My gorgeous roommate, Bea, came back from a near-death experience and isn’t sure she’ll ever feel something so blissful again. I’m here to help her find out – a no-pressure experiment in pleasure.
Excerpt
“It’s just,” Beatriz said, “I haven’t even masturbated since I died.”
We sat on the couch staring at each other, the apartment’s refrigerator humming in overdrive behind us, while on the TV, the sex scene entered its fourth minute…
“I’m sorry,” Bea murmured. “That got weird.”
“Well, I already made it weird. I’m sorry, too.” I offered her the bowl of popcorn.
She accepted, and we settled deeper into the cushions. As always, my friendship with my gorgeous roommate survived awkwardness. Even the awkwardness of watching an interminable sex scene alongside my crush and stumbling—or slipping, in Freudian fashion—on death. Which hadn’t been a subject of conversation in the three months since she, well, died.
As for Bea, after three months without masturbating, a year without dating—nearly as long as my own dry spell—I wondered how she could stand to watch the scene at all.
Between crunching kernels, she said, “Actually, it hasn’t been that bad. The problem…” She shoved a dark curl from her forehead, eyebrows bunching in thought.
I wanted to trace those brows with gentle fingers until the lines above them and around her deep brown eyes smoothed out.
“The problem,” she said, “is that death felt so good I’m not sure an orgasm would come close.”
