20. A Sticky End
twenty
A Sticky End
“Okay, a few things,” Trystan says.
I’m on the hut steps, and his feet are on the rocks so we’re standing at each other’s eye level. I nod.
“Don’t worry about the bulbs. They blow up all the time on their own. Or at least that’s what the surf instructors think.” Trystan winks. “And don’t worry about . . . where you come.”
Oh, Jesus.
“It evaporates. After a while anyway. Just disappears into the ether. No matter how much there is.”
I’m aware that my chest is heaving. Even though I don’t need these bodily functions any more, my heart slams itself against my ribcage, my palms are sweaty, my thoughts are fuzzy.
“I’ll be out here the whole time, so I’ll make sure you’re not interrupted,” he says.
Instead of saying thanks or okay or anything normal, my stupid mouth says, “You’ll be out here, doing . . .”
Trystan wets his lips. “What you’re doing. But I’ve had like thirty years’ practice. I’m very proficient in it now.”
A bark of laughter escapes my throat. That might be the hottest, cutest thing anyone has ever said to me. “I was also quite the expert when I was alive.”
“Dude, you just wait. Come find me when you’re done. Or I’ll see you when the sun rises.” Gently, he pushes me through the hut door.
I’m alone and this is his space. It’s dark and damp. Lit only by the light from various standby LEDs. I place my hand on my chest. It’s weird to still feel my heart thumping beneath it.
Okay. I blow out a breath, unzip my overalls, and zip them up again.
I can’t do this.
When I poke my head through the wall, Trystan’s right there. Standing under the stars, holding his arms out as though asking me if anything’s wrong.
He smiles then “shoos” me back into the hut. “If you don’t want to do that, that’s cool. I kinda need to, but we can hang out after.”
He needs to. Oh my god. I want to ask him what’s going through his head. What thoughts is he having that are making him so horny?
“Okay,” I say breathily. “Okay, I’m gonna do it. I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”
“In you go, then,” he says, shooing me back inside.
I pop out again. “Okay, but like, are you just gonna . . .” I make a crude gesture, and Trystan laughs. Under the moonlight, I’m sure I see blush stain the tops of his cheeks. “Right here on the beach?”
“Yeah.”
Oh my fucking god.
“Unless you wanna swap places, and I’ll go in there?”
“No, I’m scared.” Shit, did I say that out loud? “I mean, I don’t want people watching me.”
“No one will see.” Trystan’s voice is almost a whisper. “Only ghosts can see us, remember? But they won’t come this way usually.”
“Okay, okay, okay! I’m gonna do it.” I float into the hut.
And out again. “No, I am gonna do it,” I blurt out, and I hear Trystan laugh, but I’ve already turned back inside.
Before I can second?guess myself for the millionth time, I unzip my overalls and step out of them, kicking them aside so I’m standing there in only my vest, boxers, and socks.
I’m so hard that my underpants no longer contain the entire length of my cock, and the tip juts up above my waistband. I spare one last look around the hut for any signs of life . . . or death.
Here goes nothing.
Sweet, beautiful friction as my hand glides along the shaft. So far, no different from when I was alive, but it was always great back then too.
Safely tucked away inside Trystan’s hut with my fist wrapped around myself, my eyes closed, I let myself think of him.
These moments, mid wank, were the only times I ever allowed myself to daydream this way. Because I knew it meant nothing, would amount to nothing.
In this fantasy, Trystan is standing—no, kneeling, kneeling is hotter—in the middle of the beach.
I’m also there, and this is all very consensual.
He licks his lips and parts his mouth, and he doesn’t say anything to me.
Or maybe he does, but I don’t know what a cool guy like Trystan would say to a dork like me, so for now he’s silent.
Tonight his shirt is done up, and without taking his eyes off me, he loosens the top button.
Underneath, he’s naked, because why the fuck not?
He moves to the second and third buttons, the fourth, and slides the fabric from his arms. Moonlight bounces off his tanned flesh, highlighting his beautiful pectoral muscles.
I think he would have freckles on his shoulders, and . . .
Oh, fuck. I’m already coming.
Oh my god, I’m coming. And coming, and coming, and this is definitely better than when I was alive, holy Jesus.
Cum stripes my wrist, but I don’t check to see where the rest of it lands.
It’s just a shame that I didn’t get to imagine Trystan’s dick. I bet he has a beautiful dick. I steady my breath. Open my eyes. Pause.
I . . . could simply . . . go again.
I feel like I could keep going. I place my hand where it was, expecting to feel that usual sting of oversensitivity, a jolt that hits me all the way to the base of my spine, but this time, nothing.
Well, not nothing, it still feels amazing. Oh, okay, sure. I start stroking once more. Gingerly at first, because that’s what I’m used to, but it actually doesn’t need to be handled with extra care.
I close my eyes again and pick up where I left off. Trystan on the beach, unbuckling his belt—does he wear a belt? It doesn’t matter, he does now. It flops open. His fly is pulled down. His hand slides under the fabric of his underpants, freeing his cock.
He utters an adorable little “Uhhh” sound and—
Oh, wait, that was me in real life.
Damn, I never make noise, but fuck, this feels good. So fucking good. I speed up, vaguely cognizant of the slapping sounds my flesh makes, the grunts and whines emitting from my throat without consent. I’m already coming again.
Holy fuck, this is unreal.
Overhead, there’s a popping sound. Like opening a bag of crisps by squeezing one end. I’m showered with something. Maybe jizz, though probably glass from the light bulb. Who gives a fuck?
Oh no, I’ve come twice and I’m still going. Masturbation marathons might just be the ruin of me.
I bash out another three orgasms before I collapse in a heap on the floor. I can’t muster the energy to go outside and tell Trystan I’m done. I can’t even muster the energy to find my overalls.
There’s smashed glass and cum everywhere, and I seem to have blown out the battery casing in the clock, exploded the tiny TV in the corner, and the radio dock with three walkie?talkies nestled inside is smoking.
Whoops.
When I wake up, the glass is still there, covering every surface like iridescent glitter, but the jizz has vanished. Thank fuck. I’m also blissfully fully clothed again.
“Yeeew,” Trystan says, smirking from the sofa. “So . . . did you have fun last night?”
In the horrifying sobriety of daylight, I can only cringe. “I’m sorry. I got . . . silly. Very silly, actually.”
“Dude, don’t be.” He looks around at all the broken electrical items in the hut. The clock has stopped at three thirty. “I’m the reason they don’t have a newfangled electric cash register. I kept blowing them up.”
I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing, but Trystan’s already creasing.
“Mate, what the fuck was that? Why was that so good?” I decide not to be embarrassed, but to embrace this unexpected bonus of being dead.
“Honestly? Those were my exact thoughts when I found out that our ghost bodies could do that,” he replies.
I feel like I’m three beats behind every word he utters.
“Uh, did you—” I start, but Stove’s head appears through the side of the hut that’s flush with the rock face.
“Oh, good, you’re both here.” He takes in my hunched form on the floor and Trystan’s majestic command of the couch. “Something’s happened. You need to see this.”
On the TV in the bar, Officer Jazz and Officer Moustache, one of the plain?clothed detectives from yesterday, stand side by side, microphones clipped to their shirts. Jazz looks smart in her traditional police uniform, though she may have been wearing it all night.
The entire bar is transfixed on the screen.
Including Helga and Franny and about fifteen guests who have braved the early rise.
The only person not staring at the TV is Peter.
As usual, his eyes haven’t left his wife.
He’s also pretending to be drunk or hungover, or maybe he’s genuinely exhausted from watching the news all night.
The volume plays on what I assume is the loudest setting, but it’s still excruciatingly quiet. Subtitles roll along the bottom, wildly out of sync.
“We can confirm,” Moustache says. “That following a tip-off from an unknown source, human remains were found at a remote location just outside The Paragon Hotel, Helzephron, in the early hours of this morning.”
Jeanie floats above the guests. “Ooooh, how exciting.”
Moustache keeps talking. “Investigations are underway, but we believe the body to be that of Jean Johnson, better known as the actress Imogen Savona. Most people are aware that Jean went missing in the mid nineteen nineties, over thirty years ago, and was presumed dead seven years later, but she was a well-known and well-loved figure in . . .”
“Well-known and loved,” Jeanie reads aloud, grinning.
“ . . . area and in London where she lived most of the time. We are appealing to anyone who might have information about Jean’s disappearance to call us.
From the initial examination of Jean’s remains, we could ascertain that she received blunt force trauma to the base of her skull.
We are therefore treating the death as suspicious.
The Paragon Hotel will remain open for business, though unfortunately we will need to close a small portion while we conduct our investigations . . .”