Less than Lovers, More than Friends

A Hug

You know, I am beginning to think that this amazing sex that I keep having is a sin. No one can have that much pleasure without any recourse. Derek and I are having amazing sex. I mean sex, is for reproducing. I don't use it as that. I will never use it as that. But it is what it is, reproduction. Making babies. Creating offspring. So, I shouldn't be enjoying freely. But, they didn't have to make it feel so damn good. If it didn't feel good, we wouldn't even care to do it. So, I am thinking that I really do need to join Grandma in church so that I do have a chance. The way I am going, if there is a hell, I will burn. And I will mostly likely burn slow.

I have been distracted. This is my problem. I tend to find one this to obsess about. I get a little addicted. I get addicted easily. Whether it is a double shot espresso from Starbucks. At once time, I was up to five a day. I was addicted. Now I just get one occasionally. See, that addiction has been replaced by a new one. Sex. Dirty. Hot. Porny sex. And I love it. All of it. So distraction, that is a problem.

I wake up. I'm actually getting used to the pain that comes daily. It is sex pain. It comes from hours and hours of painfully pleasurable sex. And it is. But the next day, my legs hurt. I find it nearly impossible to push them back together. The only time they spring apart faster is when Derek's hard cock is in front of me. I mean seriously, I can ride a seventeen hand warmblood for hours, but twenty minutes on Derek's cock and I am dying.

I slowly stumble to the bathroom. The boys are asleep. At the moment, that is good. It's really good. I actually need a short moment without seeing that body. It will be ending soon and I need to wean myself off. If I quit cold turkey, there is no saying what will happen. I painfully walk up the stairs. I am seriously thinking we need a lift. That way, I can make it up there post-coital.

My grandpa is awake. I don't say anything as I stumble into the living room. We only use the living room on Sunday. That is where the Sunday paper is read. That is the only time. It's too formal. Even sitting on the sofa just doesn't feel natural. I grab the comics, the only part of our local paper that is worth reading, and I sit down.

"I see your friend is in the paper." My grandpa says as he looks up. I look at him in confusion. My friend works for the paper, and I am wondering what in the hell she did now.

"What?" I ask as I look up at him. I am waiting for some crazy story. You never know. People are nuts.

"Your friend. She's in the obituary." He says as he leans over to hand it to me. I'm in shock. I have never felt the feeling that has sunk in my stomach. For the last two months, I knew she was dying. Even if it was guaranteed, I thought there was a chance that she would wake up and be fine. I was waiting for her to call me. I was waiting for it to be a cruel joke. I was waiting for something that would never come.

"She's dead?" I ask in shock, trying to hold it all in. I had to hold it together. I will not cry. I cannot cry.

"If she's not... Someone is playing a dirty trick on her, cause their going to bury her." He tells me with a frown. He is trying to make light. But how do you make light of your friend dying? How do you make light of someone leaving behind three young kids and a family? You don't. Those kids don't have a mom anymore.

I hide my face with the paper as the tears run down. I can barely read it. I can't see anything through the tears. I can see, that she has been dead for three days. She died two days before Christmas. As I had a good time with my family, her family was dying. I opened presents, and he kids wished they would trade them all in for their mom. I spent days having sex with Derek, and she was dead and cold.

Her husband promised me that he would call me. He promised that he would let me know. The rat bastard always hated me. I know that calling someone is the last thing you think about, but I wished he would have. Maybe I would have pulled some of pain away and taken it myself. It's hard to think that she was dead, and I didn't know. I read the paper, telling about her life and how she would be missed. It doesn't even touch how we feel. Not even close.