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pulled my T-shirt up, tugged my bra away, and fit his mouth over my breast. I arched and pressed up to meet him and I could feel the whole weight of him on top of me fitting into all the right places even though he was almost twice my size. I liked the way his weight almost knocked the wind out of me—it meant I was breathing. Gasping, I took his head in my hands and kissed him as he fumbled with my jeans and pushed himself up against my panties.
    “Are we going to do this?” he asked me. “I wanted to wait. But I don’t think I can wait. It’s been like ten years.”
    “We’re going to,” I said firmly.
    “Wait?” he asked. He sounded worried and sad but resigned.
    “No, not wait.”
    A long, slow smile spread across his face.
    We fucked because basically we had to. You don’t pass up a chance like that, to feel human, to feel alive, not when you’ve been dead for years. Even if it was just a temporary reprieve, I didn’t care. I howled with joy as he rubbed his cock against my clit and slid inside me, pressing his tip repeatedly up against the soft pad of my wall. More and more; I didn’t want him to stop. I clenched around him tighter and tighter to keep him there. Then he went rigid and cried out; his come was spilling inside of me and I was 41
    releasing in waves and crying real tears and when it was over he took my face and settled it on his chest and said, very gently, “Welcome back, baby.”
    I wondered if he was talking about me or my soul, or his.
    The next day I woke up in his bed and saw his big face lit up by morning. I kissed his cheek—there was stubble—and he pulled me closer to him, still half asleep. I sniffed his armpit; he smelled sweaty and warm like a man. I wanted this moment to go on forever—the sun through the window, his scent, the rumpled sheets, my body tucked into his—but I wasn’t even sure if I was ever going to wake in his bed again; you never know what’s going to happen. Still, I was alive. I had a soul.
    To prove it, when I got home I sat down to write this story.

    42

    I Heart Brains
    by Jaime Saare

    1.
    Derrick stared at the man nestled in the wheelchair, giving him a lengthy once over. His body was a thing of beauty—tall, broad, athletic. The fine crevices obtained by hard work and muscle definition were obvious, the outline of a rock-hard six-pack visible. Even nicked from a recent shave, his face was just as good, and his short black hair neat and tidy.
    Too bad the motherboard upstairs had fizzled and died out, leaving him in this shitty fucking predicament.
    About as shitty as mine.
    The small folder resting on the table beside him listed pertinent information. His age: 28. His height: 6’2”. His weight: 205lbs. His known allergies: none.
    It was like a Best Buy for the brain dead.
    So wrong on so many levels.
    “Can I help you, sir?” A sales associate approached, wringing his hands.
    The showroom was nearly empty. Only one other person was in the area, and he was in the same pickle. The body that held his interest was much younger, in the early twenties, with a nasty-looking scar over his forehead. A large muted television featuring a continuous loop of football was placed directly in front of the wheelchair, the table with his information and stats placed next to him like a playbook.

    43
    All the bodies had an area just for them, playing off their strengths. The women were displayed as risqué as the management dared, while the men were groomed to perfection.
    It was laughable and depraved at the same time.
    Derrick motioned at the once healthy and vibrant man and asked, “How did it happen?”
    “Carbon monoxide,” the clerk answered readily.
    That got his attention. He stopped staring at the all-but-living body and focused on the small pudgy man hoping to bring in a fat commission.
    “Suicide?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    Protocol dictated that the fine upstanding employees of Bodies For Your Brains didn’t divulge those sorts of intimate