=Quebec=

(for RMD)

A man who once made me come has died. As far as I know, this is the first time this has ever happened. I read his obituary on Google. I slept with him one summer in the Hamptons, ten years ago. He had the biggest cock I've ever seen outside of porn. He used to bring me to the edge over and over until I was writhing on the bed, begging him to take me over. I felt awful seeing his picture, smiling, looking the way I remember him looking. I broke it off, out of the blue, on the eve of a trip together to Quebec. He died of pancreatic cancer. The details do not reflect well on me. He always insisted on maintaining total control of his own orgasm, however. I did it by voicemail. We didn't love each other but he wasn't ready for it to end. He never gave himself up to me, not even once. He loved his chows better than most people, certainly better than me. He was a bit of a control freak, I guess you could say. No doubt he had his reasons. They were certainly more loyal. I did nothing to convince him otherwise. He was cremated. He would have dumped me in his own time if I'd given him the chance; that's what I tell myself. It is disorienting to think that those hands which once made me so desperate to come I'd promise him anything, practically end up speaking in tongues, no longer exist. I've still never been to Quebec.