The Little Death

I read in a psychology book that spoke of the petite mort the little death of orgasm. I never knew what that was until I was with a man the first time. I was in the arms of the man who would be my husband and I could feel him inside me and I had an orgasm, so clear and strong that I lost my breath and felt faint beneath him. If I could have died at that moment, I surely would have, because that first time, there is just nothing like it.

Some of you may think this topic is inappropriate to speak of, but I can tell you that the sick have blushingly real dreams of fevered sex and long for that moment when you hover between the worlds of concious and unconcious when you have a climax. Afterwards there is an emptiness that only women can feel, male orgasm being so much more a physical release. I sit in a reclining chair covered with a hospital issue sheet under me and I watch that damned drip doing its alchemy and I dream such dreams from my fevered brain that would make even a seasoned pro blush. I go into the treatment room pale as any Vamp and I come out indecently rosy. And at night I dream of my lovers, relentless, passionate, cruelly so and I awake in the fevered sweat of chemotheraphy and pure desire.

In the 1800's TB was considered the wasting disease and even thought of the Vampire's disease, when the dying were rose pink and full of the lust of nature, the animal drive to reproduce before you disappear all together. But not long after my treatment, I am sick and I vomit and gag and the last thing I want to do is have sex. But in those moments, I hunger, I desire and I burn with more than chemically induced fever.

I have lost twenty pounds already. My doctor wants to put in a NG tube to feed me, but I refuse. Everything on my stomach comes up anyway and it interfers with the speed of the central line delivery of my pain drugs. I will take the sleeping cure and sleep in the day and rise and walk, or at least sit with my lap top on my lap, at night.

Come to me lover, I am hungry