The Bucket List

I'm sitting in the bar talking to the barkeep, when a drop-dead gorgeous blonde slithers in and sits down next to me. I rake her over with my eyes half a dozen times; she looks to be in her late-twenties, has light blue eyes and a springboard diver's physique under a simple blue and white polka dot dress. Not being on the shy side, I ask if I can buy her a drink. She says, "Thank you. You're very kind."

We exchange the usual pleasantries, she tells me her name is Mary, but she seems distant and preoccupied, so I ask her what's the matter. "Am I boring you already?" I add, jokingly.

She smiles and says, "No, not at all," but looks away again, reluctant to look at me. Is that a tear that just avalanched down her lovely cheek?

"Hey," I say, "What is it? Do you have boyfriend troubles, is that it?"

"No," she says. "I don't have a boyfriend right now." Then looking straight at me she says, "I just got some test results, you know, from the doctor, that aren't too great."

"Oh, shit. Do you want to talk about it? I'm a pretty good listener, almost as good as Tony, the bartender here." I'm trying to keep things easy and inviting.

"Well, they seem to indicate that I've got about two weeks to live."

"Oh, wow," I reply, totally lost for words, as anybody would be. "Jesus. That's a tough break." I ask her what's wrong with her, and she tells me, something I'm not familiar with. She explains a little about her illness, gives some statistics, and why her prognosis is so bad. I hear her words and look at her beautiful face, her make-a-blind-man-see-again body, and can't put the two together. Things like that just shouldn't happen to such a gorgeous young person. Sorry, God, you have your reasons, I guess, but it's just too hard a pill to swallow.

"Do you know what a bucket list is?" she asks me.

"You mean stuff people feel they've got to do before they die?"

"Yeah," she replies. "It's too bad for most people they have to wait till it's almost too late, but better late than never, I suppose."

"I never really thought about it, being only in my forties."

"I never did either," she says, "but I am now."

"What do you want to do," I asked, trying to keep it light, "go to Paris now that it's springtime, date some movie star?"

She looks at me and says, "I don't want to check out without getting fucked one more time."

That takes me by surprise, but think I recover pretty well when I say, "With your looks, sweetie, that shouldn't be any trouble at all."

"Like I said, I don't have a boyfriend, and, well...." She hesitates and looks away.

"Well, what?" I ask.

"You look like a decent guy," she blurts out, turning her head back to me. "Would you do it?"

This is so incredible that red warning lights start flashing in my head. Look out, chief, I say to myself, she's vice squad or someone your ex sent to entrap you.

"Wow, I'm flattered," I say. "What made you zero in on me?"

"Oh, I've seen you around," she says. "Someone we both know mentioned how nice you were, at least to people in general, and you're older, which I'm going to equate with having more experience in what I'm after and being able to take me where I want to go."

"And where's that?" I ask.

"Well," she continues, "I've done it, had sex I mean, plenty of times, but it's never been very exciting. I mean there ought to be more to it than just lying on my back with my legs in the air. Don't you think?"

"Indeed," I agree, fascinated with the turn this conversation has taken. "I can think of a bunch of alternatives without any trouble just sitting here."

"That's what I thought, too. I have a list of things I want to do, to at least try, and this will probably be my last chance." And her eyes welled up.

I tell her there's no reason to get all weepy, that I'll be more than happy to fuck her (damn, did that sound strange!), and try to please her any way I can. She smiles weakly then and gently touches my arm; a minute later we finish our drinks and are heading out the door. I make up my mind to go all in, that she's sincere, and not to expect the night to end with me in cuffs in the back of a patrol car. We'll see.

I take her to a hotel, not the fanciest one in town, but decent enough, at least three stars in the guide books. We kiss and fondle, but she's eager to get her clothes off and into bed. While we're undressing, she starts telling me about what she wants to do. Little do I know that that's just the beginning of a list of things possibly longer than all the lists Santa Claus ever got put together. Not only, for instance, does she want me in all three of her holes, but often all at once, which means cock, tongue, and fingers are always busy as each rotates from hole to hole.

But that's a little later. At first I have the sheer utter pleasure of just soaking up her soft creamy skin, her beautiful tits and swimmer's belly, my tongue licking her, tasting her sweaty sweetness. Her bush, light brown in color, is trimmed and has a slight taste of perfume, as if she touched herself there after dabbing some on her neck. Her pussy lips are pliant and juicy, and as I lick her she opens her legs wider and arches her back to give me free rein. Her fingers comb through my hair, suddenly pulling on it as she responds to my tongue.

Abruptly she pulls my head away and moves her body so she can reach my cock; she scoops it up in her hands and puts it in her mouth like a starving woman finding sustenance. She coats my shaft with her saliva, streams of it dribbling from her mouth onto my balls as she sucks me. Her hand moves effortlessly along my sopping shaft. When she has her fill of that she moves onto my body straddling my waist and inserts my cock into her cunt. We are both so wet it slides in almost with no help. She rides my cock, pounding her ass cheeks into my lower belly.

Soon I roll her over onto her back and mount her. She throws her legs around my waist and pushes into me. She's moaning now, talking half to herself, half to me, giving orders: "Fuck me, fuck me harder, suck my tits, don't stop!" I feel her body begin to twitch and then cave slightly as she climaxes, a series of "Yeses" issuing forth from her mouth. On the third "Yes" I erupt and spill my seed deep inside of her.

We rest for a bit, she in my arms, but soon it's as if she knows she doesn't have a lot of time on her hands, and she begins kissing me again, licking my nipples, touching my cock. I respond to her, feel my prick growing hard again, and give a silent thanks to the god of erections for allowing me this again so quickly. She starts referring to things on her mental list she wants me to show her, do to her, the first being she wants me to fuck her ass, she's thought about doing that, really wants it, and pleads with me to do that to her. I roll her on her stomach and kiss her ass cheeks, moving ever closer to her asshole, until I'm right there and lick her hard with the flat of my tongue. I make sure my tongue is wet as can be in order to moisten her sphincter as much as possible. She moves up onto her knees and spreads her legs wide, imploring me to lick her, to put my tongue inside and fuck her ass with it, and then put my cock inside. She is enflamed with sexual desire, as horny now as could be, and my own needs and passions are beginning to slip out of my control as well; I can't get enough of her, her taste, her smell. I kneel behind her and aim my cock toward her dripping rectum and push into her; her rosebud opens and lets me in. She moans for a second, as much in pain as in pleasure, and then pushes her ass back against me, establishing a rhythm I can follow. It is all pleasure now for her

Down the list we seem to proceed, checking off one wish and then another. Not everything meets her approval: she doesn't like having her toes sucked (it's just too ticklish), though she loves sucking mine. She is astonished, as am I, at how orally fixated she seems to be, and I can't remember my cock being sucked so much before in so many variations, not even at that orgy I attended a few years ago where about twenty women had a shot at me at some point during the proceedings. And it wasn't even just in bed that we cavorted: we did things in the bathtub that normally would've been done in another apparatus nearby, fucked on every piece of furniture in the room, and came up with the most imaginative uses for the complimentary coffee, creamer packets, and shampoo/conditioner samplers possible (what a wonderful mess!). This went on for nearly 12 hours (midnight to almost noon, which was checkout time). We both conked out for maybe 20 minutes a little after dawn, and when we woke up saw that the room looked like the 1970s and the Rolling Stones just spent the night there with a 15-person entourage. We just looked at each other and howled in laughter, and she pushed me down and started crawling over my back heading south and did something with her tongue, again, that had me chewing on the sheets in ecstasy.

I must've fallen asleep again after that, because the next thing I notice is she's showered and dressed and is sitting on the bed next to me. She says she has to go, has certain arrangements to make, and thanks me for the wonderful time we had. I tell her it was the most incredible time I'd ever spent with anyone. She then takes her purse off the bedside table, reaches into it, and pulls something out.

It's a lottery ticket and she hands it to me and says, "I want you to have this. It's a winning ticket from last week, worth two million; I checked the numbers, they match. I'll have no use for it and I have no one to give it to, no family, no lovers, no friends, just you. Take it."

"Whoa," I recoil in protest. "Wait a minute. I can't take that."

"Why not? You're not Elon Musk, are you?"

"It's not the money. It's like you're giving me that for services rendered. It's making me feel creepy."

"Listen," she says, "You were absolutely wonderful and certainly took me to exactly where I wanted to go, but I'm not paying you for that. I'm giving you something I can't possibly use or the government will just keep it."

"What about a charity?" I ask.

"Charity!" she harrumphs. "About ten percent of the money people give to charities ends up going to the people it's supposed to help, the rest to propping up the charity bigwigs and fancy expenses. If you want to give it to a charity, go ahead. But I want to give it to you."

I'm not sure she's right about the charities, but she's adamant about it. I'm not going to argue with a dying woman, though, especially this magnificent one.

She kisses me and stands up to leave. "Sorry about the mess," she says, looking around. "But not really. It was fun. Use some of the money to pay the clean-up bill I'm sure they're going to sock you with."

I start to feel a little desperate seeing she's about to leave. "Listen, you said your name is Mary. Mary what? I can go to your funeral, when the time comes, so you're not all alone."

"Fuck no," she says. "Why would you want to do that, and why would I want you to? Think of me like we were last night, not someone being lowered into the ground or cremated. Besides, it's not Mary."

"No?" I reply. "What is it?"

"Whatever your favorite woman's name is. Let's have it be that."

Of course, everyone who hears this story says what a fucking lucky bum I am, and what do I do with all that dough? Well, for weeks, months even, afterwards I check with hospitals and funeral homes and even online obituary sites, looking at people's faces that often go along with the notices, but since I don't know her name or anything else about her, and never see her photo, it's impossible to find out what happened to her. But I can't get her out of my mind.

Finally, I buy a plot at a local cemetery and then go to a marble company that specializes in tombstones and purchase one, a fairly large gray slab and have the following engraved on it: "Gloria (...Mary)" and under it about a foot down, "Thanks. You Were Wonderful." I have them put the stone up at the cemetery plot, where I visit now and then, especially when I'm feeling blue. I know no one's there, no coffin or anything, but it somehow makes it all real, because sometimes I think that whole night might have been just a mirage, a dream. (Not the part about the lottery ticket; obviously that was very real.)

Sometimes I bring a small lawn chair with me and just sit for a while. I used to think at first that I'll be sitting there one day and miraculously she walks by and sees me and the stone and tells me the doctors got it all wrong, that her charts got mixed up with someone else's, and all is fine now, she'll probably live another 40 years. But that's just crazy movie thinking, that never happens in real life. I did give about half the money from the ticket after taxes to charity, a well-known one in town here. And the rest?

Like I tell Tony, the barkeep, I should be in pretty good shape for the rest of my life. But I'd give it all away in a heartbeat if she walked through that door again.