Informal Observance

I was notified about the misfortune on the very last night before the burial. My ex girlfriend’s father had suddenly left loved ones behind. Though he didn’t care much for me, he was a kind and gentle human being. The type of man that those who know him will remember for eternity. I could only imagine the grief inside of those who loved him. I cried upon learning of the news. I still recall the day I met him, he said, “Son, I don’t like you. Not because you are the incarnation of a fool, I’ve heard enough about you to know otherwise, but because the age discrepancy, even if it’s 4 years, can only mean that you are going to show her too much in too short a period of time.” I wanted to reply, “Absurd it is all! I am as ill equipped for a sexual relationship as was she,” but I stayed quiet in admiration of his demeanor. He was a good man, that guy who hated me once and again.

I gathered my thoughts on the walk to the funeral home. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, nor how to behave while there, but I knew that my heart would ache if I didn’t pay my respects. I had not seen my ex going into three years. I, in fact, during all those years, wondered if she had bloomed into the woman I thought she would become. The passing of her father was now a bittersweet sort of reunion.

Prayer services had already started. From outside I could hear the man leading the prayer, he had a lisp. It made him seem like a young child all too aware of the stages of life for which he now prayed. The room was crowded, but only the elderly prayed. I found an empty chair near the back of the room and prayed along. Being raised Roman Catholic I knew too well the verses to spew in Latin. So there I sat, doing something I hadn’t in years, praying in Latin for the safe journey of a newly departed soul.

Prayer services are normally long; this one was no exception. Halfway through the formality, only a few family members, some elderly friends, and I remained. She, my ex, was among those still there. Minutes after the service ended, just about everyone had left. Only my ex, her sister and I, were present. By then I sat on a cushioned chair in the middle of the back row. I was trying to sit as far back as I possibly could.

I witnessed her sisters futile attempts to take her home. But, my ex wanted to spend every possible second next to her father. She must have been aware of my presence for quite sometime because with out even looking back to where I was, she told her sister that I could walk her home. Her sister looked towards the back to see me nodding my head in agreement. She kissed my ex goodnight, walked towards me, and thank me. I didn’t say anything, I simply hugged her warmly, then released her into the night.

I wasn’t prepared to care for her during these trying times. I wasn’t really prepared for much but to say goodbye to a good man. My intentions were to run out as fast as I could never looking back again, yet, the better me convinced me that fleeing a second time wasn’t much of an option, less so, under the circumstances. Guilt made me agree to stay that long, now fear made me stay. I thought that if I were to leave her now, her father would haunt me for the rest of my life.

I stayed at the back of the room scared of having to interact with my ex and the defunct. Funerals have always made me nervous. Especially those carried out by the Roman Catholic Church. Their traditions and rituals make wonder if there is some type of privileged knowledge which the rest of us aren’t aware. It’s as if they know that the passing on is not an end, but part of the journey; that the prayers are meant as some type of accord required to smooth the next part of life.

Mostly, I am fearful that there will be some form of coupling between the soul and the body where the body will levitate above the coffin before a last goodbye takes place. I cringe even at the thought of looking at him from a distance in fear that I’ll capture any movement. I supposed that my ex sensed my intentions of staying far and away, sensed my inability of sharing her burden of saying goodbye so close to the casket. She stood up, stared at her father for sometime, then turned around and came toward me.

She sat to my right and quickly broke in tears. She wore a long strapless-black-dress with sandals. I was shaken up, nervous, lost for a course of action. So, I did the only thing I had ever done during our relationship that brought her pleasure: I kissed her.

The taste of tears resting upon her lips reminded me of times past when she fought back tears of painful pleasure just to please my egotistical lust. She’s the woman with whom I tried novice mistakes, just as she’s the woman where many experiments turned out less than opt. The kisses made it seem as if we were that young and problem free couple. Had it not been for the tears still dripping down to our lips, I would have sworn we were back at day one.

It was extremely peculiar kissing her while she sobbed. She took time between aggressive tongue twists just to compose the sobs. I watched while she allowed me to lift the black dress all the way up to mid-thigh level.

I grew increasingly daring with each touch of our lips. She had stopped sobbing and my left hand was caught in a struggle between proper behavior and disobedience. I pulled her legs aside to clear a way to her crotch. I pressed my hand against her inner thigh, then ran down to her knee and up to her crotch again. I ceased all pretensions by quickly removing her underwear; fitting occasion as it was black in colour. I put the undergarment on the seat to our left, pulled away from the kissing to look down at her. She had blossomed into more of a woman than I had anticipated… made me rethink my whereabouts since we last met.

I dearly wanted all of her. I wanted to unleash all of my accumulated prowess onto her to show her that that young adult had too, blossomed. She didn’t give me a chance to say much, she stood me up in front of her, still with her legs spread aside and her skirt uncovering all of her persona, and unbuckled my slacks. I don’t wear underwear so I slipped out in full command. She was quick in response jerking me furiously. I feared she was going to snap me right in half yet, I stood tall awaiting the imminent.

She pushed me into her mouth while using one hand to stroke the shaft. It was a sweet pursuit, that of her mouth following the hand up and down the shaft. Looking down at her tightly wrapped hair-bun meticulously moving about made me pant. When I weakened at the knees, I purposely dropped to a knee hastily situating my lips against her lips, and not those on her mouth. I can swear that I felt her pulsating heart against my lips. It told me to caress her, to let her know that even during the deepest of despairs, joy can halt all pain.

I attacked her forgetting where I was. The war I wagged wasn’t as savage as her moans and audible depictions described. She was somewhere between here with me, and out there with her dad. Sometimes she’d say “No, no, what are we doing,” while other times she begged not to stop that her toes were curling in all the good ways. Had she been an orange, residue of pulp would cover from my forehead down to my chin. I didn’t know what to use nor how to use it to please her. All I knew was that I licked, sucked, suckled, bit, traced with my digits all I found in front of me.

Enough it was, the illusions and delusions risen from her taste, risen by her aroma fusing to lust. I had to have her. I sat to her right, she stood from her chair, faced me, placed one foot on the chair to my right, and stood up above me balancing herself by placing her other foot on the chair to my left. I grabbed her skirt, lifted it up to her waisted, twirled the front in a bun and pulled hard with my free hand shoving her vulva against my mouth one last time. Her skin was flawless, the definition of her obliques coming down to her crotch pointed to the dream I was about to have.

She looked at me, cursed very low and softly; told me all of the heartaches that I left behind for her to handle alone, then lowered herself, grabbed me with her left hand and pointed me to the correct location. She went down hard and harshly. “Bulls eyes you fuck,” she said to me. She bounced on me sliding effortlessly. The saturation dripped all about. I held on to the back of the chair with both hands trying to raise my pelvis forward to come meet her just so that I could go in as deep as anatomy allowed. A few times she slipped right out of me and chuckled that she enjoyed the feeling of my head sliding in and out of her.

Just when I thought she was about done, she placed her left foot on the floor, then brought her right across her body ending up looking away from me. She asked me to pull her hair hard enough to force her to look up because she knew that the sin she undertook was going to send her straight to hell. She didn’t want to look at the front of the room, to look at her father resting in peace while she took me in like melting ice on the equator. So, I grabbed her hair and pulled down with strength shooting her head right up to look directly to the ceiling. She ground on me, and I ground against her.

She tried to be as quiet as she could, holding back the pleasure she did, but the nails sinking into my thighs didn’t. She drew blood from both my thighs. Nine bleeding spots marked the price I paid for the transgression, little price to pay between the smell of flowers and the presence of her father.

She got off of me, asked if I had come, but I hadn’t. Far back in my mind the idea that I couldn’t insult her father in such a way, even if I already had, I could not do. I told her I hadn’t, and that’s just how I wanted it. “Walk me home,” she asked.

When I got home, I was still engorged, still thinking, smelling her. I went into the shower, let water run against my body, and masturbated. Three years of wanting to see her as a woman spilled out of me. I think I was informal in action, but I believe I left falling in love again.

Who shall I praise, were my actions that of evil, or was the result that of good?