The best things in life are four letter words.
Love, fuck, and free.
This is a story about the second one on my list, but the first one makes a guest appearance.
Her name was Marla and she was a real piece of artwork. Not like a Greek statue; more like a high-end sex doll. That may sound like an insult, but it’s not. Marla wasn’t perfect, but she was the perfect version of what she was. In life, that’s all anyone can aspire to be.
I first saw her smoking a cigarette outside our college’s art building, looking bored with life.
“I’m out.” She announced to no one in particular when she had finished. She looked me up and down like she was appraising a car.
“Suck your dick for a cigarette.” She said.
I coughed so hard I nearly swallowed my own cigarette whole. I handed her one, naturally. Later that night, after she was done sucking my dick, she lit up from a full pack in her purse. That was just how she was. I never did truly understand Marla, I was just happy to be along for the ride. So when I found out she wasn’t actually a student at the college, I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I was.
“I just don’t get it.” I said. “Why do you hang around here?”
She shrugged.
“But-“ I was interrupted as her long fingers slid down my pants, and she slid down to her knees. When Marla didn’t want to talk about something she always made sure her mouth was otherwise occupied. And Marla wasn’t much for talking.
By the end of a day with her my dick would have more lipstick on it than an insecure teenage girl.
But the quickest way to a man’s heart is also the quickest way to make him lose half his brain cells. Consequently, I missed a lot of red flags about Marla that I should have noticed.
Like how I never saw her eat or drink. She had always just had a full meal, or was feeling bloated.
Or how she never slept. Whenever she’d stay the night after we’d fucked away the afternoon she’d just lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. I’d wake up in the middle of the night to her staring at me full on in the face, an inscrutible look in her eyes that most resembled hunger.
My conviction that there was something off about Marla only deepened when I found her driver’s license. It had spilled out of her purse that she’d tossed carelessly on the table.
It was a picture of Marla, just as she was today, but the date of issue was 1979. How could someone not age a day in thirty years?
She caught me looking at it and snatched it out of my hands.
“Like my fake ID?” She said, tossing her hair and running her hands down my chest.
“Marla, how-oof”
She shoved me hard, and soon I was on the table and she was on me.
“You’re a sick son of a bitch, you know that?”. She whispered in my ear, her hips twisting in rhythmic circles.
I had already all but forgotten about the driver’s license.
We’d been together six months when things began to unravel.
“Marla,” I began, as her head bobbed up and down on my crotch, “are we exclusive?”
There was a distinct popping noise as she pulled her mouth off me.
“Why?” She asked. “Do you wanna fuck other girls?”
“What? No, I just wanted to know if I was the only one you’re uh…”
“Fucking?”
“Yeah, fucking.”
“Yes.” She said, sliding her mouth back down my shaft until her lips reached the base.
“But where do you go all the time?” I asked.
She pulled herself off me again.
“I have things to do.” She said cryptically.
“What things?”
“Things.” She said flatly. “Do you want me to finish this or not?”
“Oh, uh, yeah.”
Marla grinned devilishly and her head began bobbing up and down with renewed vigor.
I know I shouldn’t have followed Marla, I should’ve just been happy I was getting my dick sucked. But sometimes curiosity outweighs our better senses. Well, my curiosity almost killed me.
The first place I followed Marla to was the bathroom. She went into the one-person handicap bathroom in the art building, and I heard the lock click behind her. Then through the door I heard the unmistakable sounds of vomiting, followed by a flush. Was Marla bulimic? It didn’t seem to fit with the Marla I knew.
I hid around the corner, then went inside to investigate after she’d left. She’d gotten most of it in the toilet, but around the rim there were tiny droplets of blood.
What the fuck was going on? I thought.
Then Marla went to the hospital. I followed her as she visited dozens of patients, most of whom seemed to be at death’s door. After each time she would find a deserted bathroom and vomit. Each time there would be little flecks of blood on the seat. I began to worry for her health. It didn’t seem possible that anyone could vomit up that much blood and still be alive.
Finally I followed Marla to a deserted alleyway.
What the hell was she doing here? I thought.
But she just stood there, motionless. And then–
“I know you’ve been following me.” She said. “You can come out from behind that wall.”
I stepped out and she turned around to face me.
“How did you know?”
“I can smell you, dipstick.”
“Smell me?”
“Oh yeah. I can smell you from miles away. That’s how I found you. You think I can’t smell you when you’re right behind me?”
I gave my armpits a quick sniff. I smelled fine.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I said.
“You smell like death.” She said, staring at me hungrily. “You’re a sick son of a bitch.”
“You’re not making any sense. How am I the sicko?”
Marla shrugged.
“Ask your doctor. What do I care?”
“What?”
“You still don’t get it? I’m feeding off your sickness. It’s what I do.”
It was clear that Marla had lost it.
We parted ways after that, but something in my head kept nagging at me. What if I really was sick? I went to the doctor just to rule it out. When my blood tests came back I got an urgent call to make another appointment as soon as possible. I found out at that appointment that by all estimations I should’ve been dead three months ago. An MRI revealed that the cancer, a rare and aggressive form, had spread all throughout my body. Within a couple days I could no longer walk and barely sit up. I was done for.
I gave Marla a call, just to say goodbye. I started to tell her what hospital I was at when she cut me off.
“I know where you are.” She said. “I can smell you.”
She was there in five minutes flat. She pulled the privacy curtains around the bed and started to undo my pants. I appreciated her enthusiasm, but I knew there was no way I could muster up an erection. But I was wrong; soon her head was bobbing up and down on my crotch. I fell asleep after, like I always did. I woke up to the sound of vomiting and flushing, and to my surprise I felt like a million bucks.
Marla came out of the bathroom and sat at the foot of my bed, reapplying her lipstick.
“Most vampires steal life.” She explained. “I steal sickness. But I’ve gotta get rid of the bad parts. That’s where the vomit comes from.”
“I don’t get it.” I said. “You can only keep me alive by sucking my dick?”
“What?” She said surprisedly. “No of course not. I suck the sickness out with your blood when you’re asleep. I just suck your dick because the smell of death turns me on.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah… “ Marla stared up at the ceiling. “Want a cigarette?”
“Okay.”
I’ve been with Marla ever since, and we’ve baffled every doctor we’ve ever come across. She still hasn’t aged a day, and I still haven’t died. I graduated college, we got married and we moved to a little apartment next to a hospital, where she visits patients to feed.
I used to think the best things in life were all four letter words, but “Marla” has five.
Marla says “suck” has four, though.