STORY: My Last Party


Posted by Strange Dog on August 26, 2006 at 03:49:30:

My Last Party

by Strange Dog

An hour from now I will get in my limo and ride to my deathday party, so I need to think seriously about what I’m going to wear. It’s critical for a supermodel like me that her last fashion statement be perfect. Deathday parties for supermodels are, obviously, major social events. I know that everybody is going to be there to see me laid out dead in my casket. And not just my friends and family, but the photographers for Vogue and Women’s Wear Daily too. The pictures they take of me dead in my casket will be the lead features in fashion magazines around the world for a month after I die . . . and those pictures will determine how I will be remembered for the rest of time. . . .

. . . Time. What a concept. What it means to people. I was just a little girl when the New Governing Authority decreed the New Social Rules, mostly in a desperate attempt to deal with the global overpopulation crisis. When the rules first became public, I couldn’t understand why my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, teachers—every grownup I knew—seemed like they wanted to cry every time they looked at me. I caught on after awhile. One of the new rules was that every woman on the planet would be placed in a “Beauty Category” when she turned sixteen. A panel of judges appointed by the New Governing Authority would meet periodically in every major city to assign each year’s crop of sixteen-year-old girls into their categories. Beauty Category “A” was reserved for the top five percent—goddesses on earth who were perfect in every feature of face and figure. It went downhill from there through the remaining letters of the alphabet.

The whole point was that every woman in Beauty Category A would be put to death on her twenty-ninth birthday. Twenty-nine was judged to be the age at which a beautiful young woman was about to pass out of her prime and go into decline. And at that point, a beautiful young woman loses her usefulness to society, you see. To sweeten the deal, every woman in Beauty Category A was encouraged to select her own means of death based on her own desires and sense of aesthetics. To keep everyone honest, any Category A woman who intentionally disfigured herself in an attempt to escape death at the age of twenty-nine would be prosecuted, convicted, and executed under torture in the most hideous and painful way the state could devise. Any friend or relative of a
Category A woman who disfigured her in an attempt to prolong her life would suffer the same fate. And even if a Category A woman passively allowed herself to get fat and ugly with bad lifestyle choices, still, she would be put to death on her twenty-ninth birthday to make the public point that there was no escape. So—it just made sense for a Category A woman to accept her fate and to maintain her beauty so she could make a beautiful exit.

Anyway, I was about five when all those rules came out. And to their sorrow, all the grownups I knew foresaw that one day I would be in Category A. World-class feminine beauty can be discerned at an early age and so it was with me.

From the age of five then, everybody who knew me was nicer to me than they were to other girls. They knew that my time on this earth . . . there’s that word,
“time” . . . was going to be short. People seemed to want to assuage their guilt by making sure that my “time,” as short as it was, was especially happy. All that kind attention from people became part of me. By the time I was ten, I just assumed it to be true that I was somebody special, that I had a special fate waiting for me, and that I deserved special treatment. I knew that I was beautiful, that I would one day die for my beauty, and that, hopefully, I would be beautiful in my death. I knew I was a martyr-to-be for beauty. That’s a melancholy state of mind for a ten-year-old girl to have, but it was a sweet melancholy.

Time . . . time went by. About three weeks or so after my sixteenth birthday, the panel of judges from the New Governing Authority made their yearly visit to my town. It was my—time—to stand before them. My mother dressed me as nondescriptly as she could, and she made doubly and trebly sure that I was wearing not a speck of makeup. I went to my high school on the appointed day. I stood in line on the gym floor with about a hundred or so other girls my age. After about an hour, it was my turn to turn to stand in front of the long table behind which sat the judges. My mom’s efforts were to no avail. It took all of ten seconds, not even that, for the judges to look me up and down, tally their votes, and formally announce that I, Guinevere Jones, was assigned to Beauty Category A. It’s funny how different people react to the same news. My friend Sally was also put in Category A. At the instant the judges announced their decision, she put her hands to her face and broke down in convulsive sobs while her mother let out a shriek and collapsed to the floor. There was one other girl in the gym that day who was put in Category A. I sorta knew her—her name was Linda. When she understood what the judges had decided for her, she got the biggest, happiest smile on her face I think I’ve ever seen. She even pumped her fist in the air as she moved away from the judges’ table to make room for the next girl. She was so into the whole beauty-and-popularity-thing that she took the judges’ decision as the most important mark of status in the world to her. As I remember, my own reaction was a blasé acceptance of the inevitable. My mother just hugged me silently and then we drove home, not saying very much.

Actually, I felt kind of relieved to finally become an official member of Category A. There were no longer any questions or uncertainties to cloud my mind. My future was now as clear as it could be. I had thirteen years left to live. I had a specified and certain amount of “time” left to live and I could count down the days as that specified and certain amount of time ran its course.

To paraphrase Samuel Johnson, the fact that I could count the days I had left to live concentrated my mind wonderfully. My life decisions became surprisingly easy. Becoming a fashion model was an easy and obvious career choice. For obvious reasons, the female fashion model community was notable for its solidarity and the way members of that community were always warmly supportive of each other. The fact that all the people in your career group are going to die on their twenty-ninth birthdays is a powerful thing to have in common.

Notwithstanding my career choice, I still decided to stay in school until graduation and to strive for good grades. I’m a beauty but not a bimbo. I have a brain and I enjoy filling it with knowledge and using that knowledge. Notice that I can quote Samuel Johnson, for example. But being a good student did not mean giving up my social life, and believe me, being in Category A is the best thing that can happen to a high school girl’s social life. That’s what Linda was so happy about that day in the gym. Along with Sally and Linda, I was one of three certified darlings of my high school class. I never lacked for attention. I never lacked for dates. Every step I took down the corridors of that high school, every boy who saw me knew who I was and what I was. Every time one of my whims became known, cute boys would be tripping over themselves to gratify it. The mystique of my impending martyrdom for beauty gave me a fascination and allure far beyond what my mere physical beauty could give me on its own. I loved it. And I’m still loving it as my last days shrink to my last hours as I approach the end of my . . . time.

The attention I enjoyed in high school became several multiples more intense after I graduated and became a model—and then a certified supermodel. It was a riot to see my face regularly featured on tabloids and in TV entertainment news. All the vices traditionally associated with fashion models became accentuated under the New Social Rules promulgated by the New Governing Authority. And those vices acquired a veneer of sanctity because everyone knew the certain fate of the beautiful women exercising those vices. The wild parties. The wild vacations. The wild spending sprees. The wild sex. It all became a high-glitter sacrificial dance of death that you could set to Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring.” Yes, I loved it. I reveled in it. I squeezed more and more self-indulgent thrills out of each day as my days got fewer and fewer while my “time” careered on its way. But I didn’t let all that self-indulgence spoil my looks. I was ruthlessly self-disciplined about my diet and exercise and I took it easy on the drugs and booze. I kept my mind focused on my determination to be as beautiful in death as I was in life. I was determined that the pictures taken of me dead in my casket be the most beautiful pictures of me ever taken.

A month ago, I gave the New Governing Authority official notice of how I want to die. I told them I want to be shot twice in my chest, between my breasts, straight through my heart. I want the weapon used to be a twenty-two caliber pistol so the bullet holes and bloodstains will be small and neat. Also, with such small bullets striking my chest, I will not be knocked sprawling in an ungainly, un-model-like way. I will be able to let myself sink down to die slowly and gracefully. My plan is to have my casket set up on a platform at one end of the big ballroom where my party is to be held. As my party reaches its crescendo, I will use a stepladder to climb up to, and then daintily step into, my casket. I will stand up in my casket near the foot end and call for the attention of all the party goers, who should be well-liquored by then. I will make my obligatory thanks-for-coming-I-love-you-all-now-goodbye speech. Then I will turn ninety degrees to face the man assigned to kill me by the New Governing Authority. He will be standing on a table a few yards from me to give himself a clear shot.
“Sandman” is the name we Category A girls give to these guys. How cute. I will make eye contact with him. I will give him a little nod to indicate that I’m ready. A bang-bang will fill the ballroom. Two bullets will drill into the middle of my chest and pierce my heart. I will use my last dying strength to control my last body movements. I will lay myself out full length in my casket as neatly and gracefully as I can. My last conscious sensation will be of myself lying supine in my casket with two bullets embedded deep in my chest. And then I will die. The doctor assigned to my party will step up to my casket, place his stethoscope to my chest, hear nothing, and then turn to the audience and pronounce me dead. And then it will be time for my friends, my family—and the photographers for all the fashion magazines—to be amazed at what a beautiful and fashionable corpse I am. My fame as a dead beauty will be eternal. That’s my plan, anyway.

Now then—what to wear? Whatever I wear, it must beautifully display two small, neat, round red bloodstains in the middle of my chest. The best fabric color to achieve that is a light, powder shade of blue, so, whatever I decide to wear, it will have that coloration. The casket I ordered has a light blue lining specifically to color-coordinate with whatever I eventually decide to wear. But what to wear in light blue? A light blue, skin-tight turtleneck sweater tucked into a dark blue, knee-length skirt with boots? That would give a sweet, cozy look while I lie in my casket. A light blue, floor-length formal sheath gown with an Empire-style high waistline and snug bodice? Talk about high style to die for. Hmmm. Guinevere, I say to myself, go with the clothes that make you feel your best. And the clothes that make me feel best are simple, austere, but classic, office professional woman shirt-skirt-heels. So—a plain but elegant light blue button-front shirt it will be. Snugly tucked into a dark blue short skirt. With the right pair of high heels on my feet. Yes. Perfect. A plain but sharp, crisp, light blue shirt, snugly tucked into a skirt, will create smooth, sleek surfaces of cloth over my torso. Now that will make a pair of small, discreet bullet holes with red bloodstains look handsome indeed. And the middle button of my shirt, where it fastens centered between my breasts, will provide the perfect point of aim for my Sandman.

I get myself dressed, quickly and efficiently, but not hastily. I have time to ensure that everything is just so before my limo driver rings my doorbell and I use that time well. There, I’m done. I stand in front of my full-length mirror for the last time and give myself my final looking-over.

I am tall, slender, lithe, and attractively muscled. I make myself seem even taller, the way I carry my shoulders proudly up and back and my head erect. My austerely beautiful facial features add to my regal look. My cheekbones are high and sharp, my jaw clean and firm, my nose long, narrow, and straight. My lips are sensually full, but without exaggeration. And my eyes—my eyes are dark and deep, yet, when the light catches them, they seem to radiate a shower of sparkles from where they are set in my fair-complexioned face. My hair seems to be any shade between medium brown and ash blonde depending on how each long lock lies beneath the light. I wear it long, simple, and straight, parted down the middle. It falls past my shoulders in a natural mane and goes down my back outside the collar of my shirt.

Like my facial features, my clothes are simple and sharp yet consummately elegant. I wear a plain but crisp looking shirt, light blue in color. My shirt has long sleeves with turn-back style French cuffs fastened with conservative silver cufflinks. My shirt has three buttons down the front, plus two more at the collar. The lower button is just above my navel and the middle button lies low on my heart, perfectly centered between my breasts. I always fasten the lower shirt button at my tummy and the middle button at my heart. The upper button of my shirt is at the upper part of my chest. This upper button, and the two buttons at my collar, I leave undone, revealing the smooth flesh of my upper chest in a plunging “vee” neckline. My wide, long, pointy shirt collar forms angular planes of cloth that complement the angularities of my facial features. About my neck is a choker necklace of dark blue and dark red American Indian beadwork. I wear my shirt tucked into a slim, simple, dark blue “A-line” miniskirt. My skirt is not a super-short “slut” skirt—it is of a ladylike length, but it still ends well above my knees. My skirt does not have a belt, per se—rather, it has a broad, snug-fitting waistband which laces up in front in the peasant style. The waistband of my skirt snugly gathers in my shirt, accentuating the contours of my ample but firm boobies. And my high heels—my dark blue high-heeled, open-toe, strappy sandals give me an added few inches that make me an imposing tower of beauty.

Brrrrrrng. There’s my limo driver at my doorbell. Right on time. I make eye contact with myself in the mirror one last time. I perfect my facial expression of serene, willing acceptance. I give myself a little nod. I break eye contact with myself, turn away from the mirror, and go to answer my door.

I open the door.

“Good evening, Miss Jones.” My limo driver doffs his hat and bows slightly. He puts on his practiced act of obsequiousness to good effect—but I think I detect a note of sincerity in his manner that isn’t usually there. He knows he’s taking me on a one-way ride.

“Hi, Phil” I say rather blankly. “Let’s be on our way.” I close my apartment door behind me and follow Phil down the corridor to the elevator. I have no need to encumber myself with a purse so I leave it behind in my apartment—the first time I have ever done that when I went out wearing high heels.

A quick elevator ride down to the lobby and we’re breezing out to where the limo waits at the curb. The doorman smiles at me and touches his cap. I respond with a wan smile and nonchalant wave. Phil opens the door for me and I get comfortably situated in the rear passenger seat. Phil takes his place, turns the ignition key, puts it in gear, and we’re off.

I watch the city of my wildly spent youth scroll past as we travel the streets to the ballroom. It’s just dusk. In the gently fading light, I see the places where I made my happiness happen. The boutiques, the discos, the cafes, the theaters—even the library where I really did enjoy looking through the stacks for the occasional rare edition book I was interested in.

After a stop for a red light, we turn the last corner onto the street where a grand hotel ballroom has been rented for my last party. As my business manager at my modeling agency had assured me, the red carpet is out. A seriously large throng of excited-looking people fills the street. Phil expertly brings the limo to a stop so that my door will open directly onto the red carpet. He puts the limo in “park,” gets out, and opens my door for me. I pivot in my seat, place my long, shapely, high-heeled legs out the door, and emerge from the limo as the crowd bursts into its star-struck shriek. I perform my well-practiced celebrity stride down the carpet as the staccato of hundreds of paparazzi cameras fills the air. I smile and wave to everyone in general and no one in particular. I make the most momentary eye contact with a TV social news reporter as she speaks into her microphone with her cameraman beside her. She’s a fine-looking, probably Category B, sort of woman in a sharp business suit. She discerns from the look in my eye and the vigor of my strides that I’m really not interested in a final interview.

I enter the lobby of the deluxe big city hotel as the photoflashes make it a bit difficult to see wear I’m going. I keep breezing on my way, and enter the big double doors of the grand ballroom.

“Guin! Guin! GUIN! . . . Guineveeeeere!”

The horde of invited family, friends, and associates shouts my name in a discordant cacophony.

The huge central expanse of the ballroom is recessed about three feet into the ground. I thus can see everyone, and everyone can see me, as I stand at the elevated level of the entrance door. I give a vigorous wave this time and warmly shout “Hiya!” to which everyone responds with a cheer. I note that my open and empty casket, light blue lining included, is set up on a dais at the far end of the cavernous room, just as I had specified. Good. You can sometimes find competent help that can follow directions these days.

I descend the short staircase to the level of the main dance floor and start the serious business of working a room. It’s essential that I show due consideration to everybody here—my posthumous reputation depends on it.

I had told my deejay that I want highly danceable 80s period pop to be the dominant theme, and as I move about the huge room greeting people, I’m pleased at the mix of Jennifer Rush, Pat Benatar, Kenny G, and Belinda Carlisle with which he has the place thumping.

My mom and dad, as they previously told me would be the case, are not here. Too much for them to stand. I twinge briefly at the memory of my final phone conversation with them last night.

But here’s my brother Carl. He makes eye contact with me. His eyes start to well up and his face starts to crack and then he envelops me in the strongest bear hug I can remember. After a long moment he lets me go and I can see he used the time he was hugging me to put his face back together.

“Hello, Guin. Hello and good-bye . . . I don’t think I’ll watch you get shot. But I may come over and kiss you on your cheek when you’re in your casket after everyone else leaves.”

“Sure, Carl, that’s fine. Give my best to mom and dad.”

I stand up on my tiptoes, place my hands on either side of his face, and plant a kiss on his forehead. I look straight into his eyes and say, “Now please—let me go. To talk to all these people, I mean.”

He just gives me a silent little nod of his head and I pivot on my high heels to turn my attention to the others.

“Guin! Guin! Over here!”

It’s my two best friends from my modeling agency, Courtney and Pamela. Courtney is up on her tiptoes waving to get my attention. I wend my way to them through the rapidly evermore inebriated dancing throng, the music reverberating in everyone’s eardrums. Fashionable minds think at least partially alike. Courtney and Pamela are wearing variations of the other two fashion looks I was considering wearing tonight. Courtney is wearing a tight lavender turtleneck sweater tucked into a calf-length black skirt with black boots. Pamela is wearing a sleek, austere, high-waisted sheath gown in a shiny, metallic, aqua-green silk.

“Guin! We love what you’re wearing tonight!” chirps the irrepressible Courtney.

“And how!” affirms the more dignified Pamela.

“That light blue shirt will show off the bloodstains beautifully—and that deep “vee” neckline where the upper half of your shirt is open from the top leads the eye right to your heart where the bullet holes will be,” Courtney goes on. “And that short skirt and those heels—you’ll have legs for miles when you’re lying in your casket.”

“Yup, I planned it that way,” I reply laconically. Pamela speaks up.

“Courtney and I are wearing what we plan to wear for our deathday parties. We’ve got a couple more years to finalize it, but we think we’re pretty firm. These clothes best flatter our different looks. Like you, we’re planning on getting shot through the heart, but only one bullet, maybe in a larger caliber, not two. Anyway, it’s all about nice looking bloodstains on the cloth centered between your boobs.”

“Uh huh,” I affirm, meaning to convey more conviction than it probably sounds like.

“So—Guin,” Courtney interjects, her manner more grave than is usual for her. “What are you thinking now? I mean, where’s your head?”

I lay back my head and stare up at the ceiling a moment to compose an answer. I bring my head back to the level and search the eyes of my friends with my eyes. I speak.

“Well ladies . . . the old saying goes that ‘Death is the best orgasm of all—that’s why they save it for last.’ Well . . . in less than an hour I’m going to find out.”

Both my friends’ eyes well up, and unlike Carl, they make no attempt to hide the fact. They take turns hugging me as hard as they can.

“Good-bye, Guin” they each say. “Give us a beautiful show,” Courtney adds.

“Good-bye, girls.” And with a nod, I turn and continue to make my rounds of the room.

On and on it goes . . . conversation after conversation, each conversation with each person truncated so I can move on to the next person. It seems a bit cold, but everybody seems to understand my obligation to at least exchange pleasantries with everyone here. And the dance music thumps away. And the people gyrate out on the dance floor. And the liquor flows. My conversations become less and less coherent as people become more and more full of their potent beverages of choice. But as for myself, I abstain from sipping more than a single glass of Chardonnay. I want my head clear for that supposed final orgasm of orgasms . . . I wonder if I will open my eyes on the Other Side and find myself in some sort of New Universe . . . it’s odd that Category A fashion models aren’t more into religion than we are . . . as if to be laid out in beautiful dead glory for everyone to admire is heaven enough.

“Guin! Yoo-hooooo, Guin!”

I look across the room to see Maggie, the C.E.O. of my modeling agency, waving to get my attention. I leave my now-empty glass of Chardonnay on a small, round table, and weave through the masses to meet her in a recessed alcove off the main dance floor. She’s a striking forty-something Category B woman, dressed, as always, in an immaculately tailored business suit.

“Hello, Guin,” she smiles at me a bit icily as I approach her. “Your instincts are right, as always. Shirt—skirt—heels; that is the best look for you.”

“Thanks, Maggie,” I say as I come face to face with her. “You look great too—as always.”

“Thanks, dear,” she replies, trying to make me feel like her daughter but not quite making it. “You’re truly a star.”

I know what Maggie is thinking, but has too much class to bring up with me, given the situation. So I broach the topic myself. “Maggie, do you think the intake from admission fees will cover expenses?”

A shadow flickers across her face as she realizes that I know that her first concern is always the bottom line. She only halfway brightens up again.

“Easily Guin, easily,” she says solemnly.

We look deeply into each other’s eyes with a deep ambivalence. I break eye contact and look at my wrist watch. Five minutes to midnight. Five minutes to my death with two bullets in my heart. There will be no portentous strike of midnight sounded on some big clock. It’s up to me to make the appropriate move when my own watch tells me it’s time. It’s time.

“Good-bye, Maggie”

She gives me a solemn nod and I turn away.

I navigate across the ballroom for the last time. My eyes fixed on my casket up on the dais, I am still able to sense that some of the revelers understand that they are watching me take my final walk.

I reach the step ladder. I climb up, step into my casket, and turn to face . . . “the multitudes.”

About twenty percent of the people are already silent as they gaze fixedly up at me. I need to get the attention of the still-rollicking eighty percent.

“Hello! Hey everybody!” I shout, waving my right hand in air.

There is a chorus of “Hey, shut up, be quiet, Guin is talking to us,” et cetera as helpful souls assist me in quieting the mob. Their efforts are surprisingly effective. Within seconds, a few hundred mostly bleary pairs of eyes are riveted on me. The music has ceased.

I can now speak in a moderated tone and still have everyone hear me.

“Hello all of you.” I smirk. “And good-bye. I love you all and it means a lot to me to see you all here. Each and every one of you has done something to make my life beautiful . . . and I will be grateful to each and every one of you for the rest of my life.” There is an immediate mixed chorus of groans and guffaws. I continue. “But seriously. It’s time for my beautiful life to end. I just hope that the end of my life is the most beautiful part of my life. And so . . . this is it. Sandman!”

I turn in my casket to face my Sandman, being careful not to trip and fall as my high heels mesh with the upholstered lining of the casket bottom. I see him right where he’s supposed to be, standing on a table about twenty feet from where I stand at the foot end of my casket. That black Ninja suit he’s wearing with black face scarf is a bit much but oh well. I stand up proud and straight, head up, shoulders back, my willing chest thrust forward to receive the bullets. The sound of him pulling back the slide on his pistol and letting it go to chamber the first bullet fills the enormous and otherwise—deathly—silent room. My Sandman and I make a distant but firm eye contact. He levels his pistol at the middle button of my shirt where it fastens between my breasts, at the perfect center of my chest—at my heart. I give him the slightest nod of my head.

Light travels faster than sound, so I see the two muzzle flashes before I hear anything.

Bang! Bang!

“Unh! Unh!”

My cry of sudden pain has two distinct syllables as I feel a first and then a second bullet bore into my chest a fraction of a second apart. The first bullet hits me one inch directly below my middle shirt button. The second bullet hits me immediately above my middle button. I have two holes in my chest, one directly above the other, perfectly centered in the valley between my boobs. I feel little spurts of blood shoot out of the two holes in my chest. I feel two little circles of the cloth of my shirt get wet and sticky around each bullet hole. My killer has decorated the front of my smooth, crisp, light blue shirt with two small, neat, wet, round little red holes.

The sensations of first one bullet and then a second bullet tearing through my anatomy create a flood of perceptions that flow over my brain in slow motion. Every time the first bullet creates a new physical sensation as it drills its way through my body, that sensation is instantly overtaken and overwhelmed by a new sensation caused by the second bullet as it makes its own way through me. Each sensation lasts for an infinitesimally brief moment, but, for my mind, the totality of sensations creates an eternity of suspended time.

I feel the first bullet touch and then punch through my skin low on my chest and then I feel it bore through the softness of my flesh as it passes below the lower end of my sternum. But just as I feel the first bullet pass beneath my sternum to sink deeper within me, I feel my sternum shatter from the impact of the second bullet. I feel the first bullet shudder to a stop, deep within my lower chest, just below my heart—but then I feel shards of my shattered sternum go ripping and spinning through my heart. And then—and then, I feel the second bullet rupture the front wall of my heart. I feel the hot, heavy lead slug shove its way into the very center of my heart and I feel it come to rest there. I feel my heart thump and thud, throb and burn, as it desperately strives to keep on beating around the spent bullet embedded deep within it.

At the instant of impact, my eyes slam shut, my head rocks back, my chest thrusts itself out, my back arches, my forearms fly up and out to each side, and my hands splay open, the fingers spread wide. My body locks itself in that position like a statue, even while I feel a stunning pulse of pain surge through every atom of my body. I feel my knees lock beneath me, holding me upright in temporary denial of Death.

I hear the chorus of gasps and cries that surges up from my audience. And . . . just as I planned with my deejay, Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor” erupts from the sound system. If this death orgasm thing is all it’s cracked up to be, I’m going to experience it with the most thunderous organ music in the repertoire echoing in my ears.

The grimace on my face softens into a beatific expression of erotic pleasure.

Because I know my audience would be disappointed if I don’t, I loudly cry out . . . “You got me!”

I slowly let myself submit to the twin forces of death and gravity that are pulling me down. I have practiced these moves repeatedly in a casket I rented from a funeral home. I practiced them trying to replicate in my mind the feeling of two bullets lodged deep in my chest. Now those feelings are real and my descent into my casket must be more controlled, more graceful, more perfect than ever.

I slowly, ever so slowly, bow my head. My knees and ankles bend beneath me at a gradual rate that I control. As I slowly sink straight down to sit on my heels, I reach down with my hands to grasp the edges of my casket. That accomplished, I slowly sit back and then lie back. My waist, my lower back, my upper back, and my shoulders all recline into their proper places on the floor of my casket. My head lands gently and perfectly on my pillow. I extend my legs out full length, keeping my knees and ankles tightly together like a lady should. I lay my arms and hands naturally down along my sides.

There. I’ve done it. I hear the murmur of amazed approval rise from my audience.

Now I’m lying flat on my back with my shoulders level and square. I’m really tits up and I’m looking good. My head is not canted to one side or the other. My head is tilted straight back on the pillow with my chin pointed upwards. My eyes are gently closed and my lips just oh-so-slightly parted. I have the same expression on my face as when I’m asleep having a nice dream. I sense that my long hair is prettily spread out on the pillow to make a halo around my face. My breasts rise toward the sky, two wet red little holes that look like rose petals ornamenting the front of my crisp, light blue shirt perfectly centered between my breasts.

My clothes are in good order. My shirt collar feels like it’s lying straight and even. I can feel the cloth of my shirt lying taut and smooth over the contours of my dying body. I can feel my skirt neatly draped over my thighs. I can feel my necklace nestling at the base of my throat. And I can feel my high heels securely on my feet.

So here I am, lying on my back in graceful repose in my casket with two bullets embedded deep in my chest. Here I am with a peaceful expression on my face while I experience my death. I’m dying. It’s going to take me less then ten seconds to die, but, each second will seem like a chapter of eternity to me. In these last seconds of my life, I’ll have plenty of time to think about how it all feels.

Now I know why the French call orgasm “the little death.” This is my big death and this is the most fantastic, most electrifying, most ground-trembling orgasm of my life. I can feel the two bullets deep and heavy in my chest. The first one is embedded an inch down from my heart and the second one is lodged in the “dead” center of my heart. My heartbeat is starting to subside as Death settles over me. But the nerve endings of my shredded heart muscles are still on fire as they kiss the lead slug buried in my heart. The cut nerve endings in my heart are sending shockwaves of pain to the extremities of my body. The shockwaves of pain are shockwaves of ecstasy and I feel the ecstasy of my death radiating out to the tips of my fingers, the tips of my toes, even to the ends of my long hair.

My chest is heaving up and down, up and down, in great slow waves of sweet agony. With each heave of my chest, a long low moan passes out from my lips and fills the room. My back arches again and again as I lie in my casket, my chest thrusts upwards and collapses and thrusts upwards again and again, my head drives itself back into the pillow.

I wish this could go on forever, but it can’t. The repeated shock waves of the ecstasy of my death at last subside. I lie in my casket still and demure and serene, a look of sleeping bliss on my face.

My eyes are closed, but the Light is coming through my closed eyelids and it’s blinding me and I love it. The heaviness in my chest is becoming a surreal emptiness. I have become one with the Universe and the Universe is about to slide out from under me. Everything goes absolutely black except for a long horizontal strand of brilliant light that stretches clear across the horizon.

My last murmurs pass out from my lips, maybe audible to my audience, maybe not, as my chest gently rises and falls and rises and falls and rises for the last time:

“I’m dying . . . I’m dying . . . I’m dying . . . I’m . . . Dead. . . .”

I am dead?

What’s this?

Yes, that’s a stethoscope being pressed to my chest, all right. The mild downward pressure on the front of my chest leaves, and then I hear a man say solemnly from very close to me, “Guinevere is dead.”

From the distance, out across the wide room that I think is still there, I hear a fascinating mixture of applause and wails and sobs. Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue” has long since ended. Now I can hear Ravel’s “Dance For a Dead Princess” playing. Is it my deejay’s doing as he and I had planned? Or a celestial orchestra?

“Time” passes. Minutes or eternities? I sense two presences standing over me, looking down at me. Yes, they are human presences. I hear two gales of sweetly sad sighs. Female sighs. It’s Courtney and Pamela!

“She looks so cozy in there,” I hear Courtney say. “I like the way her casket lining color- coordinates with her shirt. I can’t believe how beautiful she is, even when she’s dead.”

“You mean you can’t believe how beautiful she is when she’s dead with two bullet holes in her chest,” Pamela corrects her. “Maybe we’ll be so lucky ourselves someday.”

The two female presences leave.

More minutes or eternities pass. A male presence now stands over me, looking down at me. A manly but loving kiss lands on my cheek.

“Good-bye, Guinevere.”

FADE TO BLACK.