The most distracting thing was that I was getting this blow job from an undertaker at a prestigious funeral home, in the exact same viewing room where the wake for Rose Kennedy took place. “Right over there,” he said, after I shot my wad. We were naked, sitting on the thick carpet, with our backs against the sofa. I was smoking a Marlboro Light. He was smoking a menthol. I reached for a tissue and didn’t have to reach far; there were boxes of tissues everywhere. It was very convenient for this. “Wow,” I said. “Can you imagine what the Kennedy family would do if they knew what happened here thirty seconds ago?” He chuckled and took a deep drag from his cigarette. “The Kennedys? Are you kidding? Shit, they wouldn’t care. They’ve seen worse. They’ve done worse.” I liked the undertaker, but it wasn’t love. Let me just get this out of the way right off the bat: I am not now, nor have I ever been, into dead bodies. Nor into the people who make it their lives to work with them.
