Breakfast, or thoughts of breakfast, must be a current preoccupation, because this is my second story having a cereal (as opposed to serial) theme. Although because there are two, I guess they're serial as well. Hopefully, crisp, not soggy.

The other influence for this story is a series of get-togethers Mr. Marcus has with former school classmates, happening with increased frequency. Perhaps as he gets older, he looks back a bit more.

In this tale, Mr. Marcus examines the life of one of his former classmates. Oh yes, and the women with which he was involved. A very close examination, indeed.

Somehow, I got on an email distribution list containing members of my high school class. Maybe I'd given my email address to a former classmate and they'd done what they thought was a good deed and passed it along to one of those goody two shoes self-appointed class secretaries. About once a week, I'd get some drivel about a get-together at a local bar (for those still in the vicinity or willing to fly in for a beer), or scanned clippings from old issues of the school paper, or some brag about how a former classmate saved the world. I had very little interest in most of these folks. After all, if I had been interested, I'd have expended some effort to keep in touch. And I hadn't.

That fateful week, I got an email: one of my former high school classmates had died. Leonard "Goat" Humphries. His nickname "Goat" wasn't because he was the "butt" of our jokes. It was simply that Leonard was always horny, and I mean always. From the first time he got intimate with a female classmate - I can't remember who I heard it from, maybe Leonard himself - he was always with some girl from our class, or when we were juniors and seniors, perhaps a freshman or sophomore. Outside of school, he'd be seen with girls from other schools. If anyone at our high school was getting significant action, it was Goat.

I avoided him because, to be honest, he wasn't very interesting when he had a girl on his arm. Depressingly dull, to put a fine point on it. With a sullen expression, as if his house had been robbed and all his prize possessions stolen, or some other emotionally catastrophic event. Despite that aura, his current squeeze would be glued to his side. He was a different person when it was just him and the guys, or him and me. He was energetic and friendly, someone you could have a good time with. I never did figure out why he was like two different people. Maybe it was hormones.

In our senior year, Goat stopped playing the field and went steady with our classmate Gloria. She was smart, and kind of pretty in a plain way. She must have seen something deeper in Leonard and roped him in before he knew what was happening. A couple of years later, I'd heard in passing from a mutual acquaintance that he and Gloria got married while in college, pissing off both their parents. A year after we all graduated college, I'd read an article in the local paper about Leonard moving to Arizona for an important job. It must have been important, because the paper didn't publish stories about folks getting menial labor gigs. Until his death notice, that's the last I'd heard about Leonard.

We weren't best friends by any means, but we'd sometimes hang out at each other's houses. Anyway, my heart pinged a little with the notice of his passing. Memories of double dates, where his then current girl had an unattached friend, got me out of the house on Saturday nights. Sometimes we'd have a daytime date at the beach. Leonard loved the beach. Oak Street. North Avenue. Sometimes we'd slum up at Foster, just for a change of scenery. And on double dates, we'd park there for "submarine races." Most times, my fix-up and I sat in the back seat, watching Leonard and his gal go at it, hot and heavy. Goat never minded that I'd peek over the front seat and watch. Most times, his girlfriend was way too occupied to notice. I'd get horny, too, obviously, and turn to my date for some action. The cooperative ones would let me touch them, but only in certain places on their bodies and with our clothes on. No matter where we went, girls would be attracted to Goat. Animal magnetism, maybe. I was grateful for the leftovers, many of whom where plenty attractive, even if I only got kissing and an occasional grope.

The mass mailing about Leonard's death included an email address, so I sent my condolences. It was the proper thing to do. The next day, the reply was a sincere thank you from the Webb family, plus directions to meet a private jet at Midway Airport for attending the funeral. Huh? I was flabbergasted. Someone wanted me at the funeral so bad, they'd offered to fly me there? I guess old Goat had made it big, or at least connected with some dough. Were they making this offer to other classmates?

Harriett was unusually solicitous about the news, and my boss was gracious to give me time off, despite the short notice. To be honest, I think he was more jealous than anything else. Our company had a private jet, which none of us peons ever got close enough to see, let alone ride in. I was sure he'd want the details after I got back.

I drove down to Midway early the next morning. The private facilities for corporate jets are on a road that runs behind the public airport. I parked at Odyssey Aviation as instructed and entered the small one-story building, essentially a waiting room. There were a couple of other people there, in suits and ties, huddled in some serious business discussion. I didn't recognize any of them from school. A chalkboard, hung behind a typical airline counter, announced the scheduled flights, but they were all in code.

A man in blue blazer and khaki pants came out of a small office behind the counter, "How can I help you?"

"My name is Harvey Marcus. I'm here for a flight to Nebraska." I almost said it as a question instead of a statement of fact. "I don't know who-"

"Yes, Mr. Marcus. Their crew is preparing the Groatz corporate jet for your trip."

Groatz? That's the healthy cereal they give out free samples of at the grocery store. Not like other cereals I've eaten, this stuff is chewy and doesn't get soggy in milk. But you've got to really work in order to swallow it. The last sample made my jaw ache. How was Leonard connected with them?

The whine of a jet engine revving up broke the silence. Through the glass wall, a plane taxied into view. The Groatz logo and marketing phrase, "Great oats! Great taste!" adorned the entire side. The passenger door slid up. A woman in a beige jumpsuit flipped out a staircase and crossed the empty asphalt. When she entered the building, she headed straight for me. "Mr. Marcus."

She knew who I was. "Yes."

Her long brown hair had been blown into a tangled mess by the jet's turbulence. At close range, I examined her face. Very pretty. A bit lower, the jumpsuit bulged, so the Groatz logo stood out prominently on one side. Yuli, her name, was embroidered across the other breast. "We're ready for you now." She took the handle of my roll-on bag and led me from the building. When she pointed towards the stairs, I walked up. The pilot's cabin door was open. Two smiling men, also in jumpsuits, grinned broadly. "Welcome aboard."

I nodded and then turned to the right. Swivel captain's chairs lined both sides towards the front, with plain seats behind, along the walls. One flip-down flight attendant seat was mounted to a back divider. At the rear, I guessed a small galley and a bathroom.

Yuli came up the aisle, minus my bag. Must have been stowed below. "May I take your coat?" She put her hands on my shoulders.

"Sure."

She slid the jacket off my arms and carried it away. I chose a seat on the left side, so I could see my car in the lot and the waiting room building.

One of the male pilots walked the length of the plane either to check things out before takeoff or to use the bathroom. Yuli's jumpsuit was a much tighter fit than his. Perhaps Groatz management was sexist, or maybe just their private flight management. Or a simpler explanation, that Yuli had shrunk hers in the dryer. Questions buzzed in my head, but neither the pilots nor Yuli were likely sources of information. Was I really going to be the only passenger? And what was Goat's relationship to Groatz? Had Goat been a highly valued employee? Maybe even a member of senior management? I'd never have figured Goat for an executive suite.

After both pilots were back in the cockpit, one of them announced immanent departure. Yuli came back to make sure I was buckled in. She took a long look at my waist. Was she checking me out? Even if she wasn't, I noticed that she'd unzipped, just a couple of inches.

It was odd, being alone in a plane. Normally, I'd be wincing at noise from uncooperative children or playing dueling elbows with a burly guy in the next seat. Not this time, just the sound of wind rushing past the fuselage.

Takeoff was the closest I'd ever come to being an astronaut. Almost vertical with g forces that plastered my tongue deep in my mouth. When we tapered off a bit, the flight attendant climbed uphill from her back seat. The zipper of her jumpsuit had traveled a few more inches down from the collar. "It might be too early in the day, but may I offer you a cream soda?"

Damn. How did they know I'm a cream soda freak? Must have been Goat. Who else? How many details about me had he shared? "Thanks."

She returned with a tray and poured the premium Doctor Brown's beverage into a chilled mug. No ice to water down the flavor. Perfect.

"Anything else I can do for you?" She smiled. My eyes tracked the deepening V of her outfit. It was even lower now, approaching the valley between the hills of her chest. Her tits weren't huge, but big enough to capture my attention. She noticed my focus and toyed with the zipper.

Even if this was her way of suggesting the possibility, I couldn't have sex in the plane, could I? Not with two pilots up front who might come back to check on things. "Can you tell me something about Groatz, or the Webbs?"

She opened the overhead storage bin and handed me a hardback book. The title - History of Groatz. "How's this?"

"Perfect." I skimmed through the book. Stanford "Stringer" Webb, who got his nickname from his previous work as a freelance journalist for the local newspapers in Nebraska, had founded Groatz Cereals. When a large tract of farmland was about to be foreclosed, Webb showed up with just the right amount of cash to pay the back taxes. Using unique imported seeds, he turned the land into a highly productive farm, delivering an extremely hearty crop and instant wealth. The book had lots of photos of cereal production machinery and packaging designs, from the earliest mechanisms and boxes to the latest high tech processing gear and modern box graphics. Up to the publication date, which was three years previous, Groatz had remained an independent operation, with extensive distribution within the United States. There were some heavily cautioned forward-looking statements about making that pervasive across the country, as well as entering foreign markets. On the last page, a full color photo of Stanford standing next to his grown daughter, Charlotte.

I shut the book. I didn't know the Webbs, but Goat seemed to have been connected, and now, I was involved.

Yuli showed up, ready to attend to her only passenger. "Was that helpful?" Her smile gleamed, and the inside curves of her breasts were now on display. No bra. Shit, how far was she prepared to unzip that thing, anyhow?

"Yes, very." I had a passing thought about joining the Mile High Club. Shit, I was going to a funeral, and there I was, thinking about sex. I stifled any physiological reaction and reclined my chair. "I'll just take a nap, thanks."

She left the zipper where it was. "Please let me know if you change your mind."

About what? It felt like she was disappointed I didn't ask her to sit in my lap and see what came up. I closed my eyes and dreamed about high school and my adventures with Goat.

The bump of the planes tires on a runway woke me from my nap. It had been about forty-five minutes by my watch. "Are we there?" I called back over my shoulder.

"Yes sir. Remain seated until the captain advises you to unbuckle. I can assist, if you'd like."

Still teasing me, even after landing. She really did want to get her hands on me. Maybe it was a missed opportunity, but my mind was on Goat, his funeral, and the Webbs.

The sunlight was bright and the sky was clear blue. I pulled on my sunglasses at the top of the staircase. In the foreground a brick shack and a limousine. Yuli extracted my suitcase from beneath the plane and rolled it over to the limo. "Have a nice visit." She'd zipped back up. Modesty in public.

Since when is a funeral the opportunity for a nice visit? Strange. "Thanks."

"Maybe I'll see you on the return flight." Her hand pulled the zipper down an inch or two, just to tease. Then she winked. Her waddle as she walked towards the plane was meant for my eyes, I was certain.

I had just landed and was anxious to climb back aboard. Both that plane and Yuli. But there were condolences to share, in person, with someone. The Webbs? Would any of Goat's family be there?

The limo driver put the bag in his trunk, came around and then opened the rear door.

When he got into the driver's seat, I felt obligated to say something. After all, in the past, I'd always been the one to provide my limo driver a destination. "I'm sorry. I don't know where we're going."

"That's not a problem, Mr. Marcus. I have my orders. First, I'm to take you to the house, so you can clean up and get dressed properly. Then, I'll take you to the mortuary for the funeral service. You'll join the family there."

"Leonard's family?" Boy, was I out of touch. The only family I knew of was Gloria, from decades ago.

"Oh, I assumed you knew. Leonard married Charlotte Webb several years ago."

No shit! Goat married into big money. That made him heir to the Webb's cereal business. Except the idiot died. What happened to Gloria, his high school sweetheart? "Really?"

He continued, "No children, thank goodness. Please, sit back and relax. It won't take us very long, but we have to stay on schedule."

Dust plumed as my driver gunned it out of the private airport's parking lot. I thought of a dust-caked Yuli unzipping her jumpsuit to take a shower. God, the places my mind goes!

After about a half hour, during which I played with all of the buttons and controls on the TV, radio, and lights, the limo driver turned right, passing under a horseshoe-shaped arch, announcing 'Webb Estate - Home of Groatz.' "We'll be at the house in a few minutes."

The "house" was a huge building off in the distance, deep into the flat land that seemed to stretch to the horizon. On both sides of the road, fields of grain. This was a working farm, not just for show. The driver pulled halfway around the circular driveway. An older man in black blazer with the Groatz logo and grey slacks greeted me.

"Mr. Marcus. How was your flight?"

This guy had no clue I was practically seduced by Yuli the flight attendant. "Very smooth. I slept through most of it."

"I see." He winked. Shit, he did know. But how? "Let me escort you to your room." He took my rolling bag from the limo driver in a hand-off smoother than the best I'd seen in any Olympic relay, and proceeded down a wide arched hallway. On the right, at a door labeled GUEST ONE, he turned and entered. Inside, there was a king bed, armoire, dresser, nightstands, and a closet. He pulled open the closet doors. "We didn't know your exact size, so you've got a variety of suit jackets and pants to choose from." The armoire held freshly pressed dress shirts and several ties, all in properly subdued colors appropriate for a funeral. "Underwear and socks are in the dresser. You have a private bath, that way." He pointed past the closet to another door. "Please, I don't mean to rush you, but you can't be late for the service."

He hustled out of the room and closed the door. My own clothes in my carry-on were redundant, so far. I took a quick hot shower, shaved to remove any unsightly stubble, and got dressed in stranger's clothes. I was tempted to wear my jockeys instead of their boxers, but felt somehow like that was an insult. All ready with a grey and red tie, I walked towards the front entry. The driver was waiting. "You look perfect, Mr. Marcus. What fine taste."

I stroked the lapels. "Thanks." I didn't deserve the kudos. Someone else had made the tough choices.

The driver sped around the circular driveway, down the entry road, and made a tire-squealing right. "If I get you there a little early, you'll have time to speak with the family before the service." Except that we had to cross freight train tracks, and there was a one hundred boxcar procession blocking our path. Seconds felt like hours. The driver had succeeded in making my timeliness my problem, not his. Smooth, and sneaky.

Despite his rush after the train passed, everyone had already entered when we arrived at the chapel. A string of limousines and fancy imported vehicles stretched behind a waiting Hearse. The driver ran around the car and threw open the door, handing me off to an usher. He took my elbow and shuffled along, demonstrating urgency. The sign at the doorway read: Service: Leonard Humphries-Webb." Wasn't that backwards? I thought the woman's maiden name came first when someone chose hyphenation. The rush continued as he scurried me down an aisle to the first row, where three people sat on a long couch. Closest was a woman in black from head to toe, a veil obscuring her face. I presumed she was Charlotte, the widow Humphries-Webb. Next to her, the icon I'd just read about - Stanford Webb, founder of Groatz and according to the limo driver, Goat's father-in-law. On the far end of the sofa, a second woman in a simple black dress, this one younger with a family resemblance. A second daughter? She sat looking at the floor, hands folded in her lap. There was just enough room for one more body - mine. The usher planted me next to the veiled woman.

I was startled when she leaned hard in my direction. I had nowhere to go. My arm was crushed between our bodies. I wanted to avoid accidental contact with her, so I snaked my arm up and put it along the top of the sofa. She cooed and snuggled against me. This felt too good for a funeral; Goat's widow nestled in my arm. I couldn't see through the veil, so I hoped that Goat had good taste. The Groatz marketing phrase, "Great oats! Great taste!" jumped into my head. When the minister, or whoever he was, rose to the podium, that's when I first noticed Goat's casket, sealed shut.

The minister's words were completely generic. No mention was made of anything personal, such as Goat's humble beginnings in Chicago, or Gloria, which I guess would have been tacky. Nope, this was pure boilerplate, read from a book as if the minister had never met Goat. Probably hadn't. Goat wasn't very religious.

The minister asked the family to depart the chapel before any other attendees through a grieving room behind the stage. The three Webbs stood. I would have stayed seated but Charlotte reached for my hand, pulled me to my feet, and dragged me along. God, she was strong. From working in the fields?

In the grieving room, the minister closed the door behind us. Father Webb marched over confronted me. "Who the hell are you?"

The minister threw one hand over his mouth at the cuss word in such a holy place.

Charlotte stepped between us and spoke out from beneath her veil. "This is Mr. Marcus, Lenny's closest friend. I invited him, remember?"

The designation "closest friend" was incorrect, but it saved me from Webb's wrath, so I accepted the lie. Mr. Webb grunted, backed off and took his younger daughter's arm. I guessed he wasn't he kind of guy who apologized. The black dress she was wearing was slimming, but her voluptuous body and round curves were still obvious.

The minister opened an exit door that led outside, where the casket had been rolled. Mr. Webb and I were joined by four audience members and handed gloves. We marched along side, our covered hands merely guiding the coffin. That's when it hit me that Goat was really dead. I snuffled back a tear. At the Hearse we did our moment of physical labor, lifting the casket gently onto a rolling belt that practically sucked the casket inside the vehicle. Webb, his younger daughter still clinging to him, put out his hand for Charlotte. She avoided it, grabbing my arm and leading me silently to a different limo than her father and sister, a double-parked one. My driver helped Charlotte in on the curbside, directing me to enter from the roadside. By the time I got in, Charlotte had lifted her veil. God, she was gorgeous. I'm a terrible judge of age, which has gotten me into tons of trouble in the past. All I could guess was that Charlotte was maybe ten or fifteen years younger than me, and well kept. The advantages of money. The boxers weren't constraining my growing erection, the byproduct of being so close to an attractive woman.

"Hi." It was a breathless exhale. "I'm so glad to finally meet you. Lenny never stops-" She realized her use of present tense and choked up. She leaned close, and I put my arm along the seat top her, like I had in the chapel. She fit well, cuddled next to me. She raised the opaque shield between the driver and us. He didn't react. "Lenny told me so much about you, I feel like I know you already."

"Then you have the advantage. It's been years since Leonard and I spoke. I didn't even know he'd remarried."

Charlotte took my hand in hers, and let it fall onto my lap. "Three years ago, after that ingrate Gloria dumped him. Can you imagine, dumping a treasure like Lenny?"

I never thought of Goat as a treasure, but than again, I wasn't female. Then why did Gloria give him up, if that's what really happened? Charlotte was not yet a trusted source. "No, I can't. First off, let me extend my condolences. It must be hard for you-"

That's when she let go of my hand and placed hers on my thigh, just above my knee. I fully understood the circumstances; a grieving widow seeking solace for her loss, accidentally touches the man she thinks is her husband's best friend. "You've come to the real truth, haven't you? Oh, how smart you are. Lenny said you were smart. It's been soooo hard." Her hand moved up a couple of inches. God, she was going to be shocked as hell if her hand went any- Oh shit, a couple more inches. Since my unencumbered cock had extended out of the boxers, she was dangerously close to holding the length in her hand,

"A terrible loss for you. Leonard must have been a good husband." I presumed.

"The best, but always struggling to be better. You know how competitive Lenny was, don't you?"

Goat had never been into sports. Never joined school teams. Wasn't much interested in watching the local teams on TV either. "No, I can't say that I do."

She blurted a single laugh. "How ironic. Lenny vying every day to make up for his deficiency, competing with you, and you were completely unaware."

"Me?"

"Yes, you, Harvey Marcus. What a strong name. May I call you Harvey?" She turned towards me, blue eyes glistening, her fingers wiggling. "Evidently, at some point, he'd seen you naked. He never disclosed the circumstances, but he described-" Her hand slid up, resting on top of my penis. "-how big you are."

Charlotte was a flake! Goat hadn't yet been put to rest, and she was coming on to me? I knew I needed to disengage from this interaction, but gently. After all, this was Goat's widow, in the early stages of grief. "We shouldn't be discussing-"

"Do you know how to be gentle?" She patted my prick. It lurched.

"I think I do." Was she really expecting for us to get intimate right there, in the limo driving behind her dead husband's casket?

"Good. Then you'll take Lenny's place tomorrow."

At some gathering, or in her bed? I tried formulating a question that didn't assume too much.

The driver's voice over the intercom startled both of us. "We've arrived at the mausoleum," he announced.

Charlotte folded her hands and waited for the driver to open her door. "We'll continue our chat later."

And your groping? I thought. Charlotte wiggled over and stepped out, taking the driver's hand. I was treated to a close-up view of her behind. My erection didn't falter. Perhaps my combination of boxers and pleated pants would mask my condition.

I pulled the gloves from my jacket pocket and returned to my position at the back of the Hearse, to walk beside the casket of my former classmate. The cart jingled as we steered it from the parking lot, up the concrete path to the granite-faced building, through double doors, to the open crypt labeled "Webb Family."

Once we'd positioned the casket at the open drawer, the entourage of pallbearers backed away. Charlotte held on to me, as if she was unable to support her own weight. Stanford eyed us, his younger daughter still on his arm, her cherubic face framed by long blonde hair, still counting floor tiles. The same minister spoke additional generic phrases about loss, mourning, and an after-life. I imagined the spirits of former female classmates, and perhaps other women, greeting Goat with open arms. And, one at a time, open legs. More important than life after death, was there sex in the Great Beyond? There must be, otherwise how great could it be?

The attendees all went their separate ways. Before we got into our limo, Charlotte whispered something to the driver. Then we returned to our positions in the back seat, Charlotte's thigh against mine. Heat radiated from her body.

I decided to reset the direction for our conversation. "I had nothing on Leonard." I decided not to confuse Charlotte with his nickname. "He was always surrounded by women. No offense. He had a charisma I never matched."

"Not from his perspective. Lenny told me that his life's goal was to please women. As a woman in Lenny's life, I can tell you, he certainly did. We were so compatible. Two peas in a pod. We both loved sex, and he was a master."

This was too much information. What next, sharing their favorite positions? A play-by-play description of their last fuck? "I'm happy for you, that you had a chance for happiness. Not everyone does." My sex life with Harriett was nowhere as fulfilling as Goat's and Charlotte's had been. Not even close.

"But Lenny wasn't satisfied. He thought that, with a bigger penis, he could have been an even better lover, bringing me to even higher levels of ecstasy." Her fingers returned without warning to my prick, which had deflated during the entombment. "But now, I'm all alone. I need comfort. You understand, don't you?"

Did Charlotte expect me to take Goat's place in their bed? "I understand you have needs. I wish there was something reasonable I could do." I threw in the word reasonable to set some threshold.

She hiked her skirt and fell to her knees on the limo's floor in front of me, working my zipper. "The night they took Lenny's body from the bathroom, I tossed and turned in anguish. Without my soul mate, how could I go on?"

Soul mate or sex mate? Maybe to Charlotte, it didn't matter. The fact that my cock was exposed, sticking up from my pants, inches from Charlotte's face. That mattered. "Uh, Charlotte?"

She prattled on. "And what's worse, I have myself to blame. Lenny would still be here if I hadn't insisted-" She was crying while she massaged my erection. With each sob, she tugged at it, leaning ever closer.

No woman had ever held my penis while crying. I tried hard not to take it personal. Her manipulation kept my psyche from making it deflate. Why did she think she was responsible? "Just how did Lenny die, if you don't mind me asking?"

Charlotte's fingertips fluttered the length of my prick as she spoke. "I was on the phone in my office, just down the hall from our bedroom. A west coast distributor threatened to renege on his committed quantities. Well, I couldn't allow that. I explained the contractual penalties, and he agreed to proceed as expected. That's why I got to our bedroom later than our mutual bedtime."

"You go to bed at the same time?" Harriett goes to be before me, so I can peruse porn before coming to bed, after cuming.

"Every night. But that night, Lenny decided he couldn't wait for relief after getting none the previous week. I was suffering too, but I didn't go and get myself killed over it."

"Wait a second. You weren't having sex last week? I thought you said-"

She choked my cock. "It's complicated. You asked a question, and I'm trying to answer it."

I nodded, and she went back to diddling. "When I got to our room, I found Lenny on the bathroom floor. It looked like he'd been masturbating while sitting backwards on the toilet. He was wet. Somehow, he slipped or fell and bashed his head into the toilet tank. Coroner said cause of death was a fatal concussion and accidental." My prick bumped against her lips.

So Goat died in a freak accident while jerking off? That wasn't right. Getting shot by a jealous husband? Now that would have been a fitting end.