Your dad grumbled with irritation as he stepped out of his car. The sun beat on his shoulders, and rather than internally celebrate the end of a working day, the stress of his job shadowed him as he continued up the driveway.
He climbed the stairs on the stoup, and he took in a deep breath before he reached the door.
He wrapped his hand around the knob, feeling its metal hot in his palm.
He twisted his wrist.
The door clicked and gave.
He exhaled with added-to aggravation as the door swung open. Across from him, framed by the doorway of the kitchen, your mom’s head was ducked low and toward the open stove, her big ass bent over and luscious as she grabbed the pot within with her oven mitts on her hands, the ends of which almost reached up to her elbows.
The sight of your mom’s behind, though attached to the woman who had added to the day’s aggravation, chipped away at the brickwork of his anger. And though he thought otherwise, the persistence of his frustration was doomed to melt upon contact with her, because the only other part of her he could have met face to face like this, literally her face, met his when she lifted the pot to the stove, set it down, and looked over her own shoulder at the intruder into the privacy of her moment.
She smiled.
And when she did, your dad’s heart melted, not unlike the ice cream held in lovers’ hands as they walked down the boardwalk. Your dad came into the air-conditioned shelter of the house.
“Hello, beautiful,” your mom said, her smile so infectious it seemed to turn the beating sun coming through the kitchen window into a ray from heaven.
“Hi, babe,” your dad said, setting down his briefcase. “Hey babe?” he started as he loosened his tie. “The door wasn’t locked again.”
“It wasn’t?” your mom replied, concern overtaking her features. Your dad couldn’t tell how genuine that concern was or wasn’t, and though genuine anger was hard now, annoyance re-breached his throat.
“No, it wasn’t. You know,” he said, knowing that it was always good to teach by example over arbitrary dictate. “In the news, there was a home invasion in Eastwood.”
“Oh no!” your mom said.
Your dad knew for certain now that she was only placating.
“Yeah,” he said, swallowing his annoyance as he stepped on his heel to lift his foot out of his shoe. “The homeowner’s in the hospital now. Gunshot wound.”
“Ouch,” your mom replied.
“Baby,” your dad implored suddenly.
She took off her mitts and set them down next to the pot. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“That could have been you who was shot. … or worse. Just… we’re not living out in the country anymore. This is the city. It’s a lot less safe.” He moved toward the kitchen, her coy face getting bigger and more real to him as he went. “Always having a supermarket nearby is only the way it is because there are much more people. And much more people means much more crazies.”
He grabbed your mom by her hips and felt her body curve outwards in all directions just at the pinkie-edge of his palms, hinting at the full beauty of her shape below his current reach. He had to be gentle with her. He wanted her unobstructed nudity tonight, and to embrace her smooth ass with the spoon of his pelvis, something which you and your brother, by your very existences, had made hard for the past decade. He remembered those days like they were a fading dream. At the old place, with your mom’s ass riding him on the living room couch, the full weight of it just spilling over the flesh of his thighs. In those wild days, the bedroom was strictly for sleeping. It was the rest of the house, and even the wooded-in grove of the backyard and its swinging loveseat, where his body met hers with animal-like pinches without worry. His cock and balls licked delicately by the pink tongue of a woman whose primary concern in those days was keeping her man. That primary concern dropped to second, and then third fiddle, as fiddle one and fiddle two, take care of you and take care of your brother, came into being and were now tied for first place. His cocked throbbed at a distant third like a Mars glimmering in the lonely sky.
He kissed the top of her golden head. “You ready to make up for it tonight?”
Your mom, being a woman, had no idea just how interested she’d be by the time the sun retreated from its golden throne in the sky, but she vaguely liked the idea in theory, and she nodded with her best attempt at a devilish smile.
It was never as sultry as she imagined it, but your dad, being a man, enjoyed it more for what it implied than for how it looked.
“Okay, babe,” he said, and gave her ass a hardy spank. “Now get my pot roast on a plate so I’ll have the energy.”
Your dad’s cock was hard and rigid under the kitchen table, and he took little looks at your mom’s white chin and throat as she chewed, imagining the kisses he was going to plant on them, and he was almost planning the exact rhythm of his thrusting, so thoroughly that he was chewing pot-roast at its exact pace now unconsciously. You and your brother sat opposing each other on at an x-axis from your mom and dad’s y. Your dad’s cock throbbed under the noses of all three of you, not just spurned by the whipping of lust, but that of a day’s worth of wiry frustration. The only doors she ever locked were the bathroom and bedroom doors, and all because she was afraid you or your brother would walk in absent-mindedly. How he longed to come in on her liked the old days, a witness to her impromptu nakedness and receiver of its gifts with never more than a little push.
Your mom sat, the cheeks of her face alive with mousy chewing, as ignorant to your dad’s frustration and want as you or your brother. As your dad examined her forehead and hairline in between bites, he settled with the obvious truth that he had nothing of real weight to be upset about. He was a very lucky man. It was only these small particulars that got in his way. Only getting that sweet ass once or twice a week wasn’t ideal, but it was better than the deal the rest of the world had signed onto. They would never get the juicy taste of your mom’s ass at all, never know the feel of its cheeks and the sight of its black crack.
Not long after supper, your mom got a phone call from Sheryl from down the street. She needed some extra hands to help with tomorrow’s block party and your mom, agreeable as she always was, was happy to help.
Your dad lay on his back in the bedroom, with his pants and underwear on the floor, his naked cock throbbing as he thought about the ravaging he was going to give your mom’s soft and wanting backside when she got back home. There were only so many top-quality asses on the market. To sleep with one, to know its sensation while its fine hairs bristled while standing on edge, peachlike against one’s skin, was a gift enough. But to be the one to lock such a thing down was like riding a horse slowly into the sunset. The only thing left was to enjoy the fruits of one’s luck, over and over and over again, and be happy that such a gift was all theirs, and only theirs, to enjoy.
Your dad looked down at his own nakedness, his bronzing white skin and the black hairs on his thighs and shins and on his pubic region. He imagined your mom’s ass sitting on his cock, with her facing away from him, with her hands on his shins as she rode, and him simply extending his open palms to each cheek to feel them as they shook. He wondered if he still had the strength to lift her clean off of him, and pull her ass toward his face for a bedtime snack, while her face, meeting with his cock, finished the job. It might have been a decade since the last time he tried. As he tried to remember it, distantly hearing her giggle, his eyelids began to get heavy.
By the time she was finished and she walked down the distance of the dark street and back home, your dad had already fallen asleep. She opened the door to see him laying there, his cock flaccid and illuminated by the light of the lamp and his eyes shut tight. She stripped to her underwear, brought the blanket up over his nude body, leaned over him to shut off his bedside lamp, and wrapped her end of the covers over her shoulder. She shut her eyes, and almost immediately, she fell asleep.
Your dad woke up with sunlight in his eyes and morning wood. He could hear your mom’s body being anointed by shower water, and his frustration about what he had missed the night earlier began and began to build. But before he could ruin his teeth by grinding them in bottomless frustration, he remembered that it was Saturday. And what that meant was freedom from the tyranny of the clock. And whether or not your mom was in the mood, she had made a promise, unfulfilled, for the night prior. It wasn’t so much that your dad felt right in the act of pressuring her that was soon to approach. It was that he knew she was easy to convince. And in preparation for that convincing, he laid there with his cock hard and throbbing, and his legs spread wide, waiting for his bedroom door to open for her to see him there. The sound of the water, too heavenly for the humdrum of the working day, yet fit perfectly within the ghostly malaise of the weekend, spilled through his door, implying nudity of the type he was most familiar with and desirous of. He throbbed in expectation.
But before the sound of the water even ceased itself, and the bathroom door could be heard opening, within the fan blowing billowing steam, he saw the knob of his bedroom door twitch. And before he could decide on a plan of action, the knob turned entirely to the left, and the door swung open.
You stood there, staring directly at your dad and his stiff cock, the bottoms of his fleshy balls exposed to you between the blushing walls of his inner-thighs. Your dad scrambled and threw the sheets up over his throbbing shame, his shins and the bottoms of his feet still bare to you.
“I need to use the bathroom,” you said, as if you hadn’t seen anything at all. And in your mind, you hadn’t.
“Not our bathroom,” your dad said, in soft explanation, his wits dulled by embarrassment.
“Mommy’s in the bath,” you explained, and you headed across the foot of your dad’s bed toward the bathroom door.
He lay there, hearing your clumsy echoes reverberate from his bathroom. And at around the same moment, the shower in the main bathroom shut off, and not long after, your mom came into the bedroom, wrapped securely with a towel, her shoulders and calves as bare as he wanted the rest of her to be.
“Good morning,” she said with a smile, barely looking at your dad. Her towel was wrapped tightly around her impressive shape, and she moved across the foot of the bed toward her bathroom, swiftly like she was in a rush, and just as she grabbed the top hem of her towel, at the space between her breasts with her thumb and forefinger, readying to pull it, she rounded the corner and noticed you there, your urine spraying into the toilet bowl… mostly.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. Your dad looked at the back of her blonde head as she spoke. “Sweety, you remember what we said about using our toilet?”
“You were in the bath. I had to go very bad.”
Maybe he wouldn’t do it if you locked the door, your dad thought sarcastically, but not daring to say it. Not now when so much was on the line.
Your dad waited patiently while your mom blow-dried her hair in her red towel, anticipating the moment when you left the bedroom, leaving him to fling his covers from his lower-half and display his throbbing expectation. By the time you finished, and had soiled the bathroom sink counter with soap and water, if such an oxymoron was possible, your mom had already put on underwear and shorts underneath her towel. And as you waddled the opposite direction at the end of the bed and out of the room, your mom had dropped her towel completely, and pulled a t-shirt over her chest facing away from your father in the bathroom.
As your dad lay there, hard underneath the sheets, he watched your mom, fully clothed and bent over, cleaning off the toilet seat with toilet paper. He decided the moment to push her had passed. Your mom dried the sink counter with a towel, and just as it seemed like she was coming for him, putting one knee up on the bed and throwing the wet towel into the corner with the other discarded laundry, she lowered herself to kiss him on his cheek and then said “I got to get going. Sheryl and the girls are getting everything ready for today and I promised I’d be there soon.”
“Okay,” your dad said sheepishly, too disorientated without the boost from his morning coffee. “Just make sure you lock the door when you go.”
“Sure thing,” she said, kissed him again, and stood up to leave.
He watched her ass in beautiful motion in her shorts as it disappeared around the corner. He lay there, sporting his erection like it were a wound. He gave it a few ceremonial tugs, watching the flesh of his shaft pull against the cradle of his scrotum as he did. Then he got up, threw on underwear, and headed out into the heart of his home.
Plenty of cars were lined along the street, as he could see outside the window while preparing coffee. He sat down, took a few sips of it, and felt calm and satisfaction come with the caffeine that moved through him like sand in water. It was a beautiful morning, he could tell by the shade of the day along the outdoor concrete. He decided he’d finish the rest of his coffee on the stoup.
As he went towards the front-door, extending his free arm towards the handle, he stopped when he noticed something. His grip tightened around his mug.
It was the door, with its locking bolt unturned, and the button-lock on the doorknob unpressed. He clenched his teeth together and felt a tightness in the skin between his eyes. He finished his coffee in the kitchen instead.
It was 11:33, and Bluebird Lane had already begun to come alive with familiar faces. Your dad exited the house, biting his lower lip, and was half-startled to see your mom round the tree in the front toward the stoup.
She said “just need some extra plates,” and she rushed past him and up the steps without looking at him. He stood on the lawn, gazing at the personable commotion originating from down the street. He saw you and your brother throwing around a ball with four other kids on a lawn situated diagonally to yours, but closer toward the hullabaloo. When your mom came back out, he turned back to look at her and she said “come join the party, beautiful. Don’t be a stranger,” and she went past with a tower of plates in her hands.
Your dad turned back around toward the house, and he walked briskly up the stoup steps. He took a breath and grabbed for the doorknob. He turned his wrist. The door gave.
“My god,” he mumbled to himself. “It’s like all her the energy for thinking is taking up by her ass.”
He pushed the door open more, leaned inward, and clicked the push-lock shut.
As he did that, a man walked down the street, coming from the direction of the park. He had his hands placed firmly into his strange-looking black sweater. He stood there, at the dead side of the street, with only your dad there on the stoop nearby looking within the house. And as he looked at the chatting crowd a few houses down, and smelled the burger patties and sausages being grilled, and heard the sounds from the stereo and the hits from the 90’s that emanated from it, one object caught his eye above all others. It was an object that was round and soft, and which bobbed as the woman who carried it moved from one end of a picnic table to the other laying out plates.
He knew he was right to wander into the suburbs this day. There was always a specimen out there somewhere, he just happened to chance upon it now. Though the music and smell did help with his quest.
As he continued forward, his face blank, your dad shut the door.
Your dad looked down at the doorknob and twisted it a few times, making sure it was locked. “Now, was that so hard?” he asked the air.
He then turned around and looked back at out at the sea of neighbors. “Well,” he said as he took his steps down the stoup. “Here goes nothing.”
The sun was at its zenith in the sky and it baked the bare shoulders and hairy arms of the men and women who moved around each other in a dance of smiles and hellos, yet he stood there, among the crowd, unseen, in his black sweater, not even breaking a single droplet of sweat.
He watched your mom put a hot dog into her mouth and bite off a large chunk. She then lifted her hand to her face and cleared mustard from the side of her mouth with the underside of her thumb. The man grinned to himself.
He had already seen your dad approach your mom a few times, and he could tell without hearing them, only through body language and the nuances of circumstance, that they were married. And though your dad seemed subtly perturbed by something, the ease and grace of your mother, as she looked over her shoulder with wide eyes when she heard him calling her, implied to the man that it was a happy marriage. He also witnessed two young boys, both looking like her and the man who touched at her elbow to talk, and he somehow knew you were her only two children. He could tell a lot through very little. Everybody who came from where he came from could. It was a skill native to human functioning, one which was worn away by the milky ambience of this endless suburbia, making its inhabitants dull and bovine-like, with homes bloated with pretty things, and minds empty of useful thoughts. Or at least that’s how he saw it.
He watched as a woman approached your mother from behind and startled her with a hand on her shoulder. And though he couldn’t hear them from the distance where he stood, he could almost catch the spirit of their interaction. And as he intuited it, it went on, in actuality, like this:
Sheryl’s brown Filipino hand jutted out in front of your mother with a multi-colored cylinder of something which emanated cool air. The object itself like a floating oasis in the summer heat, but all your mom could ask was: “What is this?”
“I prepared it for the girls. Just to thank you for being so helpful. Joel was pretty useless at everything except for grilling hotdogs. If it wasn’t for you white girls, I’d be dead in the water.”
“Is it a smoothie?” your mom said and grabbed it from Sheryl’s hand.
She hummed in the affirmative.
Your mom lifted it to her face and sucked at the contents through its straw. “mmm” she said and let the straw fall from her lips. “It’s alcoholic.”
“Yeah,” said her neighbor. “The hard part is over. Thought it was time for us girls to let loose.”
“Is it strong?” your mom asked and smelled at it.
“Did it taste strong?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It tastes so fruity it’s hard to tell.”
“Jill’s finished half of hers already, and she seems fine. I’ve had a bit too and I barely have a buzz going. I think I underdid it, if anything.”
“Okay,” your mom said, her tone lifting. “Thank you, Sheryl. I’ll have to get you back one day.”
“Don’t mention it. Let’s just have fun from here on out. Let the worries sail away.”
“Let’s,” your mom said, and tipped the straw to her mouth in dainty fingers and sipped.
The blender that had made the smoothie sat nearby the furthest table, recently unplugged from the extension cord that had been snaked through Jill’s kitchen window. The smell of various fruits emanating from the table was washed out by the overpowering scent of vodka. The blender was empty, but for a small layer of clear liquid at its very bottom, where it appeared to have pooled up, leaking through the various layers of liquid fruit and ice, less resistant to gravity and thin enough to escape the thick clutches of the concoction above, until the bulk of its clear mass found its natural home at the lowest part of the blender.
Your mom’s portion was the last to be poured.
She took another sip.
Your dad sipped on a Heineken, constantly looking out, even mid-conversation with a neighbor, to forever keep track on you and your brother.
The cheeks of your mom’s face were flushed pink in the cooling air, and she sat at a picnic table, leaning back onto it with her elbow on the flat surface of its table-cloth as she listened to Sheryl and Angela argue through a soft permeating buzz about what colors a newborn’s nursery should be.
“I don’t see why color should matter.”
“Because it’s for your baby,” Sheryl said, and took a deep pull from her straw. “You want her waking up in a harsh environment every morning?”
“But what if we only associate the colors we associate with safety because those were the colors that were in our nursery when we were at our safest, and then we only think those are safe and soft colors when we grow up because that’s all we know? And then when we’re older, and we need to paint our kids’ rooms… you know what I mean?”
Sheryl stood there for a second as if she were mulling it over. But before anyone could mistake the look on her face for understanding, she replied with “what?”
Your mom began laughing uproariously, tilting her head back in a careless sway as she did.
The girls looked down at her.
Sheryl called your mom’s name, then asked “are you okay?”
Your mom shot her hand out in weak-wristed sway downward. “Fine. I’m fine,” she said, and laughed some more.
“It must have hit her harder because she’s tired from all we did,” Sheryl explained to Angela. “Either that or she didn’t eat anything today. Did you see her eat? I’m almost done mine and I’m just barely getting tipsy. She still has half of hers left. Hun,” she said, leaning down toward your mom. “Maybe you should drink some coffee.”
Your mom just looked up at her and shrugged sleepily. “Maybe.”
The man in the black sweater watched your mom, half-conspicuously, the full weight of her swaying body resting on the focal point of his observation, which sat, pressed against the bench seat. Within that small construction of fabric sat a sight that was sweet with a sugar that could only be tasted in the gyrating fury of a man’s lower half. The crack at its center pursed by one heavy and round cheek being pushed up into the other by the flat surface of the bench which supported the heavenly flesh, while having the assertiveness to press it into its current erotic shape.
Only now, as the sun hung in the sky at a timid angle, and the air began to cool with a soft breeze, did his fumbling hands begin to accrue sweat between his rubbing fingers and thumbs within his sweater pockets.
As your dad took his eyes off of the two of you, looking back at your mom to see her oblivious to her sons, sitting carelessly on the bench, in a lounge-like state, he began to feel that molecule of rising annoyance move upward, dragging with it a gripping net pulling at more neurotic states of mind like one accruing allies for a parking lot fight. But as his eyes wandered from the droopy eyelids and lower lip of her face, down toward her exposed white thighs, which had been bronzing beautifully in the day’s sun, those emotions began to subside, or at least were masked, like the flavor of vodka by the sweet fruity taste of a smoothy.
Your mom had half her cup left.
She took another sip.
The plastic cup sat on the pavement of the street, rolling slightly away from the leg of the picnic table a fraction of an inch, before always rolling back towards it and stopping dead at contact. Feet, some big and some small, clad in shoes and sandals and flip flops, moved past it in joyful steps. And with the subtle vibrations, the cup rolled away in short intervals, slight in distance, before coming back to its stopping point. As it did this, the colorful liquid within, a thin green line at the bottom of its cylindrical shape, didn’t roll with it, but hugged its circumstantial bottom at all times. That within the cup which was free from the tiny amount of liquid was stained a slushy green and emitted the strong odor, a specter of the vodka that was no longer contained within.
Your dad looked away from the baseball conversation being had by other dads, and he looked over at your mom, and then he exhaled with an exasperation that was inaudible over the sound of Stop by the Spice Girls. Your mom’s eyes were shut tight, with her head resting on her bicep, and the rest of her arm extended across the table over various plates, with her wrist resting on a roll of paper towels.
Sheryl approached her and poked her in her shoulder. “Sweetheart. Sweetheart, wake up.”
Your mom mumbled but barely moved.
“Sweetheart,” she said again. “You don’t want to sleep out here.” She nudged your mom harder.
Your mom looked up, with her eyes now only half-open.
“You can’t sleep here. Come with me to my place and you can sleep on the couch.” She pointed up her lawn to her front door, which was only a dozen and a few yards from where your mom was struggling to stay awake.
Your mom grumbled, but in the form of a question.
“Yeah, in my house. I’ll help you there. You can sleep inside. The suns going to burn you out here. Come on.”
Your mom waved her hand in the air. “No,” she mumbled. And then she put her head back down on her arm, barely closing her eyes as they were already near shut.
“Okay,” Sheryl exclaimed with her eyes wide. “You made your bed, and now you can sleep in it. Don’t blame me when you wake up with a sore ass.”
“She has more than enough cushion,” joked Diana on the other end of the table.
The man in the black sweater, undisturbed by even a single resident of Bluebird Lane, stood there with his hands clammy now with sweat. Your mom’s ass, both cheeks, were pressed now equally against the wood of the bench seat. If he would have found her anywhere but here, he wouldn’t have wasted time in depriving her of the little that covered her from his hungry gaze. And women were easy to move around in this state if need be, as if they were designed for such a purpose. But now, here, in a place where she had clearly been flanked on all sides by those who knew her, not just by face and name, but by husband too; he felt a hopelessness, knowing how close she was, her ass ending just where the tips of his fingers began, as his other hand gripped the vertical steel bar of his cage.
He watched like an animal gazing at food as your mom’s white arms were grabbed by the chocolate-brown hands of the pretty Filipino lady.
“Come on,” said Sheryl. “I’m not going to let you sleep here. It’s ridiculous”
“Mmm,” your mom moaned.
“Come on.”
Your mom was lifted up to her feet in Sheryl’s hands. Sheryl than hooked her arm under your mom’s and began to take the first step, when your mom shook her head, pushed against Sheryl’s shoulder with her other hand, and unhooked her arm. She then began walking, not in the direction of Sheryl’s house, but with the ambition to stumble herself towards the air-conditioned comfort of her own much further down the street.
“Okay, if that’s what you want,” Sheryl said, and she turned around to Diana’s laughing grin.
Your dad was now deaf to Carl, who, failing to notice his distracted attention was still monologuing to him about the Yankees. He watched as your mom stumbled down the street, getting smaller as she moved further and further away from the party, and closer and closer to the house. Earlier in the day, Drunken Angel by Lucinda Williams played from the stereo, and the chorus of the song now played in the pressure cooker of your dad’s mind as he watched your mom stumble with a majesty all her own.
“Carl, can you excuse me?” your dad said without looking at him, only extending his arm out to touch his shoulder softly with the underside of his hand.
“Of course,” Carl said, suddenly flustered. “You uh, you need to make sure the old ladies alright. I understand.”
Before he even finished saying it, your dad was gone, walking toward your mother with significantly more speed and deliberate movement.
The man in the black sweater stood there, drenched and stewing within it, watching with a dry tongue as his object of desire’s husband tailed her toward the only pocket of privacy he could have ever hoped for. It was now the first time in his life he had ever prayed for a miracle.
As your dad neared her, halfway in between the table she started from and the house she hoped to arrive at, she started to feel more real to him. She had more appeal to him in this selfish, drunken state than all the sober women he had ever known combined, and his urge to protect her, to make sure she was alright, welled up in him, even as his annoyance at her, almost ever-constant now, sat at a dull hum within him.
He neared up to her slender back and just as he was about to place his hand on her bare shoulder, he heard a familiar scream.
He turned his head to look and he saw you on the ground crying, with your brother wrestling another boy, pushing him away from your crumpled up form.
“You touch my brother again and I’ll kill you!” your brother screamed.
Your dad bolted towards the scuffle without even thinking. Your mom just continued on as if she heard nothing. The sounds of your brother’s screaming, and your pain, as incomprehensible to her now as the music coming through the stereo behind her. Just a tsunami of sound, a solid wall without grooves to stick her thumbs of comprehension into to pull apart its sonic components.
She wobbled as she moved up the elevated ramp of your front lawn, and she barely realized that the grass had ceased to be below her, and it was replaced by concrete. When her foot met the first stair, the rest of her failed to get the memo, and her body slunk downward. She put her extended fingers down to stabilize herself, then she took another step, and did the same. Then another and the same. And when she finally got to the top of the stoup, her body, now adjusted to constant elevation, almost fell forward into the door.
She stabilized herself by sliding upward with her shoulder against it into an upright state. Then she wrestled the doorknob into her palm, not even looking at it. She turned her wrist.
It gave little.
But not realizing why, she kept turning it back and forth, her brows furrowed as she was stonewalled with each turn of the wrist.
When she finally looked down at the doorknob and its key-slot it occurred to her what the issue might be near-immediately, and she fished down into her pocket and felt a satisfying jangling in her fingers. She pulled out her keys, with the image of you and your brother, now screaming behind her in the world she just stumbled away from, printed within a glass charm, and she pushed the spearhead of the key toward the lock. It slid about, scarring the knob imperceptibly, until somehow, likely by the sheer numbers-game of her pushes, the key slid into the lock.
She turned the key.
The door gave.
The man in the black sweater, pursuing your mom from behind, his eyes so wide they were almost drying out, had seen your mom disappear behind the giant tree sitting in your lawn. He kept looking over to his left and saw your dad trying to pull your brother away from the crying boy, almost tripping over your crumpled body on the grass in the process. But he looked back ahead of himself, as if trying to force his own personal state of tunnel-vision, making sure to not look back, knowing, in his skid-row wisdom, that it was the little things like that which caused the most suspicion, while also helping to achieve the goal the least.
When he rounded the corner of the tree, he saw an empty stoup with a closed door. He still heard the commotion behind him, and the sounds of Shaggy like a distant dream from the stereo. He crept up the steps, seeing the front door get bigger, more real, and its state as something that could be pushed from its position opening up a hole to an otherwise private world to him, a sensation which he knew well, reared its riveting head to him, yet more intense in its zenith and bottom now because the cheese at the end of the tunnel he was now moving through was the kind he never knew he needed a taste of until he caught its sweet whiff.
He could almost smell her as he approached the door. Its rectangular glass at its center was distorted with artificial frostiness, and he saw nothing, at least nothing flesh-colored, peaking out at him, not even through a glass darkly.
The door just sat there. He looked down at the knob.
The commotion was still live behind him.
“Stop it! It’s okay. You got him. Stop it!” your dad screamed to your brother.
He looked nowhere else except at the knob, your mom’s value in his mind transferred, in the most abstract of ways, onto the silvery apple that was that knob. It was the final of all obstacles, each one having fallen in glorious charity to him. He wondered wordlessly whether he would be thwarted right here, or whether… Even this thought was so bathed in white light that the thought of it could not register now. It blinded him like a flash in the sky during transfiguration.
He grabbed the doorknob, feeling it hot in his hand.
He turned his wrist.
Your dad had finally restrained your brother. And Gary, though not really needing to, managed to do the same for his son.
“Cool it,” he said, and he fell backward beside you with your brother in his arms. “It’s okay now.” He took a deep breath. “It’s okay now.”
He looked down at you.
“You okay?”
You sobbed and nodded your head.
He looked over your brother’s shoulder and into the side of his face. “You?”
Your brother nodded wordlessly.
“Good,” he said. “No reason to fly off the handle. Not that I’m not proud you defended your brother. Can I let you go?”
“Yeah,” your brother said, flat and exhausted.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Your dad let him go. He got your brother to apologize to the boy, then the boy apologized to you and helped you up.
Your dad stood there, breathing heavily, with his hands on his hips looking down at the peace between them now regaining a foothold.
Geeze, these kids, he thought. You can’t let them out of your sight for a second.
As he slowly regained his breath, he turned and looked at the mass of party-goers down the street, and he was embarrassed to see a few looking over at him, the rest likely moving on after the fight had ended.
Great, he thought, sarcastically.
He saw Sheryl standing there, looking at you with concern on her face, being a mother herself, she had that magical ability to feel a child’s pain as if it were her own. Your dad looked at that face for a few moments longer, and then turned and looked at the front of your house. The front door was shut and the stoup was empty. The stress of pulling his son off another ten-year old, recently dissolved, was now replaced with a new thought that creased his forehead. He took a deep breath, and he headed across the street.
“I locked the door, didn’t I?” he mouthed to himself as it got closer in his sight. “I guess she remembered to bring the key.”
His thighs, tired from straining them while pulling at your brother’s shoulders, ached as he went up the incline of grass before the stairs.
The knot in the flesh of his forehead wound itself tighter as he got closer. He thought about whether he could now leave you and your brother outside and tend to your mom given what had just happened. Or would he have to ruin your fun by forcing you in with him? The stresses which mounted whenever she shirked, even by inches, were enough to carve years off the end of his life.
The grass beneath him gave way to concrete, and his thighs and calves ached more as he ascended the steps. When he got to the top, he looked quickly through the frosted glass, seeing only the vague impression of white walls and the stove in the kitchen.
He placed his hand on the doorknob, feeling it hot in his palm.
“Okay honey, your knight in shining armor’s coming,” he mumbled. “Here again to clean up your mess.”
He turned his wrist.
*thud*
He looked down at the handle, startled. The sound and sensation of it came from within the knob’s mechanism.
He turned his wrist again.
*thud*
He stood there, staring down at its silver, which would have been gleaming in the sun were it not engulfed by the large shadow of the front lawn’s tree.
He turned his wrist again slowly.
It didn’t even *thud* this time. He had turned it too slowly. It just stopped moving after turning a few degrees.
After standing there for a few more moments, staring down at his hand and the device within his tensing fingers, the right corner of his mouth began to curl upward. Followed by the left. And then the corners of his eyes joined in with the motion of the rest of his face.
He was smiling.
“You did it,” he said softly. “You finally remembered. You finally remembered to lock the door.”
He stood there. The concrete of the flower bed next to him was a metallic blue color in the tree’s shade. The air was cool beneath it.
“And all it took,” your dad continued. “Was to get drunk out of your mind.” He smirked to himself.
He turned around.
You, your brother and the other kids were playing again, laughing. The tears on your eyes had dried, and the kid who pushed you passed you the ball with cooperative excitement.
Your dad walked halfway down the steps, then he sat down. The tension in his forehead had evaporated, and it was replaced by a pleasant buzzing in his neck and shoulders.
His forearms were rested on his knees, and he leaned forward to see around the tree and saw the happy party-goers, smiling on fold-out chairs and benches, drinking water or beer, laughing or smiling. He exhaled and sat there, admiring the colors in a world under an early-evening sun.
“I thought I was going to get laid tonight,” he said out-loud and laughed good-naturedly. There’s always tomorrow. No rush. Nothing to get upset about. There’s a long line of tomorrows. Life is a dream.
He put his palm to the step and pushed up. He dusted off his hands on his sides and walked around the tree, toward the mass of revelers, his neighbors, whom he knew so well and felt so safe around. He was now ready to let his hair down. Not worry. Not fret. Not think about any that tore him away from this peace. He was ready for what he always should have been open too. He was ready to have some fun.
The empty smoothie cup, still rolling a fraction of an inch away and back again, did so now invisibly, as the sun shined on the world at an oblique angle, hinting at the darkness which would be the lot of all creation soon. Though only for a few hours, the sun would meet this very street, only from its other side, lighting the world up anew the following morning.
The number of swarming feet around the empty cup, now darkening themselves, was fewer, and they moved more sluggishly, with less joy, only purpose and fatigue.
Trays and plates were passed to open hands, and garbage picked up and discarded in bins being held by wandering arms. You had fallen asleep on one of the tables, and your brother wasn’t very far behind you. Most of the kids had gone inside already, all of them sleeping.
Your dad held your mom’s plates in his hands, the number bloated with a few of Tom and Diana’s, unbeknownst to him, and he handed a few of them off to your brother so that he could cradle you in his other arm.
He made a few end-day comments to some of the neighbor as he walked past them, and Sheryl made him promise to lie and tell your mom that all the girls got as drunk as she did. “Just so she isn’t embarrassed,” she explained, and laughed.
Your dad’s smile had not abated him, and he continued up toward the dark stoup, which was barely visible under the shade of the tree in the darkening-day.
He set his portion of the plates down, fished his key out of his pocket, first trying his right, then realizing it was in his left, readjusting you to reach for it. He sorted through his keys on the chain with one hand, until he found the house key, and blindly in the dark, he managed to get into the keyhole on his second try.
He turned his wrist.
The door clicked open.
He nudged it open further with his knee.
The house within was dark, the dark blue light from outside illuminating little but the vague shape of furniture in the living room.
“Go put the plates on the kitchen counter. Or the table if you can’t reach.”
Your brother continued inside. Your dad left the door open for the little light it provided. As your brother set down the plates on the counter, and then turned on the kitchen lights quickly because he feared the dark, your dad looked over into the living room, and though he could make nothing out, something about the furniture had caught his eye. It was impossible to place, but even just the silhouette of the couch furthest from the front door looked strange.
He looked over to your brother in the yellow light of the kitchen. “Can you come grab these?” he asked, and motioned his head back to the plates that still sat outside on the stoup’s stone ledge. “I’m going to set your brother down.”
Your dad continued on toward the living room, the light from the kitchen giving a modicum of visibility, though it could only bend around the corner in subtle degrees. Your dad could tell where the couch before him started, but not where it ended, so he felt with his knee until he found that point, and continued around the couch, his eyes still on the furthest couch, the one that appeared now to have something on top of it from closer inspection.
He set you down on the couch next to him, and before he could step toward the couch beyond and feel for the anomaly with his hands, a weird fear motivated him to instead walk to the other side of the living room and turn on the lamp.
His hand glided all up and down the lamp’s shaft, looking for the clicking switch. He was always annoyed that no matter how many times he turned it on or off, he could never remember where that switch was.
As your brother heard your dad’s hand running up and down the metallic shaft of the lamp in the darkness outside the kitchen, he felt a slight chill, like a cool breeze, on the back of his neck. He looked down the steps leading into the basement, and just on the landing where the stairway changed direction 90 degrees and continued down further, he noticed that the back door was hanging open. He looked at it strangely while your dad fumbled in the dark.
Eventually, your dad found the knob, feeling it between his fingers. Still looking at the strange silhouette on the couch, he turned the knob.
As soon as light exploded within the living room, bathing all within a stinging orange, which was so bright, many outside noticed the light flash on in the window from their peripheral vision, your dad sucked in air in-place of making a sound.
When he finally found the will to exhale that air, and while trembling, inhale another breath within an instant, he screamed a horrified scream, causing your brother to drop the plates in his hands on the kitchen floor. He ran out into the living room, halfway between the front door and kitchen.
He looked over at your dad, and seeing the look that no son should have to see in the face of his own father, he anxiously followed his gaze, not wanting to but having to, and when he saw what was at the end of that horrified gaze, he just glared.
The street was now all abuzz with activity. Feet, rather than going to and fro, ran past the discarded smoothie cup, which now rattled about from the furious vibrations.
“Where was that from!”
“It was -----------‘s house.”
“Oh no,” Sheryl murmured to herself, expecting the worst. Worrying that she played a part in it, whatever it was.
Your dad wanted to leap over toward the front door, slam it shut, and lock it, keeping the prying eyes of all the familiar faces of Bluebird Lane out, but then they’d still be able to see through the large window, it would take many moments more to shut each set of blinds, and there were four in total. On top of it, they’d only all find out when the authorities got there. It would be a matter of public record. And then there was the strangeness, that after so many hours of strengthening his bonds with those who lived around him, he was shutting them out from knowledge of a tragedy that happened to one of them, and furthermore, weren’t they his allies in this? But most of all, what kept him glued next to that lamp, as he heard the approaching commotion outside, was nothing more deeply-considered or thoughtful than the visceral weakness that had infected his every limb and fibre. He stood there now, a victim of the coming moment.
And then his house, empty but for the atrocity on the couch, you sleeping nearby, and your brother standing near the front door, began to fill with faces, each one looking rushed and intent and then being frozen into a state of bewildered shock, the number of which grew, until the bulk of the block party, minus half of the kids, stood within the four walls of your house, looking at the sight that terrified your dad so much that he could no longer move.
Because sitting on that couch, now a spectacle to all she had known as her neighbors, those she had been reacquainted with on this day, both the men and the women along with some of their children, lay your mom, chest down, naked from her toes to her lower back, her large butt cheeks softly wrapped around the neck of a Heineken bottle, which jutted out of her asshole full and still slightly chilled. On her thighs, the message “Have one on me” had been written in some sort of black marker, and though she correctly reeked of vodka, it didn’t take long for each neighbor to realize that smell of beer that came off of her wasn’t actually beer, but more like the end-product of a day’s worth of beer.
The smell of the glistening remnants on her butt cheeks and thighs reeked so powerfully that the cum which lay on her face, some leaking out of her mouth, was significantly less upsetting to behold.
But out of everything left there to make the spectacle what it was, the one that sat the strangest with every onlooker, mostly because they could vaguely recall seeing it before, but without the closure of being able to place where, was a raggedy black sweater which was now filled with your mom’s drunken torso.
He walked out of the back-lane. The street-lights had just turned on as he rounded the corner, and he crossed the street onto the boulevard, and walked with empty balls, bladder, and concern, swinging a pair of shorts in his index finger by their waist.
He stuffed the pair into his pocket, and then pulled his bare arms up to his body and held himself tight. It was starting to get cold at night again. Fall was coming. He waited for a police car to pass, and then he crossed again to the other side of the street. He stepped over the chain-link fence of the park and smiled as he disappeared into the darkness. He had done a lot in his life, but it had been the first time he had ever done something like that. Though it wouldn’t be the last. Your mom was the start of a crazy adventure for him. And even as her face would fade in his memory, he would never forget the exact shape and texture of her ass. It had imprinted itself into the clay of his mind as if it sat in it, and he would take its memory with him, it being his to remember now, like a trinket into new circumstances and the future more broadly.
He disappeared into the darkness of the park.
He turned his wrist.
The door clicked open.
“Get off! You’ve won. Get off of him!” your dad screamed from behind, trying to hook both arms around your brother’s torso.
He quickly squeezed himself in without opening it too widely. And when he was inside, he saw your mom in her day’s shorts heading for the hallway to her bedroom in a glorified stumble. His stomach was filled with butterflies. As he closed the door behind him, he heard a bang, and he turned around to see her lying there, facedown, with her short-clad ass protruding higher above the rest of her by a few inches or more, still wobbly from her fall.
Then there was perfect silence within the cathedral of the house. That perfect silence, characteristic of suburban houses in a way that those in rougher neighborhoods would never understand, meant buffet to him to usually. But as he stood at the front door, a little bit more than a guest now, staring at the settled flesh of your mom’s ass, he knew the term “buffet” would be a little more closer to literal this time.
His limbs rattled as he turned around and faced the closed door.
He grabbed the knob, now the one from the inside, and he pushed the button on the knob with his thumb.
It clicked locked.
When his hand left the knob, it was wet with his sweat.
He looked back at his target. She lay on the ground, facedown, breathing softly. One bare sole peeked out from behind its shelter against the hot pavement of Bluebird Lane, its flip-flop.
The thrill he felt was indescribable as he approached your mom. As he did, her body like a treat, the sounds from outside, including It Wasn’t Me by Shaggy, and a cacophony of discussion and laughing. The first thing he did was grab both ends of her shorts, took a deep breath, and then tugged them down to her thighs.
Her bare ass, looking better than he could have ever expected it, jiggled into view like jello. Her cheeks fell apart due to their own weight, exposing her asshole to him. That was the irony of large female cheeks. They were leverage for such physical anomalies of strange femininity, as if the goal of their design was as much to make the woman who possessed them an object of clown-like mockery as it was to make her attractive. As if in God’s eyes, the temptress and the jester were one and the same, and all they had to do to fulfill both purposes was present their giant, shapely, and soft backside.
When he stripped the rest of her naked, he did so almost angrily, as if he were upset over there being any obstacle in his path toward her at all. He was mad at her. He was mad at the block party for being around her. And he was mad at your dad for trying to follow her inside. Nothing got in the way of male fun with female bodies as much as other men, whether those men were husbands, fathers, or police. If all men would have just agreed to a ceasefire in the Mexican standoff of woman-guarding, the following couple of hours would go down in history as the greatest ever known by man.
As he removed her flip-flops one by one, and even tickling one of her soles playfully to confirm he wouldn’t get a reaction, he heard the front doorknob *thud* as its motion came against its own inner-locking mechanism. He looked up and toward the door. The frosted glass was now darkened by a shadowy impression which changed shape at its edges as the knob turned and *thudded* again. And then it turned and *thudded* again. He held his breath.
He waited for the sound to subsist and the shadow to give way to a frosted over blue, and when it did, and he saw your dad walking down the lawn through the window, he took your mom’s empty flips flops and pressed them side by side between her cheeks just to see if they would hold. They would.
What comical magic this ass had, he thought. And then he wondered if your father appreciated it. If he knew how rare and unique of a prize it was. Or was its glory as invisible to him as the shine that ubiquitously surrounded him in his amazing life? Did he know what a jewel he held close to himself every night, or like all pieces of his privilege, did he live blind to it, as sensitive to its sweet taste as a fish to the rarity of water in a world mostly characterized by vacuum?
He slowly pushed his cockhead between your mom’s cheeks and he felt their benevolent weight engulf its sensitive touch. His eyes almost rolled back within his head at the heaven of it. He began to thrust, slowly, and though the length of his cock went up and down like a lever being pulled along an axis, his head was held in place by the soft grip of your mom’s cheeks. He could feel the bottom of his penis tip rub against the balloon knot of your mom’s butthole, and he had to gain leverage with his hands on the carpet to push his cock through those cheeks, groaning erotically, and with unbelieving joy, as he felt the inside of her cheeks, as high as canyon walls, rubbing past his cock on both sides.
The booty life gave a pirate who felt he could reach any shore or dock with his ship. In the international waters of morality, it was those who respected no borders or property titles who ended up amassing the most and the best. And in this metaphor, the term booty was literal.
He pressed his penis against your mom’s unguarded pussy hole. Its tip went in up to the curve on its top, and he shivered, then gaining leverage with his palms on the carpet, he pushed inside. There was no locked door to stop him here either.
Your mom wasn’t the man’s first forced encounter. He had violated women of his caste, degenerate low-lives mostly, including the girlfriends and partners of his friends, their bodies accustomed to such indignities, if not rape than malnourishment and the aging that stress bought; but never had he invaded a home with a middle-class woman in it, one whose body was without the blemish of want and trauma, and had some fun with her sacred and near-inviolable trait, each cheek spoken about in the shelter of other middle class homes like some naughty game, but never seen or had, its castle walls impenetrable by custom alone, as it appeared the locking mechanism at the gate wasn’t in the habit of being utilized.
Like all men who had this inclination, the sweetest one known to the arsenal of the outlaw: rape, he preferred an unlikely target. Someone who was cloistered, well-protected, liked, and far from such possibilities, and most of all, someone who didn’t deserve it. Most criminals had this state of mind, even he himself suffered from its pseudo-logic, that people of privilege and influence were above such clouds of dust and dirt that those like him, and all he knew, wallowed and were becaked within. Once that mental trap were gotten over, the smooth white bodies of the suburbs, scrubbed clean and pure by the waters of circumstance, would be like an upturned shell, as husbands would be out working, and even patrolling cops, whose job it was to stop such oopsies of mismatched class, could be bought off. They were for every other racket.
He had found his lust for the untouchable in your mom and her goddess frame. And he had only found it through her two sons, a husband, and an army of neighbors who all clearly respected her, the commotion all of whom created drawing him like busy-bodies to sirens. The irony being though, without them, she would be just as vulnerable to things like this as so many with less were. Without this community, the sounds of which were still coming in muffled through the windows, all she would have for defense would have been the four walls of her house. And what good would that amount to if she left the front door unlocked?
As he thrusted into her, feeling the weight of her lower half fight with mere flesh against the thrusting of his day-hungry cock, he looked out the window and saw the smiling faces that swarmed around a series of tables and chairs like bees. Each one carrying the honey of their own happiness, which dripped off of them in glowing strands. And one face dripped more than all the others, as the owner of that face sat on the edge of a bench-seat, having a happy conversation with men around him, laughing and sipping at a beer, his mind like the day’s sky, cloudless and baby blue.
The man looked away from that honey-sweet face, and down at the face of beauty incarnate.
The screw-tight pressure of the day had now transmographied itself into the tightness of that hole, which was equal in pressure, but to a much prettier end. Your mom’s insides massaged the liquid of his balls out of him, that being what they were designed for with or without your mom’s knowing approval. The irony was that what would come next would be that which her own being begot by its very nature, as if the Fates themselves wove the threads of her life with this moment as the unignorable centerpiece out of lesbianic mischievousness or womanly jealousy.
He somehow managed to brave the temptation of finishing off inside her, instead pulling out, with the first stages of sweet ejaculation already gushing from his throbbing tip, and finishing within the crevice between her cheeks, leaving a white river between two hills of everything she had extracted from him. He was drained dry, and all that existed within his testicles not but a few seconds earlier could be used now to fully immerse toy soldiers from boot to helmet within.
After finishing off his ball-tightening ejaculations, as refreshing as squeezed lemon, he felt his horniness, but not his smug satisfaction, fade away like their spirit existed within that river of white water. He then grabbed both cheeks form the outside and pressed them together just to see what would happen. Unsurprisingly, cum squeezed out thickly from between them like cream from a crushed pastry. He reached up toward her hand and when he had removed her wedding ring form her finger with measured twists, he used his cum as a sort of lube to press it up her asshole, leaving only the untanned remnant as a pale circle around her finger, symbolizing the trade between female fidelity and manly guardianship.
He looked down at the product of his tactical Gaugamela, smiled to himself smugly, then he got up and went to the kitchen. He pulled at a few drawers until he found the one with the silverware, and he took out a spoon. Then, on his way back, he stopped at the fridge to look at family photos. Glimpses of your mom’s real beauty could be derived from them in clue-like pieces, but most of them focused on the smile on her face, almost as if the photos had been taken in a way to conceal the enticing nature of her shape. He smiled, gloating against her violated motherhood, then he opened the fridge and saw that the lowest drawer was crowded with a Terracotta army of Heinekens. He grabbed two in his sweatless hand and he continued out into the living room with a smile.
He set one Heineken on the coffee table, as if it was intended for your mom to drink, along with the spoon. He then cracked open his bottle on the edge of the table, denting it, then he walked slowly over to the window, sipping his beer. He placed his palm on the window frame and looked out at the happy neighbors. He was naked and pink like a mole, his cock still half-hard as if its flesh held the recent memory of the joy within your mom’s pussy, of which it experienced and knew now from one end of its shaft to the other.
He looked out at your father, occasionally drawing his eyes away to look at you and your brother playing, or at one of the girls your mom had been chatting with earlier.
It could have been any of them, he thought.
Many of them would have been a nice gift, especially at the price he paid, nothing except some stress and sweaty palms. But he was thankful that out of all of them, it was your mother who had been poisoned with the innocuous toxin of alcohol. In a perfect world (for women) drunkenness would attract no ravenous mouths after the sweet prey of the female form. But your mom didn’t live in the perfect world for women. She lived in the perfect world for men, where drunkenness removed the burdensome tumor of female reluctance, and the ability and wherewithal to run. Alcohol was the net which entangled ass, trapping it further with each kick. It was the beverage that washed away the remnants of the apple Eve bit into, which now existed with cruel aftertaste on the collective taste buds of the species. Every woman was marked with the stain of Eve, and every act against them was just one more notch added to that collective tit to make up for that historical tat. That’s why God made them so fragile and blind, so that their ravishings could happen with impunity.
After he was done his drink, he set it on the ground. He turned around and grabbed the spoon off the coffee table and he used it to scoop cum from between your mom’s cheeks, and then lift it, and float it over the length of her back, up to her face, where he ladled it on with artistic precision. Her eyes twitched as the viscousy waterfall slowly spilled onto her face. When the spill from the spoon slowed-down into a thin laser-like stream, he rubbed the inner-curve of the spoon against her lower lip and chin. He then took another scoop from within her ass like he was scooping cereal from a bowl and guided it to her mouth, where he put the whole spoon in and scooped it out upside-down against her bottom lip as if he were administering cough medicine. The spoon had entered her mouth full of his cum, and it had come out empty.
The sky was getting dark behind him, and he figured he should leave, but before he could grab the bottle behind him to leave it in a conspicuous place as a parting gift, he felt his bladder start to trouble him. He smiled.
The naked man stood in your living room, urine exiting in an upward arc from his half-hard cock, landing on your mom’s fleshy body in satisfying splashes. He could have easily went hours early, half-a-day or so ago, but when he came upon the block party, and his eyes met her careless form, he had all but forgot what those pangs in his bladder meant. At least until now.
Urinating on a large naked ass was a revelation. Wherever the stream touched cheek, her ass dimpled from the pressure, and when he aimed his stream at her crack, getting it in perfectly, the sound of impact was deeper, and it exited (up to a point) in two directions, one from below, spilling over her pussy, and one stream turning into a lake in the groove of her lower back.
When he was finished, satisfied, he turned around, seeing the party now coming to a close in the background, and he grabbed the beer and turned around and pressed the neck of it slowly within her ass.
When he was finished, he stood back and laughed.
He went to go put his clothes on, but after he was decent, he went to put on his sweater, and suddenly a thought had occurred to him.
He walked through the darkness of the park with an invisible smile on his face, holding his arms tightly against his body to keep heat. Fall was coming fast.
Inside, everybody stood in the orange light of the living room glaring at your mom. Every woman there was frozen with the thought that it could have been them instead. And every man, though aroused beyond words, was bowled over by the realization that any man could do the same to their wives.
The crowd cleared out when the cops and ambulance came. A man in gloves and a uniform took photos of your mom in her sorry state, until the paramedics were forced to shove some utensils into her asshole on both sides of the bottleneck, to widen it enough to pull out the bottle, cap and all. You had woken up during this exact process, and you saw the thin plastic being shoved within by strange men in white as a bottle jutted out of your mom’s buttcrack. You blinked a few times, shut your eyes, and fell back asleep.
When they finally were able to pull out the bottle, at the end, hooked diagonally against the cap, hung your mom’s wedding ring. When your dad saw it, he clutched the backrest of the couch, its golden shine, and everything it implied, played on in a glimmer from the orange light, which hurt him with its sight. He felt his legs get weak, and before he could hit the ground, he mercifully lost consciousness. There was no worry to be had in a dreamless sleep.
Bluebird Lane was a famously nice street. Your mom and dad had noticed its charm the second they turned onto it, and they spent and extra twenty minutes going up and down its length, admiring it for its peaceful beauty and its nearby parks, before meeting with their real estate agent and falling in love with the house they would eventually move you, your brother, and themselves into.
The public school was a ten-minute walk away, as was the swimming pool and mall. Everybody smiled on Bluebird Lane. They had nothing to not be happy about. Especially in Spring and Summer when the flowers and trees were in bloom. And this was a fact that few were beyond noticing. The smiles, the helpfulness, the generally cheeriness of all on the street. It was like a mini paradise. A place where bad things never happened.
But even amongst all this cheer and greenery and cleanliness, there was one thing that everyone who came to visit Bluebird Lane always wondered. One thing that was at subtle odds with all the delicate playfulness that seemed to be the street’s constant nature. But when one asked one of the residents of Bluebird Lane about such anomaly, all they got was a white face and some silence.
And for years, the mustard seed of a legend grew, and those within the neighborhood wondered and joked at its origin. But no one was ever able to discover the answer to that unanswerable question, but they would continue, no matter how much it was in vain, just to find the solution for this single query: Why are the doors on Bluebird Lane always locked?
The answer, in keeping with the phenomena, seems to be forever safe and unviolated behind lock and key.
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