For C.J.

He was slinging it pretty good. His crotch was pounding hers and she was rolling with it, in sync, fucking right back at him, every inch of her body into it. Their fucking took on a staccato rhythm, like rim shots on a snare, smack smack smack smack, while the bed springs played hi-hat.

It went on, and on, their genitals colliding on a quest for release, and they kissed as they fucked. Dillon was going to dump a load of his semen into this beautiful, mature woman, he knew that, but he slowed for a time, not wanting to blow his top too soon. Her pleasure would come before his.

Two sweaty bodies throbbing. Two mouths and tongues plastered together. Two hands clenching two butt cheeks, four legs tightly entwined. One thrusting cock-filled cunt.

Katy moaned and she shivered head-to-toe. Dillon knew this was it, so he put a little extra poke in his stroke. She moaned again, louder.

"Ughhh..." she groaned loudly, and let her rip.

She came in another torrent, barely less than her first. She pinched his cock with her out-of-shape cunt muscles and dug her fingertips into his upper back. Dillon banged her harder for four or five thwacks and his pulsating ropes of cum vaulted into her.

Once his tank was emptied, Dillon collapsed onto the bed beside her. They were lying on their sides, looking at each other, and their faces broke into wide smiles.

"That was wonderful," she said.

"Yes it was," he replied. "You are amazing."

"Oh, please..."

"You have no idea how many times I fantasized about this. About being in bed with you."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. Big time. I'm not a kid anymore."

Katy paused, looked deep into his eyes, sighed, kissed his nose and said: "That's for sure."

They held each other, closed their eyes, and drifted off, resting in the glow of their lovemaking.

*

"I'm hungry," Katy said, jolting Dillon from a borderline sleep. "Are you?"

It was only ten minutes later. His arms were still around her, and hers were around him. Their eyes were inches apart.

"I could eat. I can use the fortitude. You done wore me out," he said.

"I haven't eaten since early this morning, had a danish and a coffee from the machines at the hospital. Wasn't hungry all day, but I am now. How 'bout I fix us some tuna fish sandwiches?"

"Sure. That sounds good," he said, chuckling.

"What's funny?" Katy asked.

"Tuna fish."

"Tuna fish is funny? Why? Don't you like it?"

"Yes, I like it. I've just always thought it was odd that we refer to tuna as tuna fish. It's not like we could confuse tuna with anything other than a fish. Know what I mean?"

"Um, I guess so."

"I mean, we say bluefish or rock fish because those words have different meanings. But there's no other meaning for tuna, so why add the fish to it? We don't say 'flounder fish' or 'haddock fish' or 'trout fish'. We don't say 'hamburger cow', or 'pork chop pig'. So why do we say tuna fish?"

"I really couldn't tell you Dillon," she said. "Maybe it's the same reason we don't say 'fish chops'."

Dillon broke out laughing, then Katy did too. She reached down between his legs to rub his thigh and damn if his dick wasn't hard.

"Such a deep thinker you are," she said, taking his cock in her hand. "A deep thinker with another big erection."

She went down on him and took his cock into her mouth. She slipped her middle finger into his asshole and reamed him from behind as she sucked him. Within minutes Dillon grunted and bucked and came in spurts into Katy's mouth and throat. When he was done, she wiped her mouth on the bedspread, got up and put on a robe.

"There. Now you rest a bit, big thinker. Just lie back and ruminate on the great tuna fish conundrum while I make us a couple sandwiches."

After they ate their sandwiches and chips, they fucked again. Then it was getting late, and Katy suggested that Dillon leave so that no rumors got started, no matter how true they might be. He agreed that it was a good idea.

*

Their affair lasted most of the summer. They had to be discreet, of course, so once or twice a week Dillon would sneak over late at night, long after C.J. was asleep. They would make love as quietly as possible, and after they both came a couple times he would sneak back out.

No one suspected a thing until it all blew up one Saturday night in early August. They were in the middle of a fervid sixty-nine when a drunken Cliff showed up unannounced and caught them in the act. He went ballistic, screaming, throwing things, breaking things, calling them names, threatening them. He chased a half-clothed Dillon out of the house, screaming at him, told him to 'get the hell out before I kill you'.

Cliff made sure the whole neighborhood and half the town knew all about it. Millie, the neighborhood gossip had a field day. Katy and Dillon were shamed and ridiculed, she was a tramp and he was a horny college prick who couldn't keep his dick in his pants. Dillon's parents were greatly embarrassed too, which didn't help him at home, and didn't help their relationship with their neighbors.

C.J. was greatly upset by this turn of events. The family turmoil was bad enough, but he would also be losing his best friend. Because Dillon soon left and went back to school, five hours away, and stayed away, eventually graduating and taking a job that kept him there.

----

Standing on the covered porch of the funeral home, Dillon took another long, deep breath before he opened the smoked glass door and entered. He walked tentatively through the vestibule and down the hall, passing several people he didn't recognize, until he found the right room. He signed the guest book outside the door, then entered.

He scanned the crowded room and didn't see any familiar faces at first, but soon sensed a cool vibe. The feeling of eyes upon him, heads turning quickly away when he glanced at them. He looked around, searching for Katy but not finding her, feeling self-conscious, like he was in a fishbowl. Then a male voice to his left broke his concentration.

"What are you doing here, asshole? I can't believe you had the balls to show your face around here."

It was Cliff. He wore an old, wrinkled seersucker suit, and looked bloated, heavier. There was beer on his breath.

"Hi Cliff. I came to pay my respects."

"Well, make it snappy, Lover Boy. We don't wanna have a scene. She's over by the casket. Say hi and bye."

Cliff wobbled away and Dillon eyed the far end of the room. He spotted Katy off to the side, standing in front of a wall of flowers, talking to an older couple that looked vaguely familiar. He started walking toward her and the crowd of guests parted like the Red Sea before him. He stopped about eight feet away from her.

It had been nearly four years, but suddenly the meaning of the phrase 'a sight for sore eyes' hit him like a lightning bolt. She still looked incredible. Tired, but strong and beautiful. She wore a long-sleeved black dress that hugged her slim figure. Her blond hair was whipped back in a french twist, and her earrings matched the color of her sky-blue eyes.

He stood there, taking her in. Once she saw him, their eyes locked. The couple she was talking to noticed it, looked at him, then back at her, and faded away. They held their gaze for a long, frozen moment, oblivious to the spectators in the room. Dillon raised his right hand, with his purple-nailed pinky extended. Katy did the same with her right hand, the bright purple brilliantly contrasting the black polish on the rest of her nails. There was a sad smile on her face. The spectators were amused and confused by the gestures.

He walked toward her, right into her arms. The various guests watched their tightly-wrapped bodies as they hugged. Dillon felt the bullets of her breasts against him, and whiffed the smell of fresh fruit in her hair. Their bodies clenched and their tears flowed. They didn't want to let go.

"Thank you for coming. I was hoping you would," she said into his ear.

"Of course. I had to," he said into hers. "I loved him, Katy."

"I know. He loved you too."

"I'm so sorry."

"Thank you for writing him. Your cards and letters meant so much to him."

"I loved getting his letters, too. I've saved them all."

They finally broke their embrace and Katy took his hand and led him over to the casket. They looked down at C.J., whose face was pale with a slight trace of a smile. Dillon started crying softly when he saw how he was dressed. He was wearing his jersey from Dillon's high school baseball team.

"It seemed only right that he wear his baseball jersey," Katy said. "It was his favorite piece of clothing. He treasured it."

Dillon put his arm around her again, pulled her close as his tears dripped down his cheeks. They stood there together until his tears abated. They stepped away, off into a corner and continued their conversation. Katy handed him a tissue and he dabbed his eyes and face.

"You're coming to the funeral tomorrow, aren't you?" she asked.

"Of course," he said.

"Can I ask a favor?"

"Sure. Anything."

"It's a big one."

"What is it?"

"Would you speak at the service?"

"Really? Me?"

"Yes. You knew him better than anyone, Dillon. He looked up to you, you were his idol and his best friend. I would be honored if you could get up and say a few words."

"Are you sure? Is your husband going to be okay with that?"

"Ex-husband," she blurted. "This is my show, don't worry about him. If he gives us any shit I'll call the cops."

"I'll be happy to," he said softly. "Anything for you. And for C.J."

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you."

"I'll try not to let you down."

"I know you won't."

"You better get back to your other guests," he said, and gave her hand a firm squeeze. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He walked across the room and out of the fishbowl with his head held high, and he felt the multitude of eyes in the room covering him like shrink wrap.

----

Dillon stayed at his parents' house that night, although he didn't talk to them much, only for a few minutes. He told them he'd been asked to speak at the funeral service and he had to prepare. So he went to the spare bedroom with pen and paper and tried to write something down, something meaningful, but nothing of substance would come. His mind was a jumble, adrift in his memories of C.J. There were too many experiences and conversations to assimilate and organize. He was bone-tired, from the long drive, his lonely grief, and his visit to the fishbowl. He fell off to sleep without accomplishing much.

He slept like petrified wood. He woke up early, refreshed, and jotted down a list of bullet points on three-by-five cards. He didn't know if he'd speak for two minutes or twenty. He trusted that his muse would show up when the time was right.

Dillon walked into the funeral home twenty minutes early and was surprised at the transformation the place had gone through in sixteen hours. The walls that had separated the viewing rooms had disappeared and it was three or four times the size of the fishbowl he'd visited the night before. It was now one big room, like an auditorium, lined with rows and rows of folding chairs on two sides separated by a center aisle, ready to accommodate a large turnout. The crowd was trickling in. A dead child was quite a draw.

Katy's older sister, Sonia, was on the lookout for Dillon. She spotted him, grabbed his arm, and escorted him up to the second row, far left. She handed him a memorial leaflet that had been printed up for the service.

"Sit here," she said, "And thank you for doing this. It means so much to Katy. And to me too, to all of us. The pastor will speak and then he'll announce when it's your turn. You're right after him. Good luck!"

Oh, great, he thought to himself. I follow the preacher. Lucky me.

Once the place was full and SRO, Katy was ushered down the aisle to the front row on the left side, and the show got on the road, right on time. Cliff was seated on the right side, next to a young woman.

Dillon sat through the early part of the service in a hazy daze. There were some remarks, then some music, then the Rev spoke for fifteen minutes or so, reciting scripture and all of the appropriate, generic, cliched, God-has-a-plan mumbo jumbo. Then suddenly, he heard his name called.

He could almost feel the inhaled breaths of the hushed attendants on his goose-fleshed arms as he strode to the podium. Once there, he looked out at the packed house, impressed by the size of it. Every seat was taken and others stood around the sides and back of the room. His hands sifted through the pockets of his jacket, shirt and trousers for his cue cards, but they were not to be found. He'd left them in his car, where he'd last rehearsed. He would have to wing it.

He cleared his throat, adjusted the microphone, raised it up. Took a deep breath. Nervous activity. Then he began.

"When I was asked to speak here today, I immediately said yes, but I was also immediately scared. And now that I'm here, before all of you, this amazingly large group, all here to pay your respects, it scares me even more. But here goes. I hope I can do it justice. For Katy. For Cliff. For C.J.

"I loved him. I'll start with that.

"When I was a boy, Katy and Cliff moved into the house next door to my family. We could tell right away that they were great people and would be great neighbors, and my family quickly accepted them into the neighborhood and into our lives. They both worked full-time and Cliff traveled a lot, so I would do odd jobs for them. I'd wash their cars, cut their grass and weed their garden in the summer, shovel their driveway when it snowed, take care of their dog and feed their fish when they were away, anything to earn a few dollars.

"After C.J. was born, and it became clear that he was not a normal, healthy child, but instead had an ugly, nasty disease, most of their time was devoted to his special needs, his doctor appointments, his medical tests, his treatments, et cetera. Gradually, I was asked to do more and more chores around their house and property because they just didn't have the time. I mended fences, washed windows, cleaned out rain gutters, raked leaves, stained the deck, you name it.

"As C.J. got older, he would sit outside in his wheelchair, on the front porch or on the deck out in the back yard, and he'd watch me work. And we would talk. We talked a lot. And by the time I was in my teens and C.J. was six years old, I realized that Mother Nature may have given him an unhealthy body, but at the same time she had given him a brilliant young mind.

"We talked about many things, especially sports. Baseball and football were his favorites. The Baltimore Ravens were his favorite team, The Purple Pain. That's the reason for the purple nail polish."

He raised his right pinky for all to see.

"Even at that young age, he could read at a pretty high level and he impressed me with his intelligence. His wit, his vocabulary, his knowledge. He knew every player, knew their numbers and their stats and their heights and weights and where they went to college. He would amaze me and surprise me with historical facts about the players and the teams and the sports, stuff I never knew, and I thought I knew a lot.

"And his attitude was always positive. I can't remember him ever feeling sorry for himself. But I do remember thinking, how can this little guy, whose body was so weak, be so strong? I began to realize that C.J. was not just the kid next door, not just some young friend. He was the little brother I never had.

"I asked him one time, do you ever get mad that you were born with this disease, and you can't run and jump and play ball with other kids, and have to use a wheelchair? He looked down for a moment, then up at me. And with traces of tears in his eyes, he said, 'No, I don't get mad. But I get sad sometimes. Sad because it is so hard on my parents. I hate being such a burden to them'. Even with all the adversity he'd faced in his life, he didn't think about himself. He thought about others. He was more concerned with how it affected his Mom and Dad.

"I played football and baseball in high school and he followed my teams like he did the pros, and we talked about every game. In the spring of my senior year, as my baseball team was in training for the upcoming season, C.J., who was nine or ten years old by this time, told me he was going to come to all the home games and root for our team. I don't know if I believed that that would really happen or not, but I went to see my coach a few days before our first game. I asked him if I could buy an extra team hat. He asked me why, had I lost mine? I said no, and told him about C.J., and all the challenges he had faced in his young life, and how much he liked our team, and I'd like to give him a hat. Coach said, Hell, Dillon, you don't need to pay for it, and he not only gave me a hat, but gave me a whole team uniform, the smallest one he had. When I gave it to C.J., he grinned from ear-to-ear. He put the cap on his head and held that uniform in his hands, and fondled the letters on the breast of the jersey, he treasured it. And that season, Katy made sure he made it to every home game. Coach cleared a special box adjacent to our dugout and the stands, just for him, and to accommodate his wheelchair, and you could see the joy on his face when the players and coaches would come over to shake his hand and say Hi to him. He came to every home game that season, dressed in his uniform and cap, to root us on. He is wearing that very same jersey today.

"There was one game late in the season, a low-scoring pitchers' duel. I pitched a two-hitter and hit a solo home run to win the game one-to-nothing. After the game and a mild celebration, I went over to his box. Katy and C.J. both had big grins on their faces, happy as I'd ever seen them. And do you know what C.J. told me? He said he was proud of me! Can you believe that? He was proud of me!

"Well, I felt the emotion rise up in me like a flash flood. All I did was win a ballgame. But I thought of all he had been through in his young life, and of all the strength and perseverance he had to have every single day, just to get through it all. I was on the verge of tears. I told him thank you, and that I was proud of him too. But I don't know if he knew how truly proud of him I was, or how much I respected him, and loved him. I hope he knows that, and knows how much I've missed him.

"We all face hills and valleys in our lives. Good times, bad times, glad times, sad times. Ups and downs. And whenever I reach a low point, a time when I feel bad, or overwhelmed, and want to quit or give up or feel sorry for myself, I think of C.J. And it makes me feel better, it makes me feel stronger, and suddenly things don't seem so bad. I feel like that's a gift he gave me.

"I should have told him that I loved him. I regret that. I never told him that I loved him. But I did. And I always will. He was my friend, my little brother. This world could use a few more people like C.J."

You could have heard a pin drop as Dillon left the podium with all eyes upon him. He was choked up, full of emotion, the tears were bubbling in his eyes, but he'd somehow gotten through it. He glanced at Katy as he walked back to his seat. She nodded and gave him a teary, satisfied smile. He looked at Sonia, who was staring at him and lipped, 'That was beautiful'. He took his seat, relieved and drained.

Dillon sat through the rest of the service, which was a blur of words, music, and a prayer. Afterwards, he stood outside the funeral home, chatting with his parents and his sister Irene. In a matter of minutes, three different people came up to him and congratulated him on his eulogy. One said it was the best he'd ever heard.

Dillon and his family went to Katy's house afterwards for some food and socialization and condolences, but they didn't stay too long. But they were there long enough for Cliff to come up to Dillon and actually apologize, and to compliment and thank him for his eulogy. As they were about to leave, Katy pulled him aside and asked him to come back later, after the other guests were gone. He said he would.