The Small, Black Death

I saw her swallow it down. I felt her throat roll past the tip of my penis. 'It's all in meeeee,' I heard through the earphones.

It seemed like there would come no end to the lava flow I was pumping into my chocolate toy. Suddenly the heat wave shot into my chest. I couldn't feel my body anymore. I felt like I was somewhere far away, in another country, in an airplane hanging mid-air above the ocean. My knees gave way. I heard her scream in the distance. I wasn't sure if I heard it through the earphones or live. I was falling. I wondered if I had a parachute...

***

The French call an orgasm 'le petit mort'. That's 'the small death' in English. I guess now I know why. When I woke up, I was lying in a hospital bed. It had just been a minor heart attack according to the doctors. Still, it was worrying for a man of thirty-five. If I didn't change my lifestyle, they said, at the rate I was going it would be doubtful if I would make it to forty.

So I haven't made it home to my own bed yet. But at least I've had a good night's sleep. More than a good night, actually. They tell me I've been sleeping for three days. And my balls still hurt like all the juice was sucked out of them with a vacuum cleaner.

Except for the food, hospital isn't that bad. My nurse is this tiny, Japanese chick. She has a hairdo like a black jet helmet. And she moves around the hospital like a cartoon character: Roadrunner or Tom and Jerry, always gone in a flash. Or maybe she's Chinese. I haven't figured that out yet. Anyway, she treats even my slightest request as if it was an order given by the emperor to his favorite eunuch.

Here she comes darting in again. She's holding something in her hand. Something shiny. Probably a drink or something. She manages to fulfill wishes I didn't even know I had.

"The girl who rode in with you on the ambulance said that you're a famous record producer and that we should take good care of you," she says as she sits down onto the bed. "Is that true? You are a famous record producer?"

"Well, I don't know about famous..."

"I have a band together with my two sisters," she says as she holds up her left hand. It's a CD she's holding in it. I feel the palm of her tiny, right hand gently touching my wrist. She looks into my eyes like a dachshund begging for a Scooby snack. "We would be prepared to do anything for you if you would do us the honor of listening to our demo."