It was time to take my HIV medicine, and I didn't move from this fuking spot. Why should I move? I should make the floor my personal coffin. I felt like a vampire anyway.

I stared at the Epzicom, Norvir and Lexiva bottles. I had to take two little pink Lexiva pills, 1 dark orange Epzicom pill and one huge coated white Norvir pill every morning around 9:30 a.m. with food. I wasn't hungry, and I didn't feel like drinking anything. I should skip my dossage and die with him. Its not suicide, its not like I would put a gun to my head and pull a Rhianna Russian Roulette and watch my soul flop like her Rated R album.

I closed my eyes. Tight. Am I alive? Was I dead? If I didn't take this medicine how long would it take me to die? How long would it take HIV to progress to AIDS, slash my helper T4 cells into little meaningless bytches and watch them yell retreat when the grim reaper come for my soul.

Would I have a chance at heaven? Then I could see Maurice and hug him and kiss him and be with him forever. I struggled with this.

Take your medicine.
No, damn it.
But if you don't you will cause yourself problems.
Bring them on. I lost Maurice.
Life goes on, dude. Man up. Grow the f***k up. He wasn't your man.
SHUT UP! GODDAMN IT SHUT UP CONSCIENCE! WHAT THE FUK YOU KNOW BYTCH?
Give it to God. He will help you through.
There is no God. THERE IS NO GOD! THERE IS NO FUKIGN GOD!
Place your burdens on him.
I did. And he took Maurice away from me.
Maybe he was a burden...

The thought made me tremble with fear.

***

There was a knock on my door and I lay on the floor, blood dried on my hand, staring at the wall. I took the HIV pills dry, swallowed them down, the sour taste in my mouth making me squirm. On the wall were pictures of my Mother. She was my hero, and there wasn't a time I didn't call on her when I was in need. Miles Davis played at a moderate tone from my speakers, and my lips were chapped and cracking. I refused to lick them. If I couldn't lick Maurice why should I add moisture to my lips, when he died inside my lips when I gave him head and made him cum all over my bussy.

I was in need now, thinking back to all the times she used to put alcohol on my wounds, pat my ass and tell me to dust myself off and try again. She used to do this when I played optimist football, running circles around the secret gay boys on the team. I scored five touchdowns when I was 12 years old because the opposing team were too busy looking at the cute boy with braids and the fat ass in football pads and Nike cleats.

I used to bury my head under her bosom and cry from fear when my uncle used to scare me when I watched horror movies. I needed mother now, but I refused to call her. Because I was a grown ass man and my last conversation with her didn't go very well. She used to call me once a day and check on me, especially when I graduated college. But I got besides myself, talked down to her because she barely got her G.E.D., and when I stopped going to church Mama cut me off, saying I was too damn disrespectful.

There was another knock. A more defiant sound than the last. I tried to sit up but my heart was nailed to the floor and my soul five miles to empty. I literally shook all over, feeling God played some kind of trick on me.

I thought about church, and remembering the last thing my pastor said about putting anything before God. He would take it away. He was a jealous God. Right now God hated me. He had to. God took Maurice away from me. I hadn't an entire week with him, hardly even an entire day and his life was gone just as quickly as he came into my life.

My cell phone rang and I reached up and took it from the nightstand. I pressed Ignore, then turned the bastard off. Didn't feel like talking to anyone.

A NFL football player was in my home and I hadn't a clue. Talk about luck. I was glad I didn't know he played ball because I probably would have been blinded by the numbers soaking in his bank account. I had a little gold digger in me. But this man, Maurice, changed how I viewed black men. He could have been broke and homeless and I would have felt the same way about him. A real genuine, sexy black man who wasn't blinded by my ass. Even when he was deep inside me he was more focused on my pleasure. When I came tears fell from his eyes and he kissed me, whispering, "Get it for me baby," in my ear, biting the bottom of my earlobe, fuking the sh*t out of me. "I can feel that bussy gripping me dik. Cum on my sh*t, baby. Hell yea. Moan for Daddy..."

Whoever tried to date me after Maurice had a hell of a sophisticated grading scale to live up to. I had a feeling I would be comparing every man who comes after him (if my heart allowed me to move past the hurt) to him. Would they have his almond-colored eyes or his charisma and drive? Would they be sexy without trying, talked about things other than sex and actually had empathy for another human being? Would they love themselves more for their flaws, like he had, and move beyond accomplishments to achieve what's next in our short life on earth?

Dealing with Tops over the years proved to be a feat. Fifteen percent of them was all bark but that needle d***k was all dust. No bite. A complete rip off. If their d***ks were a garage sale I'd donate all that bulls*it to Good Will.

Thirty percent of the Tops were big d***k niggahs with a cute face, slim in the waist, abs looking better than a bi*ch with titties and couldn't fuk to save their lives. There was nothing worse than a Top niggah who couldn't eat an assh*le to save his life and couldn't fuk.

The other Tops were secret bottoms. Dressed as thugs, bashed out the closet homos online and popped their pus*ies faster than a drunk bit*h when Beyawnsay Knowles' songs***t the club air waves.

And Maurice. Changed all that. Tough yet tender. Smooth yet aggressive. Fuked the sh*t out of me and cooked me dinner, cleaned my crib and put my clothes in the washer.

Standing up, I staggered towards my room door, wondering who was knocking. I smelled him. Throughout my place. His Cool Water cologne. I froze in place, looking over my shoulder. I was inhaling deeply. Yes. Oh my God! He's here. In spirit. I can feel him, smell him. His aroma hugged me like a winter coat on an anorexic b***h in Buffalo, New York during the summer time. Didn't make sense, but damn it felt so damn good!

The tears fell. Oh my God, I was about to die.

I walked over to the bed and stared at it. I would never wash my sheets. His scent was embedded on my pillow cases. Some of his cum dried on the comforter. I unbuttoned my pants and pulled them down, laying in the bed. I was sobbing so hard my hands became zombies and sought out the small jar of Vaseline in the nightstand. I stuck my finger deep in my ass and sucked it off my finger, smacking my lips. I tasted a hint of Maurice.

I rolled over in the bed, humping the pillows, electricity snapping through my perspiring body.

I opened the dark blue cap and rubbed Vaseline in my hands and coated my d***k and rubbed some over my assh*le, thinking about him. Getting lost in the memory of his smile.

Inhaling the sheets, I realized his underwear was under one of my pillows. I picked them up, my hands trembling.

GOD I MISS HIM!

Please bring him back. I put his underwear over my face, cocked my legs open till my ball hung like monkeys and I slowly stroked my chocolate rose bud, jacking my d***k. Inhaling/exhaling his lovely masculine scent...I felt connected to him, closing my eyes, fuking my hand like a drunk b***h devouring too much GHB. Maurice was my GHB. He made love to my body, planted seeds deep in my tight hot a***e and left me to blossom instead of sprout.

Sensation rendered me speechless, as I took the eight inch black dildo from the top nightstand drawer and slid it up into perfection, slowly grinding on it with tears escaping my eyes and soaking in the underwear. Running my tongue across them, hoping it matched the scent recorded in my heart.

I thrust forward, arching my back, penetrating my hole and ballroom dancing with my prostate. My toes curling with the sheets, I screamed out in pleasure as I began to cum. Cum out what I felt inside for Maurice, telling myself I will never love another man. YES I LOVED MAURICE! This had to be a dream!

Opening my eyes my body shivered with abandon. I sat up, taking his underwear from my face and hugging it close to my chest, my heart hammering nails throughout my mental frame of mind.

I sighed, staring straight ahead.

A woman stood in my bedroom door way, her mouth open and in complete shock. I was too devastated and sexually pleasure to say anything to the stranger.

"Who are you?" I asked, gazing sadly into her Bandi shaded eyes.

"I'm Maurice's grandmother."

My heart dropped. In her hand was an envelope. And a bundle of white roses. And a small framed 5 X 7 gold framed photo of her son.