Before we headed to the viewing room, we spent the night jerking off into a jar—taking turns, no eye contact, focused, like a drill exercise.

Giraffe went first—grunting in the corner like he was giving birth or something. Then came Blade, standing at the door with his back to us, like a bouncer at the nightclub. Nozzle peeled and ate a tangerine first—juice dripping down his wrists—“gotta spike the system,” he muttered. Then he did it, a lot of it, and passed the jar to Sphincter like it was a trophy. Sphincter handled his business like he was clocking in for a shift, zipped up, lit a cigarette, and stared into the dark like it might answer. Me, Longboy, and Drill went together, shoulder to shoulder around the jar—no talking, no eye contact, just the quiet understanding that this was the stupidest and most sacred thing we’d ever done.

Before contributing his portion to the jar, Drill took a marker and wrote on the lid:

THE LAST WORD

All of this we were doing for our guy—Lips. He was getting buried in the morning. And we figured—forget flowers.

This was better than stupid flowers—he used to say nothing beat a mouthful of cum, and he meant it. He was the best cocksucker we ever knew, maybe ever would. Maybe that’s why he burned out so fast.

This was our final gift. Our way of saying goodbye. Not ribbons. Not roses. Just respect.

At three a.m., the funeral home was dead quiet. No staff. No lights. Just us—jar in hand, wired and sweating. Didn’t know where to start.

Lips was laid out perfect—clean, still, glowing in that dead-boy way. Locked jaw. Rigor. Body saying: enough already. But we knew better.

Drill cracked the lid. Sphincter muttered, “Even a drop on the tongue would’ve been good enough.”

Didn’t work. Mouth wouldn’t open.

So, Sphincter lifted the silk covering his chest and I unzipped his pants.

His dick was there. Different than I remembered—a little bigger. Still familiar. Still him.

“Hey, brother,” Drill said. Then, careful like a lab tech, he poured the whole jar over Lips—every last drop—into the thick pubes and down the shaft, to the spot that used to twitch at the sound of our voices. And then Drill tucked the jar under the sheet.

It soaked in slow—smelled like nicotine, sweat, and something close to love or may be even better.

I zipped him back up. We stood and watched the fabric darken, like he’d just cum one last time.

Drill dipped a finger in the rim and drew a cross on Lips’s forehead.

Then said, “Now he’s really with us.”

And we left without jar and without words. Just a quiet that felt right.

That morning, we hit the spa. Steamed. Let it go.