In Laymon's Terms

Jim Hillman

HE CALLED AND GOT directions. Before I gave the situation a second thought, Jill was knocking at my door. She wore a short black leather skirt and a light blue tank top. No bra, her perky nipples greeted me without reluctance.

I said nothing as she grabbed me and hugged. I squeezed her tightly back, feeling her warmth against my body and her nipples against my chest. It was a long, passionate embrace, followed by moist, powerful kisses.

“I want you,” she purred. She pushed me backwards, shut and locked the door, and began the process of undressing me. I tried to speak, but she was actively kissing and stroking me. We fucked hard.

I was still inside Jill when I saw her. I couldn’t say how long she had been watching.

Even though I immediately sloshed out of Jill and gathered my clothing, I wasn’t quick enough. My girlfriend was out the door and speeding off in her car before I stumbled onto the porch.

She had probably used the key I kept hidden under the porch mat and planned to surprise me. She often would come to my apartment late at night and seduce me. Only this time, she entered my apartment and caught me violently copulating with Jill. The act was raw. We were just animals operating by instinct. I felt no emotion for her.

Damn! I really screwed up. Why couldn’t I have just kept it in my pants? I guess we all make mistakes that we regret later.

I hadn’t seen Jill since college and boy had she looked good. I mean I wasn’t planning to get laid. In fact, since we parted company on less than good terms, I was surprised that she even contacted me. She said she was just passing through town and wanted to see me. Talk about the old days. Instead, we relived the old days.

“Who the hell was that,” Jill inquired in a pissed-off tone. “Your wife?”

“You better leave,” I firmly retorted.

“Aren’t you gonna finish what you started?”

I was despondent. Lost in thought, I didn’t respond.

Gone was the girl who I had planned to marry. She was spunky, full of life, and we had already been through hell together. I met her last year at the library, falling instantly into love. It sounds corny, but I knew immediately that she was the girl for me. There was some out-of-control chemistry that took place. I knew if I took things slow, really nurtured our relationship with understanding and patience, our future together would become real.

While I had to initially take a backseat to her pastime of life endangerment, it was a small price to pay. I met her at a very strange time in her life. I had to compete with another (for lack of a better term) man who was toying with her sense of adventure and her desire for wealth. And, when the games were over, we both won. We both had each other.

But, our relationship had a price. The experiences we shared last year changed us tremendously and in unsettling ways. While our romance had started slow, our relationship accelerated as we became quite accustomed to the nuances of each other’s desires. We had faced death head-on and connected on an almost surreal level. The longing was never satisfied, intensified by lustful desire and total acceptance.

And that opened doors for great sex. Nothing was taboo. We lived to please the other, which meant we got extremely kinky.

It started about a week after the games had ended. We broke into the town funeral home, Flanner’s Mortuary, so that we could screw on an embalming table and in a coffin. It sounded like a hoot to both of us. Once there, we were out-of-control, totally possessed.

It was her idea to drink each other’s blood. We cut and licked each other’s salty red gushes. We did this in ritual fashion believing it brought us even closer together, cutting and feeding in the thrill of foreplay. As time progressed, we increased our intake of crimson fluid, from licking to sucking, to major consumption. We would return to the funeral home often.

It didn’t stop there. On special occasions, we would cut small pieces of flesh from our butts and thighs and feed each other. We would dance naked and engage in mutual masturbation in front of an audience of corpses. We would use the embalming equipment, including the suction devices, to pleasure ourselves. It was erotic freedom. It was spiritual and fulfilling and wild.

We would also play at strangling each other. You know, as lovers, what better way to express total trust than to hand your life over to your partner. We would do other things too. No request by the other went unanswered: bondage, sex in public places, inserting a variety of obscure items into various orifices. We frequently took various illegal drugs and herbal alternatives to enhance our perceptions and sensitivities. We even initiated ceremonial magic as we researched the occult together, trying to understand the changes occurring in us.

You get the idea. I don’t know why, or how, we were coming up with some of these twisted ideas, but everything we did seemed right, although occasionally life threatening, and only upon reflection, maybe a little bizarre.

This was all a bit strange because neither one of us were perverted or hedonistic, let alone cannibalistic, prior to the events of last year. Like I said, we had been changed. Because we came so close to death, we were compelled to experience and maximize life. We would not deny ourselves on our road to discovery. We were literally, and figuratively, feeding off our combined erotic energies.

It wasn’t just the sex. It was the way we interacted (or didn’t interact) with the world. We lived only for our time together, a celebration of long walks, talks about nothing, and just being friends. Thinking back, the last several months were spent almost exclusively together. We were jealous of anything or anyone that got in our way. No prolonged contact with family or friends, just each other. I wanted (I mean want) to spend my life with this woman. I really fucked up and I am sorry.

“Fine,” she fumed past me. “Next time I’m in town, I stay at the motel and use my pocket rocket.”

I watched her huff past me. She waved her middle finger and uttered a few additional obscenities before driving away.

Several months had passed since my carnal visit from Jill. Jane had disappeared off the face of the Earth. Her co-workers had not heard from her. Her family didn’t have a clue where she was. Nobody knew where she was or what she was doing. We had no contact whatsoever after that night. We went from intense togetherness to nothing.

It was unbearable. I lost my job and alienated the few remaining friends and relatives who bothered to communicate with me. The last several months had been spent missing Jane and feeling sorry for myself. Not a waking hour passed without me longing to hold her, taste her, and make love to her. Jane defined me and made me whole. She was the totality of my life. The withdrawal from both Jane and the drugs was horrendous. Now she was gone.

Until the phone call.

It was early in the morning and I was lost deep in sleep. I had been dreaming about death and how comforting it sounded. I thought about death a lot. I even contemplated, fantasized really, about killing myself. I lived each waking hour knowing that I betrayed my one true love and how the only release from her spell would come with my death, or her return. I longed for release, but at the same time, I continued to plod through life reliving the memories of my dear Jane.

Then, the phone rang. I jerked to consciousness and proceeded to grope around the bed covers for the phone.

Groggily, I murmured, “Hello.” No reply.

“Hello,” I said again. Several seconds elapsed. I was about to press the disconnect button when I heard a slight chuckle. It was her chuckle.

“Jane,” I managed to garble in disbelief. “Jane?”

“My skin is so pale,” she replied.

“Jane...Jane?” The connection went dead.

Jane! I knew it was her. After all these months, she had made contact. She must still care, or at least she still thinks about me. The call had given me hope that my life was not over. Now, it was only a matter of waiting. I could wait forever if need be. I knew she would call back. She had to call back. I stared at the phone and cried.

I felt both pain and confusion as thoughts formed. What did she mean that her skin was pale? Was she sick? Did she need me? Was she just mocking me? Had she just made love with another man, a man who had consumed her blood, and was calling to arouse my hunger? No! I knew we had a bond that, while damaged because of my infidelity, could never be broken. I’ll just have to wait. Pale skin?

I didn’t need to wait long. The phone rang again. It didn’t ring twice.

“Jane! I love you, Jane. I’m sorry. Are you okay? Can I see you?” I pleaded between sobs.

No answer. Just a giggle and a moan.

“Jane, please. I made a horrible mistake. I need to...”

Jane interrupted, “Hello, Brace.”

“Jane, I have longed for this moment. I love you...so lonely without you.”

“Bracey, please don’t say anything else. I love you too. I know you’re sorry for breaking my heart. But, you’re a man. She was a thin, pretty girl. I was running late for my routine surprise seduction. I can understand you not wanting to wait a few more minutes. No hard feelings.”

“Jane, please don’t do this,” I interjected with emotion.

“Hush, Brace. I said don’t talk. If you talk, I will hang up the phone and you will never hear from me again. You wouldn’t like that, would you Brace? Never to hear my voice again. Never to fuck me again. Never to drink my blood or squeeze your hands around my neck. I have some ideas for our relationship. I think you will like my plans, Brace. Check your email.”

The phone went dead. I quickly pushed the disconnect button, followed by power, to get a dial tone. I dialed *69 and jotted down the number that the electronic operator recited, pressed the disconnect and power buttons again, and dialed that same number in desperation. I let it ring twenty or so times. No answer. I slammed the headset down hard.

I rushed to my computer to check my email. I had several new messages, but only one with an email address I didn’t recognize. The subject line had my name in capital letters. This was my message from Jane. I retrieved the message.

The correspondence contained two words: your mailbox.

My mailbox! Still in my pajamas, I ran to my door, opened it and jumped down the steps of my apartment to the mailboxes. Realizing I forgot my keys, I quickly stumbled back up the steps to retrieve them from the rack on the wall near the door. I grabbed the keys and rushed for the mailboxes. My hands were shaking with anticipation, body dripping with perspiration, as I located the correct key on the ring.

I inserted the key and opened my mailbox. A white, thin envelope with drops of fresh blood was waiting for me. I longingly placed the envelope near my mouth and licked the scarlet droplets from the paper. The taste was exquisite. I savored the scent of the perfumed paper as I glanced down at the single handwritten word:

BRACE

I tore at the sealed flap. I looked into the envelope. Inside was a new, crisp fifty-dollar bill and a note. I thought about the implications. I thought about my life and my addictions. I thought about my love for Jane. I feared what would be written on the note.

I knew that reading the note would be a defining moment. I had waited patiently for Jane to return to my life. I also knew that whatever the words told me to do, that I would obey. There is no greater love than to trust your life to your partner. I had a feeling that my life was in Jane’s hands. I took the bill and tucked it into my pajama top pocket, then I unfolded and read the message from my lover, my Jane.

Dear Brace,

Come and play with me.

I want you to write about our relationship and how we celebrated our love. I want you to write about the night you broke my heart. I want you to write about our months apart. I want you to write about this morning. Tell the details, but be brief. Write it like a story. Write it in first person. Refer to me as Jane. Leave your written words on the kitchen counter when you meet me tonight.

Further instruction will be found at Flanner’s Mortuary on our table. Arrive at midnight. You’ll be glad you did.

Warmest Regards,

MOG

(Mistress of Games)

Jane, I will do anything for you.

She finished reading the words written by Brace. He had left them on the kitchen counter as she had requested. She smiled briefly before folding and depositing them in her coat pocket. Maybe she would send a copy to Jill, or the mortician at Flanner’s, or to Brace’s sister in Utah. She chuckled. The games had just begun.