in my head.
So we returned to Toronto and, as promised, pretended that Montreal never happened. Indeed, we pretended so well that I wondered�and still wonder�if our September song really did take place.
I sought Gavin out to beg him to see her, hoping that a visit from him would spark her to fight. At that time, he lived in a dark, dank basement apartment. He listened to my pleas with his arms crossed in front of his chest, and in the end he flatly refused, droning on about conformity, conventions, and choice. He kept going on and on until my head reeled and seethed from his stupidity.
"Fuck you and your pseudo-existentialist bullshit," I finally retorted. "There's nothing to choose. How can you be so cold to someone whom you were so close to? You heartless, fucking prick! You've been stuck too long in this basement. Stick your head outside and breathe some fresh air. Get the fuck away from Camelot. You and your lofty ivory tower speeches. All that's missing is a ridiculous plumed hat. You're a fucking jerk!"
I left in a rage, realising that he wouldn't budge from his nonsensical stance.
"Ah ha! Caught you! Listening to The Beatles, eh? So I've had an influence on you after all," I said with as much jocularity as possible.
"Hi, B. It's a great song, even if it's not by the Stones," she joked. Her voice was weak, worn, and tired, as was her body. She didn't say too much more during that visit�she lacked the strength. Nada sat beside her, head in hands, crying. I don't think she even knew I'd entered the room.
I sat on the other side, holding Vera's hand, listening to the music and Nada's sobs. "Wild Horses" came on over the little tape player, causing tears to trickle down my face. I stayed a little longer and left while Vera slept and Nada cried.
Her death didn't surprise me; it was expected. Yet I was numb to the point that I couldn't cry. I chided myself over my supposed lack of remorse and, out of guilt and shame, tried to force the tears that wouldn't come.
The funeral took place in the little church in which Vera and I had met less than two years ago. Her body lay in an open casket in the middle of the church. Thin beeswax candles were passed around. The priest lit a candle held by someone near the front. That flame was then used to light all of our candles. Soon, scores of flickering lights dotted the church. These, the incense, and the droning from the priest put me in meditative state.
I thought about my grandmother and her struggles with arthritis, her mobility steadily decreasing until she died. I pictured her as a child, fit and robust, capable of all the joys of movement restricted to the young and healthy, and how, with time, her body fell apart. However, the one thing she clung to while suffering the ravages of disease was her capacity to love. I smiled to myself�perhaps Descartes was wrong: We love; therefore, we are.
Yet what about poor Vera, lying cold in a casket? So much precious time had been snatched away from her. And by whom or what had she been heartlessly robbed? By God? My Faith had been cruelly stolen, and in return, I had little faith to give. By the randomness of the universe? Were the bits of stardust that made her beautiful body, mind, and spirit destined to combine and mutate into an ugly, early death? In the scheme of eternity, the difference between 23 and 83 years is insignificant�indeed, non-existent�but that thought provided little comfort.
In her brief time here, Vera loved and was loved, and I was thankful to be part of that sphere. Nothing else made sense.
But my amateurish philosophising was shattered by the wails and sobs from poor Nada. She was inconsolable to the point that her doctor had pumped her full of tranquillisers. But they had no effect at the funeral. Her howls�echoing throughout the church, drowning out the service�were those of a trapped, wounded animal pleading for an end to the pain. Every one of her cries ripped through the church and stabbed at my heart.
At the end of the service, people queued to pay their last respects. I approached the casket with a sense of dread. A body lay in front of me, but she was gone. Her spirit had vanished. The body was dressed in an outfit that I'd never seen her wear nor could I imagine her wearing it in life. Thankfully, the green scarf that I'd bought for her wasn't part of the ensemble.
Nada's final farewell with her daughter was something that I didn't want to witness. I said my goodbye's in my own way, left the coffin, and headed outside. The cold, fresh air was a relief. That was when I saw him, and my blood boiled instantly.
I marched over to Gavin and loudly confronted him. "So you can finally make it now that she's dead? A little fucking late, I'd say. What would it have cost you? A few hours a week�that's all! You fucking, selfish prick! What the fuck are you doing here? Go to hell!"
He grabbed my arms, trying to quieten me, but it had the opposite effect. I screeched at the top of my voice, "Let go of me! Don't touch me, you fucking self-centred asshole!"
People rushed over to separate us. I fell in the process, scraping my knee. Blood seeped out, making a strange pattern on my ripped nylon. I'd made a spectacle of myself, but I was too stunned to care or feel shame. I stood, felt the brick wall at my back, and slumped against it, sliding down to sit on the cold pavement. Finally I started to cry without contrivance or regard for what others thought. The sobbing lasted for days.
Ten weeks had passed since she died. My depression eased; similarly, my brunette roots overtook my chartreuse locks. I was preparing for a move and was in the process of gleaning the essentials from my belongings. My few photos of Vera were among the first things I placed in my trunk of indispensable items. The phone rang while Blonde On Blonde twirled on the turntable, with Dylan in the middle of nasal proclamations about guilty undertakers, weeping mothers, and fast asleep saviours.
"B? It's Gavin. Please, don't hang up. I can't stop thinking about her. You were right. I had no excuse. I should have found the time. I should have been there for her."
I'd thought about Gavin since my theatrics at the funeral. He'd flinched in the face of death upon realising that it looked nothing like a Hollywood actress. Even so, who the hell was I to tell him what his actions should've been?
"Bert, you there?"
"Yes, yes. Sorry Gavin, I was lost in thought."
"Hey, Bertille, I know that you're going away soon. I wanted to wish you luck and tell you that I have that green scarf you bought for Vera. She left it at my place one night. She also loaned me your paperback of Lord Jim. I thought you might like them back."
I paused and reflected about the scarf and book. Finally, I said, "Thanks, Gavin. But, no. I don't want them. Gavin, listen: I really think you should hang on to them."
I moved the phone away from my head and heard him speaking, his voice thin and colourless, as I lowered the handset into the cradle.
"Mum? Mum? Why are you crying? Who is she?"
Oh, God. How could I tell her this story? Not yet. "Her name was Vera," I managed to blubber, "She was a close friend, Faith. A very close friend who died too young."
"What happened? How did she die?"
I fought the urge to break down and bawl, wiped away my tears, and croaked, "I'll tell you about her some other time, sweetheart, I promise."
I walked to the CD player and, with all the strength I could muster, asked through my constricted throat, "Hey, do you mind if I put on some Stones?"
I didn't wait for Faith's approval. With the volume cranked, the Let it Bleed disc slid into the machine. Eerie, ghost-like howling flooded over the speakers, like a wolf mourning for a lost mate or like the lamentations that echoed throughout a church long ago. The intro alarmed me, prickling my skin with fear. Keith's guitar was ominous and foreboding. After a few bars, the bass and drums crashed in without warning, like fate does in life. Finally, Mick belted out his plea, "Please, someone, anyone, give me shelter from the mad incomprehensible world."
But then I saw her! She was dancing, grooving to the Stones, happy and unafraid. With her shoulders hunched, arms close to her sides, cigarette in hand�shaking her breasts and wiggling her ass, feet sliding effortlessly�her eyes narrowed and lips pursed, head thrown back in ecstasy, she remained young, beautiful, and pure.
I'm indebted to Global Carol, kh1@porchlight (Katherine H), Lee Martin, Rikastashia, Sexywriter (Charlotte), and The Writer for reviews and proof reading. Their sharp eyes and thoughtful suggestions helped to improve the story immensely. Remaining deficiencies in the story are, of course, solely my responsibility.
Criticism, comments, and feedback are always welcomed.
CC
For more on Vera read the review by Katherine H or the author's notes.