Bury Me With It
by J. Bradley
Dave Matthews â€œGravediggerâ€ plays when Six Feet Undercovers finishes loading on my browser.
â€œYou need to fuck someone so hard, your dick will feel like a burning bridge.â€ Tom says, sitting next to me. â€œThis site will hook you up.â€
Six Feet Undercovers is an NSA sex site for widows and widowers. According to the guidelines beneath the coffin lid of Join: to prove you’ve lost a loved one, you have to send a photo of the two of you, your spouse’s death certificate, your spouse’s obituary, and an application fee of $150.
â€œYou gonna do it, dude?â€ Tom nudges my ribs. Dave Matthews howls about digging shallow graves to feel the rain.
It didn’t rain at Sharon’s funeral; God had nothing to cry about. No one said it but I could tell her family and friends thought it as they baked in their black outfits, their umbrellas equally tight lipped.
â€œI can’t believe she pulled an Aalyiahâ€, Tom muttered between the priest’s eulogy.
An Aalyiah, named after the R&B singer Aalyiah, is when you die in a way that was entirely preventable. The tragedy is in the stupidity of how it happened, not that it happened.
A week after sending in my application packet, I got a silver foil coffin shaped envelope in the mail. Inside, I found a letter
We at Six Feet Undercovers understand what you are going through and appreciate the process of letting go. We hereby invite you to a new way of letting go with someone who also understands what you are going through. On the back of this letter, you will find your invite code that will grant you access to our site where you can meet widows and widowers who share your sense of loss and appreciate more what they could gain from you. Congratulations and our deepest, heartfelt condolences.
Raymond R. Charmaigne, CEO
Six Feet Undercovers
‘Get grieving, get busy, get living at Six Feet Undercovers’
â€œHoney, I’m going to take a shower and get freshened up for tonight. Give me about twenty minutes,â€ Sharon said. The Atlantic formed from the beneath the door, sopped up by the shore of the bedroom carpet. I haven’t been able to wash the boot mark from the space between the knob and the frame.
Mary’s husband died from a car accident, the other driver’s fault, she claims. In the profile photo, her mouth looks as wet as her eyes. A hunting accident claimed Leona’s husband’s face, her cheeks not enough for him to stay home and pretend she is the doe he always wanted to mount on his wall. Cancer and caregiving claimed two years of Fiona’s sexual appetite. Matt has a face a mother wants to destroy after a John Mayer concert with her vulva. I thought grief would make eyes and arms and mouths and hips fallow, but there’s salaciousness in all of this loss; I want to fuck everyone I see.
â€œDude, you can’t say she died because she was trying to see if sharks could give good head,â€ Tom says.
â€œWhy not,â€ I ask between swallows of Corona.
â€œWould you fuck someone who fucked someone that had a shark fetish? Widows are sad and horny, not desperate.â€
â€œBut it would be a good conversation starter.â€
â€œLies are not the best way to start a relationship, even one that’s NSA.â€
When I found her, the running shower head sent the blood hemorrhaging from the back of her head down the drain. The medical examiner confirmed the gun I found in her right hand had no bullets. He also found wounds that fit the gun sight on her vaginal walls.
Six Feet Undercovers requires you to have what caused your spouse’s death on your profile. Similar losses normally help with the bonding process, sharing minor differences over drinks, looking for things that remind you of your spouse in strangers. I put â€œbrain hemorrhageâ€. It’s time to get grieving, get busy, get living.
Bury Me With It