Comforting the Unwell Organist

**Content note: By request, this story contains a detailed description of male vomiting!**

It was a Sunday morning and I was filing into the village church as was my weekly habit. I took up my usual seat near the front of the church, with a good view of the organist. I always enjoyed watching the organist, Ronald, play. He was a slim and well-groomed man and I could tell that he must have been very handsome in his youth, although he was easily three decades my senior. His slender hands worked the organ keys with a skillful and dexterous touch, and at times during especially dull sermons I wondered what else those fingers would be good at, although I'd never admit it to anyone.

I always liked to make an effort to look nice for church; today I had chosen an embroidered blouse and a modestly knee-length skirt. On some occasions in the past Ronald had glanced over at me from his seat at the organ and flashed me a secretive wink; I liked to think that he appreciated my efforts.

Today, though, Ronald looked a little unwell; his face was pallid and his normally neat hair was slightly disheveled. He hit a couple of wrong notes towards the end of the first hymn and I realized that his hands were shaking. I looked around me to see if anyone else had noticed but they were oblivious, wrapped up in their own thoughts. How could they not notice that our beloved organist was in distress? I resolved to keep an eye on Ronald in case he should take a turn for the worse.

As the minister began to deliver her sermon, Ronald sat and attempted to pay attention in his usual dedicated manner, but he seemed to be growing more and more uncomfortable. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow and upper lip. Then he gave an uneasy cough and held the handkerchief to his mouth for a few seconds. I was about to go over to him to ask if he was okay, when he abruptly lurched to his feet and darted towards the nearest exit. I swiftly got up and exited after him, concerned for his well-being.

I followed at a slight distance as Ronald stumbled out into the peace of the churchyard. I hesitated, unsure if I should approach him closely; one part of me didn't want to disturb his privacy but another part of me wanted to take care of him and provide any comfort that I could. So I hung awkwardly nearby, ready to rush over if he needed me.

Ronald sat down heavily on a memorial bench under an ancient spreading cedar tree and stared rather mournfully at the ground between his feet. His face was ashen and he had a light sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. He was breathing uneasily with his mouth half-open.

"Ron, are you okay?" I called out finally.

He looked up at me and smiled despite his discomfort. "Oh, Sally, it's you... I don't feel well at all... I drank a little gin last night and thought I'd feel better today if I forced down some breakfast... but... ugh..."

The memory of his breakfast seemed to nauseate Ronald to the point of no return and his face contorted suddenly. He pressed his handkerchief to his mouth and made muffled heaving sounds, fighting to keep his stomach contents down, but it was no use. He let out a guttural retch, and a small surge of coffee-colored vomit soiled the handkerchief and dribbled onto the ground between his shoes.

"You don't have to watch this, Sally, it must be quite disgusting for you," he gasped in embarrassment.

"It's okay, Ron," I said. "Just be sick if you need to. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Let it all out and you'll feel so much better."

My words seemed to loosen his inhibitions, and he tossed the handkerchief aside, bent forward and heaved loudly, bringing up much more this time. A large wave of lumpy puke splattered onto the ground and I could see remnants of his semi-digested breakfast. Without a pause he heaved again and I was surprised at the amount that came out, an unrestrained torrent of bile and food matter.

The force of the vomiting was wracking his body and making him tremble. In spite of my shyness I stepped forward and sat on the bench next to him, holding him steady with a gentle arm around his shoulders. He retched a few more times, coughing up some sloppy whitish chunks. From so close to him I could start to smell the odor of his vomit: stale alcohol and the acidic stench of bile. But for some reason I didn't feel disgusted; it felt somehow intimate to see and smell the contents of his body.

"How are you feeling? Do you think you got it all out?" I asked softly.

"I don't know, Sally, I still feel a little... ughh..."

Ronald groaned, bent forward once again and disgorged a few more gushes of liquid onto the viscous puddle that was spreading across the ground. By this time the breakfast had been evacuated and all that was left was bile and saliva. He dry heaved a couple of times, and spat, and it was over. I rubbed his back while he caught his breath and slowly regained his composure. I handed him a pack of tissues from my bag and he gratefully wiped his mouth and nose.

"Thank you for taking care of me, Sally," he said finally, looking up at me through watery eyes. "I think that was the last of it."

"It's absolutely no problem at all," I said. "I didn't want you to suffer by yourself."

"You're an angel, Sally. I truly mean it." He looked at me with a surprising tenderness and I thought for just a moment he was going to kiss me, but then he seemed to think better of it and instead chastely squeezed my hand. Right, I thought, it would be completely inappropriate for him to make a move on a member of the congregation half his age. But maybe that was why the idea was so exciting...

I looked down at his hand on mine and bit my lip, feeling my face flush. A warmth was growing between my legs, but I shouldn't tell him, no I mustn't... My mind frantically groped for something to break the silence.

"Ron," I said finally, "you didn't drink just a *little* gin last night, did you?"

"No, I suppose it was quite a lot," he admitted sheepishly. "Do you, er, drink gin, yourself?"

"Sometimes I do," I nodded with a complicit smile.

"Well, we could... Look, Sally, I'm sure it's the last thing on your mind after what you've just witnessed, but I hope you'll allow me to make it up to you one day. And I promise you won't have to see me in this awful state again."

"I'd love that, Ron. As long as you're feeling better."

"I'm feeling *much* better, Sally. Let's get back inside in time for the next hymn, shall we? Otherwise people will wonder what we're doing."

He gave me a conspiratorial wink, and I had the impression that church gossip wouldn't bother him in the slightest.