the mattress mistress

Love hurts. In fact, it literally kills people some people. I do not believe this happens is because love is bad, or evil. Love is pure, like salt. Love also knows no boundaries. This can be dangerous in the wrong person’s hands. The motives of one pursuing love must be as pure as the driven snow, because of love’s all-encompassing elements. When this reverence is not observed the result is devastating. Love will buck and break itself much like a poorly trained pit bull. The ensuing disaster can be fatal. The 1990s brought on such a tragedy for one unlucky man.
He was in his 50s and his quest for love was driven my vanity. He took a young girl to be his beautiful trophy. I thing to dote over and look sweet on his increasingly-aged arm.
I imagine the events to have transpired like this:
He surprised her with a jet-setting trip for a few days, because she loved spontaneity. It reminded him of his younger days and he felt young by proxy. As they wandered through the bustling airport to their departure gate, he got very light-headed and needed to sit down for a spell. He chalked it up to dehydration and did not want to upset his sweet Juliet before their romantic get away.
They had dinner reservations and a night of painting the town red on the agenda. As she primped herself in the suite’s vanity mirror, he presented her with a bejeweled necklace. It resembled a strand of twinkling raindrops resting serenely on her emaciated and protruding collarbone. She loved it!
They enjoyed a four-course meal and the finest of champagne. The bubbles tickled their noses ever so slightly and buoyed their spirits to a state of effervescence. They danced until they believed they could not dance anymore. Then, they danced all the way home.
The intensity of their evening came to a head on the 400-thread count, Egyptian cotton sheets. He loved the moistness of her young, supple skin pressed against the thread-bare dregs of his life-atrophied body while he thrust and thrashed on top of her. She often had a glassy, distant look in her eyes when he exploded and shuddered in the briefest of deaths. He would tell her he often saw a light at the end of the tunnel at the moment he was cumming inside of her. He was preparing himself for the sweet surrender. The flash of bright, vivid colors that flooded his plane of vision and the dancing of the hairs all down his spine. This time instead of color, he saw the best moments of his life and then black.
He was found in an Accra hotel room. The body he left behind was completely void of dress, his mouth brimming with the foam of a rabid dog trying desperately to control an infectious disease. For this man, it was love. He could not keep up with his Juliet and his heart gave out. The young woman left the hotel without declaration and her identity may never be known.
Urban legend has it that the events of his death transpired on Valentine’s Day. Incidentally, no one has ever died on Single’s Awareness Day.