Vera

The first night passed without incident. However, I slept fitfully, conscious of her warmth and breathing. Our legs and feet occasionally brushed each other, but they quickly retreated upon contact.

The following day, Friday, we spent shopping. Vera often travelled to Montreal and knew her way around. I followed her into numerous funky boutiques in which we tried on all sorts of clothes. In one store, I slid into a lime green dress that fit and suited me perfectly. It hugged my body, accentuating my curves, and showed an ample length of leg.

Vera insisted on buying it for me, enthusing about how good it looked and knowing that I couldn't afford such a dress. I argued with her—Nada had paid for my travel and accommodation costs; they'd done so much already—but she persisted, so I eventually weakened and accepted her gift by thanking her with a big hug.

We shopped all day, until our feet ached and backs stiffened. I bought some lingerie, a frilly lace bra and matching panties, and other odds and ends. Vera, who with her beautiful skin looked good in any colour, finally settled on a tight, knee-length red dress. It exposed a significant amount of cleavage and lots of bare back. Indeed, I thought it was a touch out of her character, but she looked undeniably superb in it.

We'd spent the entire day cruising shops and had overlooked having lunch. Both of us were famished, so after dropping off our prizes in the hotel room and freshening up, we went out for some supper at La Fourchette Parisienne on St. Hubert.

For some time I chuckled inwardly at the name of the restaurant until I finally summoned enough courage to say, "Vera, in anatomy, the fourchette is the bottom of the vulva, the membrane where the inner lips meet."

She laughed and quipped, "Well, what the fork, I guess we're eating Parisian pussy tonight." I giggled along with her but not without agitation. Her looks and her hand resting on the tablecloth attracted me. I pondered whether to reach out for it, but I chickened out in the end.

After the meal, we went back to our room to spruce ourselves up for some Montreal nightlife. Vera rolled a joint, lit it, inhaled, and passed it to me. I took a breath, filling my lungs with the sweet smoke. When I exhaled, I expelled not only the fumes but also everything that I knew, or thought I knew, every convention, every inhibition.

A silence ensued. My brain buzzed while I listened to the traffic outside and to the footsteps and muffled conversation in the hallway. She broke the stillness suddenly by asking me to try on the lingerie that I'd bought, to model it for her. I grabbed the bag and, practically prancing into the bathroom, simply chirped, "OK."

I changed quickly, looked in the mirror, and adjusted my hair. When I returned, her gaze made me blush. She sat in a chair, legs crossed, toe pointed downward, her head tilted to one side, smiling and smoking a cigarette.

I stood in the middle of the room while she praised me and gushed about my legs and ass, telling me how good they looked in the frilly undergarments. Vera, clothed and in her heels, extinguished the cigarette, raised herself out of the chair, and walked around me in examination. I felt flush when she approached me from behind and stopped.

The first touch was light: A single finger on my spine, between my shoulder blades, trailed down to the small of my back, stopping at the top of my panties to play with the elastic. My breathing quickened even more when her hands caressed my shoulders and neck. Her fingers then slipped beneath my bra straps and slid them over my shoulders and down my arms. I felt my bra tighten and her fingers brush my back as she pulled the bands together to undo the clasp. The bra dropped to the floor, releasing my breasts yet tightening my nipples even more.

Vera still stood behind me, but closer, her hands upon my stomach, one tracing the top of my underwear, the other moving upwards towards my tits. I savoured the gentlest of fingers on my nipple as it traced the shape of the areola. My nipples puckered until they throbbed. Currents started flowing within, moistening and swelling me. She touched them, my breasts, delicately, one then the other, finally both at once, squeezing and massaging.

My arms hung by my side in surrender while my head lolled back towards hers. I whimpered when she whispered that my body was sexy, that she wanted to make it sing. As Vera squeezed, rolled, and tugged my nipples, she breathed into my ear and described their hardness. My knees came close to buckling when she cooed, with great deliberation, that she longed to feel me, open me, and taste me. At last, she turned me to face her, holding me by a nipple the entire time.

Vera stared at my breasts while tugging on them and then pulled me to her by my tits. I felt her hands move to my ass once our lips met. Her tongue ran along my teeth, top and bottom, pausing with its dental exam now and then so I could suck it. The taste of tobacco dominated her mouth, but it didn't bother me. I lost myself in her embrace and kiss and tumbled onto the bed with her, soon raising my bum to help her remove my panties.

Once they were off, she stopped, stood, and, looking at me as I lay naked, began to strip. I had no time to admire her, for once unclothed, she fell between my legs and started sucking on my pussy, taking no time, eliminating any possibility of halting.

I submitted and split my thighs for her. Vera's head moved gently about, but her mouth maintained the suction on my clit. I guided her with moans and little utterances. My nipples bulged with want, and I plucked them as she ate me. The current that brought us to Montreal now whisked me along, imperceptibly increasing in speed, until it became a wild, rushing torrent. It built like the roar of an approaching waterfall, gaining in intensity, overwhelming my senses, finally sweeping me over the edge, throwing me into a cascading, thundering orgasm.

After I'd calmed, she slid up to kiss me, her chin and mouth shiny with my juices. I tasted myself on her lips while looking in her eyes and then held her tight. Our giggling bubbled up spontaneously—we were ecstatic with what had just happened—frothed quickly into laughter, and finally erupted into pure, giddy peals of joy that echoed within the room.

We quieted and I started examining her, marvelling at her heavy breasts punctuated with large, dark chocolate areolae. Her nipples were flat, and I discovered that weekend that they rose only when suckled or in the throes of orgasm. Several smooth pea-sized moles adorned her body, all strategically placed. One resided on her breast, next to her left nipple, another on her right hip, and yet another, I soon learned, on her outer labia.

I lowered my head to her breasts and mouthed a nipple, forcing a response from the erectile tissue. She watched me with her lips slightly opened, teeth gleaming, her breathing quick. My tongue started inching its way down her torso, and, with my hands still on her breasts, I finally nestled my head between her legs.

Like the rest of her body, her cunt was no less exotic. It bloomed like a rare, tropical flower, and, while staring at her dark, opulent petals, I realised that I'd never been so close to a vulva. I'd looked at mine, using a mirror, on numerous inquisitive occasions, but this was new territory. Her colours amazed me: the pitch black pubic hair, the olive skin, and the nut brown labia, all in contrast to the delicate pink of her insides.

The heady scent intoxicated me, so, like a bee to honey, I drew my mouth to her pussy. My tongue flicked at her hood—that was my first sweet taste—causing her to arch and open fully. I sensed, under my fingers, her nipples rise and harden and used them as a guide to explore every crevice of her cunt. Before long, she grabbed my hair, tensed, and exploded with my mouth locked on her clit.

She kept me there, glued to her pussy, and urged me to keep licking her. My tongue dipped into her hole, as deep as I could stick it. It was all so new and delicious. Her nectar flowed and I guzzled every drop. After tonguing her tunnel, my focus returned to her clit. She started shuddering and convulsing, and in time, I felt her climax again under my mouth.

But she continued to lie on her back, legs high and thighs wide, bucking at my face while holding my hair. The intensity increased until she erupted once more, much harder than her previous two times. At that point, she guided me away from her crotch to cuddle and lie with her.

We held each other, mingling our lips, tongues, and juices, and regained our breath and equilibrium. A long time elapsed before she spoke.

"B, you realise this won't continue past this weekend, right?"

I exhaled deeply and acknowledged, "I know, Vera. It will stay in Montreal and here," I said, pointing to my head. "But let's not worry about that. Let's just enjoy these few days."

We never did go out that night, preferring instead to play in bed with each other. At night, when we slept, our hands, feet, arms, and legs no longer retreated at the touch of flesh. Indeed, we sought each other out in the darkness to hug, cuddle, and spoon, and once, in the early hours, touched until we settled into a 69 position.

On Saturday morning, we shopped again, and while walking down Ste. Catherine, Vera pulled me into one of the numerous sex shops. We snickered and giggled at the various items on display, but she surprised me by selecting a vibrator. At the register, my face blushed uncontrollably. The clerk, however, didn't even blink. Instead, he simply removed the toy from the package, inserted some batteries, and held it against Vera's hand while they spoke in French.

"What was that about?" I asked when we left the store.

"He just wanted to make sure it worked, that's all," Vera replied. I burst with laughter, causing her to join in.

That afternoon we made love again, taking turns using the vibrator on each other. For the first and only time in my life, I might've suffered from penis envy. I longed for a cock to sink into her and, upon feeling her enveloping warmth and wetness, eject some magical seed that would give her the child she craved. Likewise, had she somehow miraculously impregnated me, I'd have gladly borne her baby.

But I kept these crazy thoughts to myself. Vera didn't need me burdening her with my farfetched lunatic notions.

We went out that Saturday night, Vera in her sexy red dress and I in the green one that she'd bought for me. Men paid for our drinks, and in return we chatted, danced, and laughed with them. My French was poor, so Vera translated over the din of the sound system. I grinned to myself, thinking about how she was my tongue both here in the bar and back in the room. Often, one of us would catch the other's eye, launching an exchange of knowing smiles. At closing time, we refused all offers and returned to our hotel alone.

By Sunday, we'd gained confidence. Our lovemaking had transformed from rushed, urgent commutes into languid, inquisitive journeys during which the two of us explored every inch of our bodies. That morning we lazed in bed, naked. She lay on her back, arms above her head, the leg closest to me straight, the other bent and splayed, her delectable cunt sparkling from our latest tryst. I faced her while lying on my side, my top leg slung over her thigh, and ran my fingernail up and down her stomach, from her neck down to the top of her jet-black hairy delta.

I looked in wonder at our bodies and at their differences. My small tits and taut, pink nipples contrasted with her fuller breasts and large, dark areolae. I envied her skin: dark and smooth with just the right amount of hair on her arms. In comparison, my freckled, pale skin seemed ghostly and unhealthy. The bitter irony wasn't lost on me.

But neither did I dwell on it. Instead, I gave her a kiss and playfully said, "Vera, we should find a handsome French guy tonight and bring him back here with us."

She said nothing, answering instead with her hips. I cupped her mound, pressing it, and continued, "We could make him watch us before letting him take turns fucking us. What do you think of that?"

A smile crossed her lips. "Deep down, you're bad, B. That's why I've always liked you," she said, grinning and kissing me.

I straddled her waist and whispered, "Then let's be bad. I want to sit on your gorgeous face and cum. Then I want to fuck you with the vibrator until you pass out." She laughed and with her eyes invited me to proceed.

My transit began as soon as I lowered my cunt onto her mouth. Her tongue ran up and down the length of my slit, stopping on my clit for several flicks before sliding back into my groove. As I rode her face, she'd squeeze my ass cheeks together, increasing my inner pressure. Then she'd spread them, splitting my pussy in the process, and run her tongue deep into my cunt and onto my perineum, causing me to shiver with delight.

She kept repeating the movement, but with each widening of my bum and pussy, her tongue travelled closer to my anus. Finally, she licked it, inducing me to writhe in ecstasy, all while her hand inched closer to my ass. Then, deftly, she replaced her tongue with a finger, entering my anal canal, and returned her mouth to my clit in earnest.

Her finger started pumping my ass while she sucked my pussy, driving me insane. The involuntary twitching of my body encouraged her to continue. I needed to press harder into her mouth, so I split my thighs as wide as possible to further lower my crotch. My pelvis ground circles on her beautiful face, and soon I sensed the currents rise from deep within my core. The potential built and multiplied until enough energy collected to jump—a spark, a white-hot arc—from my clit to my anus, welding my cunt to her mouth. I cried out, shuddering overtop of her, and collapsed in bliss, cradling my head on her belly.

We rested like that for awhile, but I itched to resume our play. The vibrator lay on the bedside table, so I rolled over, retrieved it, and scurried between her legs. I began by buzzing the toy over her thighs and stomach, edging towards her cunt. Her anticipation was evident; her pussy glistened and was slick with secretions.

I eased the tip inside, splitting her lips to reveal her heat and wetness. She responded by elevating her hips and extending her legs in invitation, so I pressed the vibrator forward, impaling her, and eventually buried it, causing its buzzing tone to become low and muffled. The churning began slowly, with long, deliberate strokes. Her billowy flaps encircling the plastic cock transfixed me. With each outward pull they lengthened and clung to the shaft, arousing me to touch myself with my free hand.

"Do you like this, Vera?" I breathed between licks on the back of her thighs and bum, "Do you like me fucking you?" She moaned, nodded her head, and continued jabbing her hips upward, trying to match the vibrator's rhythm.

She was bare and open, so I returned her favour and started teasing her anus with my tongue. Her hand reached down to stretch back her ass cheek, exposing her puckered hole even more and signalling me to continue. Encouraged, my tongue pushed into her ass while I kept fucking her soaking pussy. Rills of juice flowed out and down onto her perineum, lubricating everything, so I eased a finger into her anus and kept it there until the end.

When I raised my head back up, I didn't know whether to look at her face or crotch. But after several minutes, I was hypnotised by her cunt and its consumption of the latex cock. The speed of my plunging kept increasing; similarly, the exquisite squishing noises coming from her vulva quickened and rose in volume. Soon, I fucked her with a deep, delirious rhythm. She bucked and rubbed herself, becoming wilder by the second, until finally bursting with an intensity that was both beautiful and astonishing.

The rest of the day and night we spent in bed, frolicking and playing. We rose for lunch and supper, eating hurriedly on both occasions to return to our room and enjoy each other's body for one last day.

But Monday morning would not be delayed. It arrived and with it came a tired sombreness. We packed, left our hotel, and sat in silence during the cab ride to the station. "Bird on the Wire" by Leonard Cohen played over the car radio. How appropriate, I thought, for a local artist to serenade us as we departed Montreal. But I heard—truly heard for the first time—his words, and confusing images of Gavin, worms, knights, and unborn babies spun in my head.

So we returned to Toronto and, as promised, pretended that Montreal never happened. Indeed, we pretended so well that I wondered—and still wonder—if our September song really did take place.

Vera relapsed in October. She tried to fight it again, but by November her defences weakened to the point that she was placed in isolation. But she didn't stay there long. Hope vanished; only faith remained.

I sought Gavin out to beg him to see her, hoping that a visit from him would spark her to fight. At that time, he lived in a dark, dank basement apartment. He listened to my pleas with his arms crossed in front of his chest, and in the end he flatly refused, droning on about conformity, conventions, and choice. He kept going on and on until my head reeled and seethed from his stupidity.

"Fuck you and your pseudo-existentialist bullshit," I finally retorted. "There's nothing to choose. How can you be so cold to someone whom you were so close to? You heartless, fucking prick! You've been stuck too long in this basement. Stick your head outside and breathe some fresh air. Get the fuck away from Camelot. You and your lofty ivory tower speeches. All that's missing is a ridiculous plumed hat. You're a fucking jerk!"

I left in a rage, realising that he wouldn't budge from his nonsensical stance.

I visited her less than a week before she died. As I approached her hospital room, strains of John begging not to be let down wafted through the hall. Paul's bass warbled mournfully along with Lennon's primal shrieks. Billy Preston's organ imparted a hymn-like, gospel quality to the song. I waited for the verse, beginning with that odd 5/4 bar that added an appropriate, beautiful imbalance to the tune, and felt my eyes watering. I had to get a grip on my emotions before going into her room.

"Ah ha! Caught you! Listening to The Beatles, eh? So I've had an influence on you after all," I said with as much jocularity as possible.

"Hi, B. It's a great song, even if it's not by the Stones," she joked. Her voice was weak, worn, and tired, as was her body. She didn't say too much more during that visit—she lacked the strength. Nada sat beside her, head in hands, crying. I don't think she even knew I'd entered the room.

I sat on the other side, holding Vera's hand, listening to the music and Nada's sobs. "Wild Horses" came on over the little tape player, causing tears to trickle down my face. I stayed a little longer and left while Vera slept and Nada cried.

On December 8, 1980, Vera died, plucked by a dreadful, despicable disease.

Her death didn't surprise me; it was expected. Yet I was numb to the point that I couldn't cry. I chided myself over my supposed lack of remorse and, out of guilt and shame, tried to force the tears that wouldn't come.

The funeral took place in the little church in which Vera and I had met less than two years ago. Her body lay in an open casket in the middle of the church. Thin beeswax candles were passed around. The priest lit a candle held by someone near the front. That flame was then used to light all of our candles. Soon, scores of flickering lights dotted the church. These, the incense, and the droning from the priest put me in meditative state.