Summary of this Story:
Pierre sniffed Ramona’s pink plastic comb. That coconut shampoo scent hit hard. We raced up the stairs at Roosevelt Arms. Thighs burned by the third flight. On the rooftop in Queens, he howled at the AC unit. I doused the spot with water from a galvanized bucket. Ramona flickered in, soaked and furious in fifty-degree chill. She’d jumped from that exact patch fifteen floors above the alley. Her diary exposed the truth–she craved the cool crowd’s spotlight before they wrecked her, then haunted 4B renters until I moved in. Regret chained her. We confessed under city glow. Burned the diary. Planned a face-out cam sexfight for OnlyFans, her F-cups grinding me till dawn at the clawfoot tub’s edge.
Here is your Story: I Reunite with My Ghost Girlfriend for Cam Sex
My drive to track down Ramona slammed into me like a truck after I cracked open her diary. I’d been inches from throwing in the towel. No chance now. Nothing could derail me. Yeah, she might’ve finally checked out for real. But my gut screamed otherwise. Don’t ask me why. I just knew it. Couldn’t ditch the feeling.
How the fuck was I gonna hunt her down? I’d burned days already. She could be holed up anywhere from here to hell. Asking around? Hell no, that’d pull in busybodies. No way I’d let some ghost chaser beat me to my spectral girl. They’d prod her, zap her, whatever bullshit.
I tore through the bathroom for hints. Anything at all. Panic gnawed my ribs. Flashes hit me of our soaks in the clawfoot tub–dick-deep thrusts tangled with that sour ache of loss. Wrong moment. We’d replay ’em soon enough.
She soaked as much as I did. Hours locked in here. Head & Shoulders bottle? Zilch. Irish Spring bar? Nada. Maybelline compact? Matched mine. Bust. Despair sank claws in. I sagged against the Formica counter. Then her pink plastic comb jumped out. The one she yanked through her thick black waves for a solid twenty minutes some nights.
Grabbed it fast. Her smell punched me–that coconut shampoo whiff I’d tuned out for months. Throat tightened. Click. Her hair stink. “Pierre! Pierre! Get your ass in here!”
Nails clicked on linoleum. My French bulldog barreled in, stub tail wagging like a metronome. “Sniff this. Find her!” Jammed the comb under his wet nose. He snorted it up. “You’re no baying coonhound, I get it. But give it a shot. Whole bag of Milk-Bones if you score.”
He pulled back from the sniff. I held still. Nose to floor, then he bolted out. “Attaboy! Show me!” Two a.m. hush kept the hall clear at the Roosevelt Arms. I propped doors as he charged. Past our unit on 4B, sniff-sniff-sniff. Chest heaving like a freight train. He gave a damn same as me.
He hit the stairs. Up and up. Thighs screamed by the third flight. He powered on. So did I. Ages later, roof door. Stars punched through the city glow over Queens. He cut right, toward the AC unit squatting by the hatch. Froze. “Awooooo!” Howl tore loose.
“Pierre?” Nada but echoes. “Awo?” Paw swiped empty air, baffled. Then tail blurred. Spun in place. Barks popped like firecrackers. Thought he’d flipped. Then it landed. Grin cracked my jaw. “She ain’t here, bud. Home we go.” Scooped his twenty pounds. “Awooo!” Pissed-off yip.
Kissed his wrinkly forehead. Murmured low. Five minutes flat, back on the roof. Galvanized bucket sloshed in my grip. Waited. Doused the spot. “Ahhhhh!” Ramona flickered in, soaked to the skin. “You fucking prick! It’s fifty degrees up here, dickhead!”
Groaned. Yanked a ShopRite beach towel from my belt. She rubbed down. Pierre rocketed into her arms, tongue lashing her chin. Tail a helicopter. “Easy, easy! Missed you too, fuzzball!” She nudged him off soft. He curled up.
Wind sliced off the parapet. Quiet hung thick. “Don’t ever pull that vanishing act again.”
“What? Off myself? Kinda late for that.” Punchline flopped. “How’d you nail me?”
“Pierre sniffed out your comb.”
“Why camp up here?” She huffed, scratched his ears, stared at the tar. My eyes bugged. “This exact patch. Where you went over.”
No reply. Fifteen floors to the alley asphalt. Fit perfect. “How’d you figure?”
“Read your diary. Cover to cover.”
Huff. “Should’ve FedEx’d the damn thing to a bonfire.”
“You loathed this shithole. Why haunt it?”
“Bailed once. But it drags me back.”
Dead air. “Kicked off wanting to spook those dickheads in 3A. Then fuck that–too much spotlight. Ghostbusters, lab rats. So I waited for the whole block to crumble.”
Dumbstruck. First straight talk in thirty years. “That two-bedroom yanked me in. Dying didn’t fix jack. I’d spy on renters for laughs. Till you moved into 4B. Hooked me solid.”
Scratched my elbow scar. “Figured the drop would buy peace. Did it?”
Eyes squeezed shut. “Nope. Leaped off, no rewind button. Regret slammed right after.”
Couldn’t frame the drop. “Just terror afterward. Regret. What-if’s on where I blew it.”
Deep breath. “Here’s the truth. Giving a shit what pricks think.”
Jaw dropped. “Ain’t finished. Sure, they treated you like a cumrag. But you chased their spotlight first. Hookup central, yeah. But deep down, you craved the cool crowd. That Labor Day rager lit the fuse.”
Face scrunched. “Never clocked it like that.”
“What they pulled was vile. But you had comeback shots. Real fun somewhere else. Not preaching. Facts.”
Breath whooshed out. “I’d be pushing fifty-two now. Your mom’s vintage.”
“Kinky as hell.”
“Don’t peg you for a lone wolf either.”
“Why? First dude I haunted, and boom.”
“Why pick me that night in 4B? Skipped the others. Turned me into your guy. Spill.”
“I…” Trailed off. “Hell if I know.”
“You know damn well. Needed a sidekick. Saw I matched.”
“But you’ll ditch me eventual.”
Groan. “Ghost rules still fry my brain. But pact: I’ll hunt a foolproof way to ghost out with you, zero suicide bullshit. Gimme time.”
She mulled it. Spectral gaze locked on the ledge mark. Her last live footprint. “Spot on. That’s the anchor. Nothing else.”
“So bust it free… you move on?” Gut knotted.
“Beats me. Worth the shot.”
“That’s my girl.” Leaned close. Crushed a kiss on her, payback for the one she planted before ghosting. Reunion heat scorched this time.
Roof Confessions
“Now, back to the apartment? Been dreaming this setup forever. Your OnlyFans? That money machine?”
“Yeah?” Eyebrow cocked.
“Joint stream. Subs’ll cream. Right before they nut.”
Hesitation flickered. “Never flashed face. Tits, pussy, ass only.”
Diary flashed back. That Labor Day face-fuck clusterfuck. “If it’s too raw–”
“No!” Snapped it. “Ancient history. Screw that bash. Won’t poison the afterlife. Sexfight on cam, face full out. Cunt grinding cunt. Pin your ass. They’ll go apeshit.”
“Love that spark. Bet who begs first.”
Stood up. She trailed, Pierre tucked under arm. Deadbolt thunked home. Shoulders eased. “Never figured I’d grin at this dump again.” Plopped the dog on the rag rug.
Her diary squatted on the IKEA table. Guilt stabbed. Snagged it, passed it over. “Sorry I pried.”
“Nope.” Ripped it free. Stalked to the den. I followed, locked on her see-through ass cheeks. Gas logs hissed blue. She chucked the diary in. Flames gnawed the cover.
Burning Bridges
“Past’s ash. Eternity’s ours. Eyes forward–not present, future. Fucking you till you black out for that stream.”
“Banking on it.” Pages crisped and popped. Quiet dropped. Squeezed her close. F-cups squished my chest. “Never again.” Breathed it in her ear. “Swear it.”
“Tame this slut on cam then.” Tongue flicked back. Ear slick. Bed waited. We crashed hard. Pierre’s comb sat abandoned on the bathroom counter, her black strands snarled in the teeth.
Dawn light sliced through the blinds. Ramona stirred first, her cool fingers tracing my ribs. Pierre snuffled at the floorboards, chasing a dust bunny. She propped on an elbow, ghost skin shimmering faint in the gray. “Stream tonight? Let’s own it.” Nodded, gut steady now. Fired up the Keurig–her favorite hazelnut pods waited in the drawer. Mug steamed as she sipped, phasing half through it with a snort. “Clumsy as ever.” Laughed. The diary’s charred spine peeked from the fireplace grate.
