Chapter 5

Your name is James, and you’re dead.

Three weeks after your death, there’s something you need to know: your ex-boyfriend Anthony attempted suicide. He tried to swallow half a bottle of sedatives, but in the process, he thought of you and couldn’t help sneezing, spraying out most of the pills he was struggling to hold in his mouth. Still, what followed wasn’t much prettier than the state you were in when you died—the burning in his stomach brought on the kind of facial contortions and limb spasms often seen in black-and-white horror films. This might have been the exact scene you’d fantasized about during your most heated, entangled arguments.

The aftermath of a breakup that wasn’t peaceful usually goes like this: He wishes you’d get genital warts, and you wish he’d get AIDS; he hopes you crash into a road sign while driving, and you hope he gets chased down by a shark while surfing. When you’re forced to answer each other’s calls, you both secretly wish some tiny component in the phone would trigger a mini-explosion.

You were always a little more vicious than him, but you chalked it up to loving him more than he loved you—and the fact that you were a complete bitch.

But the beginning wasn’t like this.

Though it wasn’t much better.

After learning his name was “Anthony,” you couldn’t help reminiscing about the warmth you’d felt between you that day. If there was any regret, it was that you didn’t take advantage of morning wood for a quick round.

So you mustered the courage to ask him out to dinner, but it turned out to be your most awkward date ever.

The noisy surroundings made it hard to hear each other, forcing you to nod along with a stiff, cartoonish smile while he fell silent whenever his voice was drowned out. To ease the discomfort, you made a few exaggerated, clownish faces—probably just hoping to coax a smile out of this young man. But he acted like he didn’t even want to be there.

After dinner, you moved to a quieter lounge, thinking you’d at least be able to hear each other there. But the change of scenery didn’t help—Anthony still didn’t seem interested in talking. He came off as cold and nervous, frequently checking his phone as if hoping for a call from a friend who could rescue him from the dull misery of your company.

Then he looked up and smirked at you. He said this was his last drink—he had to go home because he still had a pile of homework to finish.

For fuck’s sake, who the hell does homework at 2 a.m. after drinking?

He finally got the call he wanted. Ten minutes later, his friends showed up at the lounge. You guessed his homework could wait. His friends seemed very interested in you, their eyes lingering on your hips and crotch, and suddenly, Anthony didn’t seem so disinterested anymore.

You lowered your head and downed drink after drink, feeling his gaze flicker toward you as he chatted with his friends. About seven or eight minutes later, half-drunk, you propped your head up and met his eyes, running your tongue—still wet with alcohol—over your upper lip.

By the time he walked back to you, you knew he wasn’t planning on finishing his goddamn homework tonight.

Nothing turned you on more than being treated like shit by another man. He followed you home, and the moment you stepped inside, you were all over each other. You kissed his earlobes and neck while kneading his hips, your cock already painfully hard and straining against your underwear.

You knelt before him, pulled down his pants, and leaned in, your wet tongue teasing his cock through the fabric. What had been a soft, curled-up bird in his briefs swelled into a tool capable of giving you supreme pleasure in just thirty seconds. Occasionally, you heard sharp gasps above your head as he gripped your bobbing skull with inexperienced roughness, as if trying to control you with brute force.

Glancing up to study his youthful, flushed face, you arched your hips slightly before expertly using your teeth to tug down the waistband of his briefs, peeling them off slowly. If the Tooth Fairy knew your teeth had this kind of functionality, she’d probably regret not yanking out all your adult teeth back then.

Your hot, damp breath ghosted over his shaft as if you were about to kiss the head. Despite your ass sticking up in the air, you maintained a gentlemanly demeanor. Softly, you asked Anthony whether he wanted to fuck your mouth or your ass first.

The brief panic in his eyes made him seem adorably reckless—a vitality unique to men in their early twenties. Your fingers trailed up his abs before lightly pinching his pale pink nipples.

His groans grew louder, making you think nipples were a privilege bestowed upon men by God—both a potential “erogenous zone” and a justifiable decorative feature for public display.

With his stifled moans as accompaniment, you turned your head to suck on his balls. His pubic hair was neatly trimmed, and as your fingers traced the area, you took one plump testicle into your mouth, swirling your tongue over the sensitive skin. Meanwhile, his hard shaft rubbed against your cheek, hot and unyielding.

“Let me fuck you,” Anthony growled, half-leaning against the wall, his voice thick with need.

“Your wish is my command,” you replied.

That was your wish too, of course.

Tripped by the jeans around your ankles, you fell forward onto the carpet, pressing your upper body against the rough fibers while arching your hips like a hill. You were wearing a jockstrap that conveniently exposed your asshole—soon to be a tunnel for something else.

Anthony pressed against you from behind, his erection sliding between your ass cheeks. A few sticky drops of precum dripped onto your tailbone before his fingers guided them into your hole.

A six-foot-three, muscular man sprawled in a lewd, submissive position, letting a man half a head shorter fuck him like a dog. For Anthony—or any man who could claim temporary ownership of this male body—it was a peak experience beyond orgasm, a double pleasure.

You went at it for a full hour. Aside from his occasional sheep-like moans diluting your climax, everything else was perfect—especially when his cock was buried deep inside your wet heat.

Squeezed together in the shower, you couldn’t resist going again. He probably wanted you pressed against the tiles with your legs wrapped around his waist for easier access. But given your massive size, the position was compromised into you balancing on one foot while the other hooked around his firm waist. You came first, then him. Afterward, you finally showered in peace.

Anthony seemed to have forgotten the flimsy excuse he’d used to brush you off earlier. After drying off, he naturally followed you to bed, pressing his chest against your back and wrapping his arms around you.

You listened to his breathing as he fell asleep, feeling his body heat. Then, waves of shame and fragile security washed over you. After a while, you pushed his arm away, fished a needle from the nightstand, and slipped naked into the bathroom.

Sitting on the toilet lid, you pricked your arm repeatedly with the needle. You weren’t addicted to needles, but the tiny stings gave you enough stimulation.

All sensory and physical stimuli were proof that you were alive in the desperate gaps between moments of clarity.

When you returned to the room, Anthony was curled up quietly in bed.

And that was how he lay when he attempted suicide—except then, he was foaming at the mouth, his face twisted in agony. He’d accidentally knocked over a lamp or an alarm clock. His cousin, who’d grown up with him and had come to comfort him after your death, rushed into the room screaming and called an ambulance.

While waiting, his cousin wiped her tears, chose the best angle, and snapped a few photos of her cousin—your Anthony.

After his stomach was pumped, Anthony lay weakly on the hospital bed. His cousin calmly walked over and hugged him gently. Then she took another photo. She showed it to him, her delicate voice trembling as she said, “This one’s not bad. We can add a yellow ribbon in the top right corner—perfect for posting on World Suicide Prevention Day… If you don’t mind, we could even take a selfie together.”

At any rate, Anthony didn’t die. Thank God. If he had, the distance between you would only have grown—because he’d be in heaven, and you’d be in hell.