The third time I was with Orpheus, I watched him sleep, so I guess it’s only fair now that he’s dead, he watches me sleep—whenever he fancies. Like I mentioned before, he’ll just perch himself on a nearby dresser or table and casually goggle at me, probably while I snore.
I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do when I finally allow myself to have a real relationship after his death. Will he continue to visit my bedside? What if the person I’m with senses his presence? How am I going to explain that the ghost of my lover, who died, drops by unannounced every now and again? Maybe over a nice cup of tea and foot massage as a distraction. Nothing to see here: just a direct line from Hades to my home. How’s that Sweet Dreams blend? Roll your feet on this acupressure contraption. I bet I’d likely be hesitant to shoo Orpheus away, too. I mean, hell, if he wants to be a voyeur, so be it. After all, he was in my heart first.
You see, my friends, that is why I’m celibate until I finish telling you the story of Orpheus 2019.
The third time we visited, he told me he needed to see me, that the 317 miles of distance were driving him crazy.
"I really feel like I need you," he messaged me. I told him I felt the same and was losing my mind. I confessed to having cried and masturbated to imaginings of him countless times all week.
"Does that mean I might get to see you and do things to you soon?"
"Yes, please. And it will be, oh so mutual."
"I’m driving there right now."
At first, I thought he was being facetious. Then he asked for my address. I hope it goes without saying that I was utterly ecstatic over the prospect to finally be with Orpheus again. Because I was so beside myself with joy and anticipation, I had to take a bath to calm down while I waited for him.
It’s worth mentioning that Living Orpheus announced his arrival, unlike Dead Orpheus. But, I’m not complaining! I’m grateful for the time I’ve had with him—in whichever form he takes and from whatever realm he’s traversed. I try not to dwell on it, but my only wish is that our time together was more frequent when he was alive than now that he’s dead.
Orpheus texted me from the road that he was near my home, and I frantically paced my shared apartment in nothing but a black velvet slip I’ve had since I was 17. I stood near the front door in the living room as I heard his car pull up, then froze while listening to him ascend the stairs.
I opened the door to Orpheus’s face wearing the most sincere permagrin I’ve ever seen in my life. He lunged for me in a playful and loving way, immediately cupping my face in his hands and kissing me the deepest I’ve ever been kissed in my life. We locked lips and writhed in sync, all the way from the front door, through the hallway, to my bed. We couldn’t contain ourselves anymore. At least six months had passed since we were last united, and it showed in the electricity between us.
After we had sex so many times that I lost count, we settled into bed and watched my DVD copy of My Life as an Underdog, a documentary about performance artist Suzanne Muldowney. We were both interested in psychology more than the average person, and one of us may have been more studious about it. We couldn’t help but psychoanalyze her, which is probably not the most inclusive behavior on our part, even if it did make for a fascinating conversation that entered our cerebral talks for the next few months.
Once we got sleepy, Orpheus wrapped his arms around my torso and curled up until we were completely entwined.
"I can’t get close enough," he said as he nestled his head in my breasts. I cradled his head in my arms as he promptly passed out. Something in me must’ve known that would be only one of a handful of times we’d spend the night together because my body refused to allow me to sleep. Instead of drifting into sweet dreams with my beloved, I studied his face and caressed him endlessly. I may have dozed off here and there, but never for long. I always returned back to brushing the dark curls from his brow and attempted to memorize every angle of his handsome face: from his aquiline nose to the beauty mark under his eye, his prominent jawline, and dimpled chin. I somehow knew this was a special moment that needed to be ingrained in my neuro pathways to access later.
He slept for almost 11 hours. I should’ve known more was wrong than him having the busiest schedule out of anyone else I knew. But, he hadn’t yet confided in me about his relapse. That would come later.
To be continued...
