When I opened my eyes, I was standing naked on the pale concrete floor of a massive, unlit and bleacher-less arena; among thousands of other naked men and women. A sour aroma of unbathed and worn-out skin filled the edges of the air. We all faced a distant stage, as yet no one had taken. We held ourselves lazily, as if the anticipation of the stage act did not excite even the furthest synapse for entertainment. I was sweating profusely and shivering at the same time. A collective pant and groan resonated among the audience as a dull vibration. The nimble little woman in front of me reached behind and began stroking my cock. She tilted her head back and whispered, “Are you not going to kiss me?” To which I replied, “I am sure I have died, I don’t believe it’s necessary.”
A gray-haired woman ahead and to my left, turned her head toward me; her large fallen breasts shook steadily as the man behind her plugged away. She spoke just above a whisper, over and through the bare shoulders and chests of those between us. “We are the hedons,” she said, “we are the ones who pursued nothing more than self-pleasure. Whether it were acts of lewdness, drunkenness, folly, sex or basic indulgent feelings, we all are here together because our advancement as souls can only be categorized by what we sought to feel.”
“Can we not,” I begged, “be judged for our lives as children?” The woman in front of me, lazily pulling on my cock, tilted her head back once more and whispered, “We are all children, in their eyes.” As she nodded to the stage, a bright light shined forth, a brass tubular cry rang out and I blinked.
“Mr. Keaton?” I heard a muffled voice say. “Jake Keaton? Can you hear me?” I saw fluorescent lights and heard electronic beeps. “That was a nice handjob,” I muttered to the doctor.