Sex in the Time of Zombies

body: he felt satisfied, happy, and as lazy as a cloud drifting across the Carolina skies.

“Thank you, baby. Thank you, so much.”

His voice sounded distant and fuzzy to his own ears and when Carrie replied her words were thick and slurred.

“Couldn’t…”

She yawned and nuzzled her cheek against his chest slightly.

“Couldn’t let ya… die… a virgin… darlin’.”

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her with the last vestiges of his fading strength.

And he was tired… so damn tired…

They closed their eyes together and, with their naked bodies lying atop one another, allowed the beating of their hearts to lull them into the darkness of sleep.

Outside, the dead continued their assault on the trailer. More and more corpses joined the congregation and pieces of siding were ripped away as they clamored over each other. The hinges of the door had begun to creak as screws slowly gave way to the force being exerted on them. But it no longer mattered. For sitting on the kitchen counter within the trailer was a partially full bottle of wine; the bottle’s cork rested beside an empty bottle of sleeping pills that left a bitter aftertaste in the mouths of anyone who took them. And, just beneath the bottle, was a sheet of notebook paper. Written in careful script across the blue lines were the following words:

“Or bid me go into a new-made grave,
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud
Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble
And I will do it without fear or doubt…”

- William Shakespeare

Signed,

Luke James Gilford and Carrie Marie Tate

R.I.P

Food Whore

Yeah, I’ll admit it. I’ve sucked cock for as little as a half a tin of cat food a year past its expiration date. I’ve given handjobs for a few sips of water and have no problem spreadin’ my legs if the payoff is right. I mean, damn… it’s just sex, ya know? It’s hard enough making your way in this sorry excuse for a life. Some folks are blessed with strength and can drop an undead mother fucker with a single swing of an ax. Others got speed and agility: they run through the forests and old cities, bobbing and jumping and weaving like deers with their tails on fire. And then there’s the folks who got smarts. These brainiacs can build traps like you wouldn’t believe. Complicated shit too, but they just seem to pull these ideas outta their asses like it was nothing more than a worm that poked its head out to say howdy. Me? I ain’t got none of that stuff.

Back when there was still schools and shit, I’d always be the last one crossing the finish line in phys-ed. Huffin’ and puffin’ and so red in the face that I probably looked like a big, swollen penis. And fuck that whole climbing the rope bullshit. Only thing I ever got outta that little experience was friction burns all over my hands and an achin’ ass from falling off it over and over. In all my other classes, I did good enough to get by. I mean, I weren’t no retard or nothin’. But, at the same time, I wasn’t the one up there givin’ the speech at graduation neither.

So, ya see, I gotsta use what I got. And what I got are tits. What I got is an ass that just won’t stop and a pair of lips that could suck your soul right outta your pee hole. Shit, I know I ain’t nearly as pretty as I used to be. None of us are. We’re all nothin’ more than a buncha smelly, dirty, underfed skeletons that ain’t got the good sense to lay down and die. Clothes aren’t no more than rags really and most folks done given up on their hair altogether. Mats and tangles and little bird nest clumps that stick out all over the place… it’s enough to give a former beautician nightmares for life.

But me? I make damn sure I’ve got this little silver brush with me everywhere I go. Hundred strokes a night, right before bed, just like Granny Foster taught me. Keeps my hair as soft and dark as a raven’s feather. And that makes a lot of difference, ya know. I ain’t the only food whore out here. There’s stiff competition and anything that gives you an edge, you best be takin’.

Course, just as important as my little brush is this here knife. I like the way it’s small enough to hide in the palm of my hand so it’s always ready if’n I need it. See, most guys are perfectly happy to get their jollies, give you the food, and be on their way before the cum has even started to dry. But there’s also some sickos out there, believe you me. Real bastards who can’t get it up unless you’re screaming like a bobcat in a beartrap. There was even this one fella who liked to drink your tears after he done messed you up real bad like. Held you down and licked them right outta the corner of your eye as he shots his load all over your tits, if you can believe that. All the travelin’ girls talked about him the same way people used to talk about Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. But it was real twisted shit, ya know?

And Jamie Lynn Summers, she don’t play that game, no sir. You try to take more than what I’m willin’ to give and you’re gonna end up with the business end of this here knife sticking outta your throat sure as the sun comes up in the morning. I’ve done it before and as God as my witness. I’ll do it again. Just try me and it’ll make ya wonder why the hell weaklings and wimps were ever called pussies to begin with.

But most of the guys you meet out here, they’re okay, ya know? They’re just lonely and scared like the rest of us, lookin’ for a little comfort anywhere they can find it. And there ain’t nothing wrong with that, right? Hell, it’s almost like I’m performing a friggin’ public service.

Take Master Twinklebottom for example. Swear to God he made me call him that, though for the longest time I didn’t know why . But he was alright as far as people go. Back when all this shit first went down, he was a married man: wife, kid’s, good payin’ job and all that jazz. I suppose he reckoned life would just go on as it always had with the business meetings, PTA fundraisers, the rare date night with Mrs. Twinklebottom. And who could blame him?

Hell, ain’t a single one of us saw this comin’. It was like we all woke up one morning and found our nightmares had somehow followed us right outta our dreams, ya know?

Anyways, most folks who like havin’ that Master tagged to the beginnin’ of their name are into the kinky shit. I don’t ever let them tie me up or nothin’… that would just be plain stupid and Granny Foster didn’t raise no idjits. But if they wanna pinch my nipple, slap my ass, and call me a dirty bitch? I’m okay with that, as long as they got the food to pay for it. And that shit costs extra.

But Twinklebottom, he wasn’t like that at all. He was probably the most gentle guy I ever been with, truth be told. He took the time to actually caress instead of just grabbin’ a breast and yankin’ like a dog with a chew toy. He kissed my neck and trembled as my hair slid through his fingers. And he never just thrust it in there like it was some kind of fuckin’ Olympic event. No, he slipped in so softly that for a moment I always wondered if he was even hard. And then, as he rocked back and forth above me with his eyes closed, he started cryin’ so softly that you’d swear he never even knew those tears were leakin’ outta his eyes. And the entire time, he’s whisperin’ I love you, Monica, Monica, I love you….

I tried to tell him once that my name weren’t Monica; but he just looked at me with this sad little smile on his face and said, “When I’m with you, you are.”

Plum near broke my heart right then and there.

’Course, a girl can’t keep somethin’ like that to herself. Soon as he was gone, I went lookin’ for Ginger St. Claire, who’s about the closest thing I got to a friend in this world, I s’pose; Ginger’s also in the business but she deals with a pretty specific kind of client: the kind of guys who like other guys who look like girls, if ya get my meaning. From what I understand, back in the day, Miss Ginger was the reignin’ queen of the types of places that cotton to that lifestyle. She told me once that she could do backflips across the stage in three inch heels and go into