Dying just to ask for a taste.

Coffee. The sweet elixir of life, giver of energy and saviour of early mornings. Or just mornings in general. As I stand staring at the clock, sipping the bitter liquid, it just about beats a shot of vodka. Instantly I feel perked and toasty inside. Martin is still asleep. He was up all night doing whatever it is he does and I woke up several times to find him sprawled beside me on my double bed, either watching me sleep or reading a porno. He’s always been rather creepy like that. As for our interesting display yesterday evening, well, it’s a regular occurrence. Although it usually involves penetration and more than one of us getting our fill. Martin’s a real tease; and he loves it. Sighing, I take my coffee and post into the living room and sit down to watch some cartoons. One by one I flick through the letters. As much as I want to reply to the letters pleading for donations to one thing or another, I don’t because it would be both inappropriate and rude. Apart from my bank statement (telling me how my millions are keeping) there is only one other letter that catches my eye. The envelop is a deep crimson and it is sealed by white candle wax. ‘Samuel Stake’ is scribbled across it in black ink, so I’m certain that it’s meant for me. I turn it over in my hands, inspecting it from every possible angle and it isn’t until I read the fancy scrawl on the front that I realise what it is. The European society of Porphyric Haemophilia; or T.E.S.P.H for short. “Martin!” I yell, “MARTIN!” I hear a banging up stairs and then the pounding of feet on the stairs. Martin swings into the living room, his hair a wild mess and wearing only his black briefs. “What? Christ, are the police here?” he pants. “Why would the police be here?” “Er… no reason. But if they do stop by make up some excuse about me being incompetent and incapable of fraud.” I cock an eyebrow. Bloody idiot. “M’kay.” I shrug, “But look!” I hold up the envelop, “They replied, they finally wrote back!” “Have you opened it yet?” “Well no b-“ “How do you know they accepted then?!” “I don’t. I was just excited that it got here is all.” I lower my head and blush. The envelop is taken from my hands before I can even look back up. Martin rips open the seal and pulls out a single A4 sheet of paper. His eyes float over the page, his expression changing slowly from sober to somewhat surprised. He looks up at me then back down at the letter. “Well?” I ask. “You’re in.” He replies, “Fuck me.” I lean back in the seat and take several deep breaths. “Holy Mary and Joseph in a bed.” I sigh, my heart is pounding in my chest, and “Does it say anything else?” “Yeah. You have to be in Amsterdam by next weekend, you have to break all ties here and fake your own death.” “What?!” I sit forward, “How- wha – bloody hell.” Martin sniggers and passes me the sheet. There it is in black and white vintage scrawl. How the fuck am I meant to fake my own death? Who does that sort of thing anyway? Is there a service you can call? Martin flops to the floor, his legs crossed and his elbows rested on his knees. He puts his head in his hands and gazes up at me with a smart expression on his face. “So what are you going to do? Pull a Graham Cardwell?” “Who?” I ask. “Nevermind.” I stroke my chin as I pounder over the situation. Really, I don’t have to think too hard for too long, I wasn’t the only one who sent off a letter after all. Sarah, my best friend, had also sent one off. I reach for my mobile, which is residing on the coffee table, and punch in her number. “Who are you calling? A hit man?” Martin chimes. By now he has moved to sit cross legged in front of the television and is focusing on morning cartoons. "Sarah" He spins around. “Is she coming over!?” “Um…maybe.” He grins like a disturbingly demonic chestier cat and I know immediately what is on his mind. As always his head is in the gutter. “Is sex all you think about?” I snap. “No.” He looks down at his lap, “I was just asking because she is really nice to me and….and I like her.” There is a moment of silence before he looks up and begins to grin again, “Who am I kidding? She is hot!” “You never fail to amaze me.” I sigh. He pipes down as I put the mobile to my ear and wait for an answer. The dial tone is cut off straight away, there’s some excited fizzling and then an overly eager greeting. “Hello Sam!!” She sang, “Did you get a letter!?” “Yeah –“ She screeches in a very girly and enthusiastic manor before I can get another word in edgeways. I allow her to chatter on for another five minutes before I cut in with the problem at hand. “What about faking our own deaths?” I ask. “Oh. Well, we could just not go to work this week and fake a double suicide disappearance.” “Bodies, Sarah, what about bodies?” “Couldn’t Martin ask some of his shape shifter friends to stand in for us?” I am rather surprised that Martin has any friends and also that I hadn’t heard about them. He obviously tells more to Sarah than to me, which is rather hurtful if I am honest. “Oi Horney McGee! Could your shape shifter friends help out?” I ask. “Guess so.” I put the phone back to my ear, “Yeah they can.” “There, sorted! Let’s get on it ASAP!” I groan. “Sarah I am exhausted! Can’t we leave it until Monday?” “Okay.” She sounds crestfallen, “Can I at least come over and discuss methods? I am well bored!” I pinch the bridge of my nose and agree. She is my best friend, there is no denying that, but sometimes she is too much. Her mood swings, giddiness and ever changing obsessions are so tiring; I feel as if I have run a marathon just watching her sometimes. Martin finds her amusing and they seem to be able to ‘go at it’ for days at a time. She will be here in less than half an hour (she is always too early for everything) so I leave Martin to watch his cartoons and dash up stairs to change. I am not like your regular Bisexual guy. My clothing is not stylish or ‘hip’ and do not wear scarves (although the occasional hat is fine). I prefer to go with the more laid back, ‘half arsed’ look; basically a pair of snug fitting jeans, a t-shirt or shirt and a pair of sneakers. The clothing takes no effort; it’s the hair. Fucking auburn mess. Ten minutes later, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror thrusting my fingers through the strands. It’s sticking up at odd angles and curling at the tips. I reach for the comb sitting by the bath which is caked with Matins hair gel (at least I hope its hard gel). I run it under the tap and pick the gunk from between the teeth with my finger nails. It’s a daily chore on my part because I would have more luck teaching a cat to fly than getting Martin to listen to me. As I scrape the last of flaky goo off the comb the door bell chimes downstairs. Sarah usually walks on through the front door or she goes to the back which is always unlocked, so I know it’s not her. I’m just hoping it isn’t the police about Martin’s apparent fraud. As much as it pains me I leave my hair and dash down the stairs because usually Martin neglects to answer the door. Much to my surprise, Martin is already standing in the open doorway in nothing more than his black briefs. A tall guy, no more than 21, is stood on the door step in a blue Tesco shirt. A blush colours his cheeks and he tries, and fails, to stop himself from looking at Martins crouch area. I raise an accusing eyebrow at him and clear my throat. “I…I am here with your order.” He stammers. “Bring it round the back way into the kitchen.” I say and he jumps to his duty immediately. Martin saunters idly back into the living room and I move to open the back door. The young man starts placing the bags of groceries on the counter and I leave him to it and go back upstairs to fix my hair. I trust that Martin will watch him; can’t have another toaster going missing or, god forbid, the wine rack. Twenty minutes later and I give up. As I apply my after shave I begin to wonder if the young Tesco boy is gone. I assume he is because I really don’t think they pack the stuff away for you as well. Do they? The point is, he was rather attractive and I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for breaking wind. I really should have gotten his number though. It isn’t until I jog down the stairs and approach the kitchen that I hear a whimpering growl; one I know all too well. There on the kitchen table are Martin and Tesco boy. The boy is on his back, trousers and underwear around his ankles and spine arched in ecstasy. Martin is thrusting hard and fast into him, his hands holding the boys arms down and his mouth biting him all over. I grow hard, despite my disapproval, and I can’t seem to take my eyes off the hot boy sex. Various groceries are laid out on the table, each shaking with the violent power of their passion. The curtains are wide open, as is the back door, and I am just hoping that there are no children peeking through the hedges. Sex is a way of life, yes, but not for the eyes of a curious eight year old. The boy screams out as he comes all over Martin’s stomach. Martin makes one final thrust and muffles his grown against the boys shoulder. His arm moves of its own accord and sends the king sized jar of coffee smashing to the floor. Tesco boy looks up at me through glazed eyes .His blush deepens. Martin looks round as well and smirks. “Every little does help!” *** The only time I have ever known Sarah to be late was last spring when she had that pregnancy scare. She is always on time or before time; Time has no leash on her! I am the pin point opposite. I am late for everything; probably even my own funeral. But today she is over twenty minutes late, arriving at half one. As usual she walks on through the front door, her heels clicking on the floor, and falls into the comfy recliner by the window. I watch her from the sofa. Her red pixie cut is neatly tucked behind her pierced ears and the makeup around her eyes is dark and sparkled. She grins from ear to ear, obviously still excited about her letter. I open my mouth to ask her would she like a coffee but she beats me too it. “Black, no sugar.” She says before quickly adding, “And a bickie if you have one!” So I do that while she and Martin gossip in the living room. I hear the society mentioned several times in the course of those three minutes and I just know that she is not going to leave this until Monday. I lift the two mugs and retreat back into the room. Martin is sitting on the arm of Sarah’s chair. She is smiling up at him, her hand on his trouser – clad thigh and her other arm resting on her lap. He simply gazes at her with that seductive charm of his. In that moment I am glad that we are leaving. Martin may be a lover of both sexes but it’s only for the genitalia, not for the heart. As a woman, Sarah loves with her soul and not her clit. Martin would only hurt her if they got involved with each other anymore than they already are. I set the coffee onto the table and my presence breaks up their conversation. Martin moves to the floor once he catches the hard stare I am giving him. I fall back into my seat. “You’re lucky our delivery boy had another jar of that in the truck.” I say pointing to her coffee, “Our own was a little…shaken up.” Martin snorts as he tries to conceal his laughter. Sarah looks at him and raises a thin eyebrow before looking back over to me. I roll my eyes. “What do you mean?” She asks. “So I am fixing my hair.” I begin, “And the Tesco delivery boy arrives. I let him in and ‘Horney McGee’ returns to his cartoons. I go back up and come down twenty minutes later to find him,” I point accusingly at Martin, “and said Tesco boy fucking on the kitchen table.” Sarah laughs. “I would pay money to see that!” “Yes, well, be glad you don’t have that image burned into your skull. The whole fucking kitchen smells like sex.” Martin ‘mmmm’s, “You got to love the smell of spunk in the morning!” “Was he cute?” Sarah turns to Martin, “Was he well worth the five pound extra?” Martin pulls a face. “He was ….tolerable.” Wrong. He was a hot piece of ass with a huge fucking member. Martin can be a real picky bastard sometimes. He thinks he is the devils gift to anything with a libido. But I honestly can’t be bothered arguing. I let him and Sarah converse about the delivery boy for a few more moments while I sit back and sip my coffee. It is far too early in the day to deal with their enthusiasm. It isn’t long before Sarah moves off in the direction of our letters. “So.Monday.” She says, “What’s the plan?” I shrug, “Haven’t thought about it really. “ “Why? We need to plan this! We need to get it right!” She frowns. “We have the shape shifters, what else do we need?” “Methods, notes, places: This needs to be perfect!” I look to Martin who is staring up at her with a dreamy expression on her face. God, these two are so alike, it’s criminal. “Discuss it with him,” I point to the demon, “Then report back. I have things to do.” “More important than planning your own suicide?” ‘Planning my own suicide’. I haven’t heard those words since I was an angst bitten teenager. I decline and leave them too it. They move into the kitchen, Martin takes some A3 paper from the office and felt tip pens and Sarah starts planning her suicide note. What better way is there to spend your Saturday? Meanwhile, I grab my coat, my keys and head out back to my car. I have some interesting shopping to do.