Bittersweet

Is it possible to miss arguing? As I laid there next to Keith one Sunday morning, the thought rambled aimlessly through my mind. Last year this time we'd reached the point in our relationship where either you decide you like the constant drama of your fiery disagreements or you are so exhausted from them that you are ready to say "to hell with the entire marriage." Ceasing to argue didn't even seem like an option; it was who were together. It was what we knew.

I smiled in the early light of the winter sunrise, remembering my very first tangle with him. Doctoral studies at NYU placed me in Keith's Culture in Late Antiquity course. I think he made up his mind from the moment he saw me that he was going to relish challenging me to an inch of my sanity.

There I was with my rather well developed sense of myself and he was all but pre-cumming for the idea of knocking me off my high horse. With just a few more credits to place under my belt before my dissertation I was feeling quite cocky ... more than usual. Keith was new to the professorship, but was well respected in the Anthropology department for his two books on the cultural rituals of Ancient Greece. I had read both of them; finding his descriptions of Matriarchal ritual to be blatantly sexualized. Just like a man, I thought and vehemently made my position known, if not in so many words.

I can still hear his response, "Delilah, your opinion is born out of your contemporary perspective. Women of Ancient Greece were considered dangerous for their sexual power, therefore their sexuality is the most poignant topic to explore," he took off his glasses as if to peer into my soul, "Perhaps you will learn something in this course after all."

As it turned out, I would have plenty to learn from Keith; especially how a man could actually give me a more intense orgasm than my own expert maneuvers. By the time I earned my degree we had been fucking for months. I agreed to marry him a year later.

Keith inhaled deeply next to me in the bed. He was still asleep but clearly entering REM state. I wondered if he was dreaming about me -- about waking up to slide my legs apart and fill me with his swollen cock. Dream on sweetie, I though sarcastically and instantly felt guilty. Keith hadn't been able to get hard since the near fatal car accident that left him paralyzed from the waist down. We hadn't had sex in more than ten months.

We hadn't had an argument since he came home from the hospital either. Silence can truly be deafening, and Keith's increasing disdain for conversation was like a noose around my neck. Still, every time I began to think "woe is me" I would have to remember that he is the one suffering and another wave of guilt would flow. I kissed his lips - reassuring myself as much as him that I still loved him, even with his fire dying slowly inside.

I slid out of the bed to put on some coffee and retrieve the paper. Keith would be awake soon and looking for both. Next I would help him into the shower. From the waist up he still looked like the same sexy brainiac I fell in love with. Olive skinned and naturally toned from his rowing club days. His rapidly deteriorating legs were always the cruelest reminder to both of us of what he had lost. It wasn't that he couldn't walk anymore, or fuck anymore. It was because he couldn't walk or fuck that he had become lost to himself. As much as I wanted to wave a magic wand a make it all better, I couldn't. Keith would have to find his own peace. I would have to understand what my own should be.

We employed a full time caretaker / assistant during the week, that helped him with the basics around the house and transported him to the few appointments he still had. Keith had written three more books since in the five years we had been married and on occasion his academic connections would cajole him into guest speaking for a class or two. After the accident Keith said that he hadn't the energy to return to a full time position; though we both knew that it was more than a lack of energy keeping him sequestered in our sprawling four bedroom suburban home for days on end.

The house, way too big for the two of us and only served as yet another cruel reminder of how different things had turned out than we had planned. We'd left Manhattan two years earlier for a quaint Hudson River view twenty minutes north and a promise to start a family. No telling how long it would be before the real estate market turned around enough for us to sell without loosing a fortune. It's weird to live in a house where you never go into half of the rooms.

On this rather lazy Sunday, I'd spent the day like I usually do, tackling the crosswords and reading, trying not to crawl out of my skin from the misery of it all, while Keith watched The Discovery Channel. When the door bell rang unexpectedly around 5:00, I glanced at Keith with a quizzical look. "I can't imagine who that could be," I said, sliding my bare feet into some goat skin loafers, and wondering if Keith had actually arranged for flowers to be delivered on Valentine's Day. Contrite as it was, some recognition of the day would have been nice.

I peeked out the side light. "It's Peter. You asked him to help you with something on his day off?" I asked him facetiously as I opened the door, before Keith could answer. I greeted Peter with familiar sarcasm and a plucky smirk. "Don't tell me, you just couldn't stay away."

He stepped in from the frost with several bags from the French Bistro in town. "Hello Delilah," he said simply and nodded in recognition of Keith sitting in his wheelchair by the sofa. As he removed his coat, I noticed that Peter looked a little more dressed up than usual in a pair of black twill trousers and a grey cashmere sweater over a fine collared shirt. He was my age, about ten years younger than Keith, but at 32 I thought he hadn't neared his full potential and reminded me of the flaky guys I went to college with who missed class half the time, satisfied with merely C-ing there way through one semester after the next. He had been working for Keith for about two months, since his previous assistant moved back to Ohio to shack up with her boyfriend. I had been enjoying the view ever since and I hoped it wasn't obvious to Keith that I suddenly seemed to be able to make it back by 6:30 every night from my curatorial position at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Calling it my own self-prescribed therapy, I had made a habit of changing out of my work attire in the only spot where Peter was sure to be able to watch my reflection in my dresser mirror. I never failed to give him a good show and he never failed to give me his undivided attention, though neither of us ever spoke of it. It was energizing to have a man look at me with raw lust again; a feeling that I was sorely missing in my marriage.

And Peter was gorgeous, almost elegant looking; long and leanly built with dark deep set eyes and a curly mop of hair to ensure no one ever took him too seriously. On the days when he left a soft shadow accentuating his angled jaw, I would cream myself just a bit. This was such a day and the "go fuck yourself" stubble on his chin contrasted in an irresistible way to his otherwise impeccably neat appearance.

"What a surprise. I hope Keith is paying you overtime get you to work on your day off," I said,"What's in the bags? It smells delicious."

Peter crinkled his brow, "You didn't tell her did you?"

"No I was just about to, when you rang the bell," Keith responded.

"Tell me what?" I asked, very curious now.

"Delilah, I know very well that it is Valentine's Day, I didn't forget," Keith began to explain, "Modern rituals are just as important as the ancient ones we academics hold in such high esteem." He motioned for Peter to take the food into the Kitchen. "I've asked Peter to join us for dinner."

"Join us? It's rather odd, don't you think, to pay your assistant to work our date as a chaperone," I was confounded by his reasoning.

Peter returned with some dishes in hand, moving quickly to set the dining room table. "He's not paying me, Delilah. And this is not work."

I flashed them both a confused look; frowning because I never like being kept in the dark. The light conversation we shared over our meal did not reveal anything further until Keith proposed a toast. "To Cupid and his uncanny way to find the right match for those deserving of love," he smiled at both of us, but his words gave me the chills. I knew there was more.

He looked at me in the matter of fact way I was used to seeing when he explained something, "Delilah, there is a tumor rapidly growing on my brain. It's the reason I blacked out and crashed my car into a tree." He slapped his dead legs and clenched his teeth, the next words were more painful. "I'm dying. I have about three months, maybe four."

I sprung out of my seat and threw my arms around him; climbing into his lap and kissing his face. "No, no, no. No, please, no," I begged.

He held tight, stroking my hair and whispering "Ssshhh. Don't cry Love, I have had some time to accept my fate. Yours my sweet, doesn't have to be as grim." I pulled my head away from his broad shoulder with my tearful eyes full of question. He held my face and drew my lips onto his in a deep, emotional kiss as if it were the last time he'd ever taste them.

And then he stopped, gently guiding me to look at Peter who was seated next to us. Peter was staring at me with a look of compassion that revealed his prior knowledge Keith's news. When he took my hand and slowly leaned forward, I was frozen in shock, and in truth, in curious anticipation. He kissed my salty tears, softly and with a sensitivity that made me flood with an uncontrollable desire for more of his tenderness.

Simultaneously Keith drew my hair over one shoulder and dragged his moist lips and tongue over the back of my neck. Then reaching under my arms, he busied his fingers with the buttons on my blouse. I tensed up and looked at him with trepidation and he responded with certainty, "I know that you have been suffering. Let Peter give you want I can't Love; a future."

Keith pulled me back against him and spread the fabric away from my breasts and off of my shoulders. He lifted my head to expose the full length of my slender neck and I rested there for a moment like an offering from the Gods, while Peter stood over us deciding momentarily what he wanted to taste first. As his hot mouth engulfed my nipple, I felt myself start to simmer inside; a feeling that hadn't stirred in me in longer than I could remember. Then Keith placed his hands under my thighs and lifted my legs into the air, while Peter reached under my skirt to remove my panties. His tongue slipped softly into my needful slit and I sighed with appreciation for his amazing technique; relaxing my head back onto Keith's shoulder. Peter's fingers slid inside me, as his mouth gave my clit the attention it craved and Keith spread my legs wider in response to my increasing gyrations. I arched my back and hooked my arms around Keith's neck, using him for leverage against my rising climax. He was whispering to me in my ear, "Cum for him my Love. Give yourself to him." His words carried me over the edge and I burst into Peter's mouth, crying out with a jumbled mix of emotions.

Keith kissed me one more time, sweetly now. And with an unblinking gaze he said, "Upstairs, the both of you -- alone."

He was so definite in his tone that it seemed like a prophetic decree; not to be contested. Not that I wanted to. I was in pain and in shock and in love all over again with my husband for his remarkable complexities. I wanted to please him and I had to admit I wanted to please myself. He'd always known my silent desires and his blessings for Peter and I was his final gift to me.

Peter lifted me off of Keith's lap and by the time we got to my bedroom we were feverishly stripping away the rest of our clothing. We didn't make it to the bed and I opted to bend over the dresser as he entered my dripping cunt with a long moan. I gripped the edges and watched our reflection in the mirror. My perfume bottles shook and fell over at the force of his thrusts. He was ravenous and I was equally desperate to have him inside me. Spilling a hot shot of come into me only prompted him to change positions and he threw me onto the bed, pressing inside me again and flooding my mouth with his tongue. I grabbed at his ass, spreading my legs and encouraging him to go faster. I was nearing another orgasm, as his cock acquainted itself with my most sensitive depths. Peter slipped his fingers into mine, locking them together and pushed against the spot he'd found. I screamed out, in utter release and came harder than I ever had before.

Keith insisted that I spend the night with Peter, arranging for himself to sleep in the guest room. I obeyed his wishes and lay in Peter's arms until about midnight, but crawled into bed next to Keith once Valentine's Day was over. I nuzzled next to him and promised to file for a sabbatical first thing in the morning at the museum. Over the next month I spent as much time as I could with Keith and got to know and love Peter in the mean time. As it turned out Keith was quite good at being Cupid and had selected the perfect match for me in Peter. When Keith suddenly slipped into a coma and was placed in a hospice we moved into Peter's modest Chelsea apartment in the city, selling the house -- losses be damned.

The events of that day turned a lot of things on its head for me; what it means to love and be loved, what's important in life and what we should do to preserve it. It's been three years now and Peter and I are more in love than ever before. To our delight, I am expecting our first child and we have our eye on a cute little 2 bedroom house in the suburbs. Still Valentine's Day will always be dedicated to my dearest Keith, may you rest in peace my Love.