The three biggest things you noticed while on vacation with your mom were: 1) just how many guys let their eyes wash over her. 2) Just how many guys, of various ages, races and relationship statuses, had their eyes obsessively fixated on her round ass, which to you was a completely separate phenomenon. The first one containing the second one, in perfect proportion. But the second one on its own taking on its own spirit parallel but separate to the first.
The eyes locked on her as a whole almost had a completely different spirit from the eyes that were laser focused on her butt cheeks, even when the eyes looking at both belonged to the same man. The former was deferential and warm, like they were screaming from their cage “I want to know you, both in bed and out. In the kitchen or living room. In the hotel lobby or the airport. In the park or at a restaurant. In Greece or Italy or France or Mexico or Japan. Every inch of you and every face. I need you next to me and around me. Forever.”
But the eyes that made their way down below the waist carried a different vibration. Like daggers. As if to say “I really hate you. All you’ve done to me is make sex with my wife torture. If you were snatched off the street one April evening and made an example of by 4 or 5 unmasked cocks belong to 4 or 5 masked faces, I’d have trouble feeling sorry for you. In fact, I’d rather that than to fuck you. I wouldn’t even know what to do with you. Even if I had my chance with you, or someone like you, I’d freeze out of terror, or be too nervous to get it up. And just like that, my one chance at feeling what it would be like to have that thing all to myself would be gone. I despise it. Bothersome, round, fleshy peach.”
These two thing were enough to occupy any mind, no matter how large. But they naturally lead to the third thought, so the third thought was a thought you were forced to ponder. And that thought, somehow at war with the weird symmetry of the first two, was this: Just how easy it would be to slip something in between the frosty, circular rim of your mom’s various drinks that vacation. It would be like an alley-oop with no opposing team to stop it. Or if there was an opposing team. It was the Washington Generals.
Was it the law that made men, legions of them, into cowards? Or just human decency? You had been around enough men in your life to know it wasn’t the second one. One K-to-12 education worth of experiences was enough to dispel you of that notion. And people, both male and female, clearly had no problem putting drugs in their own body, as you could see the result of it stumbling up and down the sidewalks of the streets by every pulse-shivering club you passed with your mom.
You wanted to go into one of those clubs with her, but you feared even bringing it up to her. You could only imagine what went on in there. You heard the stories about the roofies and bouncers looking the other way, and you cherished them, but now that you were here, you just couldn’t make that leap into that neon soaked, liquor scented, realm of possibility. You looked down at your mom’s ass as it walked ahead, it stared up at you coyly, and you scowled at it. Knowing you didn’t have what it took to humble it the way it was it deserved to be humbled. Your mom, oblivious to this interplay just looked around curiously at everything as she took each step.
Even among passed and trailing or leading beauties, much of them many years younger than your mother, she was still turning heads, and inspiring warmth in some and hatred in others, depending on if she hit them in the heart or the hip. The song ‘People are Strange’ played from a little hipster joint. Even when you were with your mom “faces looked ugly.” You didn’t need to be alone. The world terrified you. Even when it was in neutral, the banisters and sidewalk cracks rang hostile, never mind the faces of men.
That was it! Wasn’t it? They were too afraid. That’s why your mom’s drinks stood inviolable up to this point in her life. Cowards. It took balls to slip something into a woman’s drink. Not just balls to take the risk being caught. No, it was more than that. It would take balls to do it to a blind and deaf woman in a room with nobody else in it, in a world without video evidence or cops. Just the leap itself, devoid of any risk or fear of life-ruining circumstance, was too much to bare.
You looked at your mom’s ass before you as it swam, dolphin-like, through a sea of cowardliness. Unperturbed. Arrogant. You ran up and grabbed your mom by the wrist that hung just half an inch from that plump bottom.
“Oww,” she said.
You looked up at her, embarrassed. “Let’s go in here,” you said, and pointed at the club next to you with your upturned thumb.
Your mom’s face turned to one of confusion and then startled acceptance. Then a smile. “Okay, sweety. Let’s go.”
The bouncers gave her that warm look over her entire being as they checked your ID’s. They took a little longer with her than they did with you. And when she passed, they turned their heads. Their eyes went down to waist level, and stabbed like daggers at what forced its way aggressively into their vision.
They were so sick to their stomachs that they waved in the next few rows of people, as if their job was to shepherd sheep, until they came upon a sweet little thing to pick on. And lucky for them, this sweet little thing had the body of a lollipop, sweet from the neck up only. So the whole thing was amicable and fun for the bouncers. God bless her. Unlike that... ugggh. (Okay, I’m going to try to calm down. I’m the writer here. I’m supposed to be objective. But even I’m infuriated at your mom’s bouncing black plum.)
Sandwiched in the meaty center between the bread of your mom who came in first, and the bread of the sweet young thing who was holding up the line now, came a chunk of meat who knew some of the bobs and jiggles of your mom’s ass, only a block’s worth (it would take a lifetime to know it all. Even you didn’t know it all. it surprised you with something new each day). He had been following you two down the street for the past 5 minutes with his hand in his pocket, playing with something chalky and moist with humid air, until he realized that it was melting in his palm.
He had spotted your mom with his first set of eyes, solidifying her in place, and when he got a hold of her with his second set, that sweet ass sat firmly within the golden throne of his every waking thought. He needed her and wanted to hurt her, like all men, but unlike all men, he wasn’t a coward. He had the guts and vision to know that every woman was only a *ker-plunk* away from being knowable through the flesh.
He had done this to women before your mom. Sometimes it worked. Other times they got away, only to pass out in the cab, or home on their couch, or in the driver seat of their car as they plummeted off a dock. And sometimes they escaped him, only to fall into another’s web, which was just as good. As long as that fat ass was punished. That’s how he saw himself. An angel come down to set this evil alight. Who’s to say he wasn’t. He had tamed more buttcheek than any man before him, and he never faced any consequence for it, because bravery breeds success and it sure as hell destroys all consequence.
He watched as the two of you sat at a table. Your palms were sweating and you looked like you were having a bad time, even from where he was standing. He could smell the loser on you, and by the way your mom ignored it, showing no sign at all of discomfort with you as a man, or what little piece of man you could muster, said to him that she must be your mom. No girl on a date could ever hide disgust this well. Only a mother, with the gift and curse of unconditional love, could be so blind to be able to stomach a sickly creature like you. And this only made his blood boil at her more. Not only was her ass great, but her mind innocent. That’s two strikes against her. He wondered when (not if) he drugged her, would you be the one to notice something wasn’t right, and rush her home to finally lose your strongly-gripped virginity in the hallowed orifices of your own mom’s fleshy passed-out and agreeable form. He wouldn’t mind that. He wouldn’t mind it at all. He knew that a male virgin’s mind was a nest ripe with colorful and fun perversions of all sorts. A land where concepts such as consent and privacy were blurred with the amorality that comes with being locked out of the joys of life and the benefit of the social contract. A place so barren of human contact that the flesh of family was not only within limits but especially appetizing.
Either he has the balls to take her home when he spots his advantage, he thought, or he won’t have the balls to stop me from taking her directly from that table in front of him. Either way, she loses.
When the drinks came back, he was annoyed to see they were beers still in the bottle, fizzing underneath that skinny glass neck, a target the size of a shadowy hole on the hill of some golf course, instead of the giant swimming pool he was used to throwing his volleyball into.
He was as annoyed as you were when you realized you said to the bartender “bottles.” What were you thinking? (I know as the writer I’m supposed to be objective here. But you really were a fucking idiot for that one).
Your mom, now agreeable to you because her ass was obscured by the table beneath the two of you, asked you about your creative writing courses at community college. You couldn’t tell her the truth, not to her smiling, empathetic face, that your stories always turned out bad because you had to constantly edit out the insertions of innocent women being sexually violated in every which way, elements that were woven into your stories in a way that was central to their plots and themes, and frankly the best written elements in you work; all because you didn’t have the guts to turn in what was really brewing in your mind to your professor, at least not as zero-hour ticked nearer. You knew if you did, he’d see the artistic merit in what it was you were doing, even if taken aback by it, but, as you’ve recently discovered, cowardess rules all things. And it ruins them too.
Your mom just smiled and giggled to herself happily when you said “it’s going very good actually.” If your mom was a just a disembodied torso with lovely arms and a head, you would have loved her without caveat. You probably would have grown up to be relatively normal, less angry, and with the ability to write stories other than ones about Orcs pillaging Elven villages where the men, skilled archers, had all gone out to discover a lost artifact, with their screaming mothers, wives and daughters back home being dragged off in the opposite direction, through blue fields, with their bare asses red from being pinched by slave prospectors for firmness, and their feet filthy with dust. Beautiful pure harems that never age except in the skill at pleasing Orc testicles with their chin and tongues under the constant thundering of nearby smitheries and sparring fields.
In other words, it was your mom’s round bubble of an ass that carelessly bumped you off your path to glorious normalcy and a normal happy life. It had to pay. Pay with heavy interest.
You downed your beer to gain courage, and you shot up to go get more drinks. Your mom didn’t say a word, just looking up at you, not even realizing where you were going.
Get a glass, you said to yourself. A glass, not a bottle.
You came back with two glasses, filled to the brim with foamy Sleeman’s Honey Brown.
Don’t drop it, you kept telling yourself as you wobbled back.
You put them down on the table in front of your mom and then you stood there beside her. She looked up at you, slightly perturbed at you standing there, looking off at the dance floor.
Then you said “let’s dance.”
She smiled.
Your heart almost crawled out of your mouth as you lead your mom by her wonderful palm and fingers to the dance floor. She smiled behind you, finding the prospect of dancing with her own boy to be a cuteness beyond all others.
When you got to a good spot, in between the hordes of terrifying young people, their faces like Orcs to you, all in your age range, but they felt like an alien species to you, like ants who all knew what to do, your teeth started to chatter. You could see your table with your unaccompanied drinks sitting there, rule #1 broken in the how-to-not-get-date-raped after school special. You knew you had to do something. The dance floor wasn’t a place for standing and staring at your drink from a distance.
You grabbed your mom by her shoulders and started rocking from side to side. At first she was confused. But then she started to giggle and play along. You blushed. Some of the couples dancing around you looked at the two of you, annoyed at whatever it was you were doing. Suddenly, your mom pulled you close until you were both hugging and she sighed in your arms. “I’m so proud of you,” she said.
Your heart melted.
Your head dropped over her shoulder, her hair brushing the side of your face, and you caught a glimpse of her two cheeks, supposedly slimmed by her black pants (or so they say), and you thought about how evil and black-hatted it really was. It was puppeteering your mom beautifully in order to build enough sympathy to save itself. You weren’t falling for it. You scowled down at it. It looked back up at you in horror, as if it only just realized it wasn’t dealing with a clown any longer.
Suddenly, beside you, one guy hit another guy over a girl, unsurprisingly one with a large ass (demon), and the hole dance floor to the right of you pulsated outward with human conflict. You trembled against your mom for the first time in a decade and a half, needing to be shielded from the world of concrete and wire she brought you into.
As you cowered, and your mom just looked on and watched, your mutual stalker emerged from his little world in the corner, hovered over to your table, opened his fingers, his bomb bay doors, and dropped his chalky payload into your mom’s drink. A mushroom cloud appeared and faded within an instant in the guise of a splash. The bouncers were too preoccupied with the young men fighting over a pair of butt cheeks to notice the other pair of butt cheeks perilously at stake.
Your mom yelled into your ear over the boom-boom of the music: “Let’s go finish our drinks, sweety.” And the man who had blessed hers disappeared back into his universe of shadows.
When you got to your table your mom took a big chug of her beer. She made a face at its tangy texture. You wanted to love her in that moment, but the knowledge that her ass was behind this adorable interlude and all other points of loveliness at this point, you knew better than to give in.
She said: “Let’s see who can finish first.”
You both started drinking. You got to about a quarter of the way down and had to stop, feeling sick. Your mom jumped three quarters down the height of the glass. If only someone had slipped something in there, you thought.
The man who had done just that watched from afar. his face half-illuminated. Your mom’s ass tortured him from its seat, a sight mercifully obscured from your eyes by the table.
“Fuck yes. Whether through your son’s cock or mine or someone else’s,” he said to himself, out loud but inaudibly over the music, “you’re going to get what’s coming to you tonight.”
“What’s the matter, baby” her ass said to you through that sweet face and voice, “warm milk more your style?” Her ass was desperate. It was pulling every trick in its arsenal to soften your iron resolve. But just this little confirmation that it now felt cornered was enough to make you push on.
“I bet you can’t drink what’s left of that and then drink mine too,” you said, surprising even yourself with your ingenuity.
“That’s a bet!” she said.
It’s calling my bluff, you thought.
She chugged her remaining volume in a single bound, and then slid your glass along the table from in front of you, leaving a slugtrail of cool perspiration along the table, and finished it almost all at once, making a grimaced face as it went down sideways.
This bitch is retarded, the careful-handed weaver of your mom’s fate thought. She doesn’t even realize what her son will do to her if she keeps this up. If he’s not a coward, that is. She’s playing with fire.
Your mom stood up and started giggling. Something in her was bubbling up, playfully and neon-tinged. She looked around her, making a full 360 and then some. You watched her ass, scowling at it, as she did. She stopped as if she found what she was looking for within her environment. “I don’t think I should have drank so much,” she said. “I feel... good.” She was staring off into space, away at the dance floor and at nothing in particular. “Weird but good.”
After a few moments she said in a flat affect: “I think someone put something in my drink.” “They have!” you said, enthused. Even you though, in this moment, felt a terror. It was like spice to the enthusiasm, and definitely welcome, but it fascinated you all the same.
She nodded. Then suddenly she grabbed the back of her chair and spun 45 degrees in the direction of the exit. “Yeah. We should get out of here, sweety. Somebody wants to do some things to me.” There was a sad reservation in what she said. A sense of not just hope, but assurance that you’d lead her out of that sunken trap, but a sadness at what had almost happened. What could have been if you were never there to help her. It broke your heart. Her ass was really working hard to make up for that mistake it made by calling your bluff.
All it had to do was sit down. Make itself out of your sight and, in turn, out of your mind, and you would have defaulted to love and terror for your mom and her current lot. All it had to do was duck. But it was too proud of itself and its lovely shape to be able to. She just stood up, leaning on that chair, it spinning slightly with her weight on top of it and her butt jiggling as she steadied herself. It had to jiggle. Even though it was in its own worst interest. It just couldn’t help itself. It couldn’t even forego the sin of Pride, even just for a second, to avoid the sin of Lust. Lust which would reign over it for a lifetime. You bastard, you thought.
“Uhhh,” you said, knowing what needed to happen next. Tuning your vocal chords with vocal stalling til it could sing the tune you required of it. When you finally got there, it came out beautifully, “Okay mom. Okay. But first, I need to go to the bathroom.”
Your mom, still looking off in the opposite direction shook her head. You could feel her sadness from the back of her hair. No horror, just upset. “No. We don’t have time. I can’t move right. He wants me alone. All he needs is seconds.” She said it like a patient repeating her lot in life to her new psychotherapist. No urgency, just despair and the will to inform. “I’ll be quick,” you said, smiling to yourself as you looked down at your sworn enemy. “I’d never let anything happen to you,” and you rubbed it in with a devils’ grin. It pleaded up at you in horror. It only made you despise it more.
He saw your grin and he saw you stepping backward. It didn’t take long to click in his mind. He just had to take that extra leap into understanding what more depravities the mind of the virgin male could fester and spew forth. This was a new one. But a coherent and welcome one. He approached quickly, his eyes meeting yours.
You looked up at him and smiled. He stayed the same size in your field of vision, as you backed up at the same pace that he stepped forward. He grabbed your mom by her shoulders. “Uh oh, mom,” you yelled with glee over the music. “Looks like you’re on your own.”
Your mom said nothing in return. You looked down at her ass as it got smaller and more distant, you and it moving in opposite directions, but never looking away from each other. It’s power over you and your soul, it’s grounds to torture you, shrunk as it did within your field of vision. Before it disappeared behind the swinging bathroom door, it was but a dot in a sea of dots, half illuminated and powerless. It couldn’t hurt you any longer. And then the bathroom door swung closed. And it was gone.
You turned round, elated, and saw that all the stalls and urinals were being used. You stood in front of the mirror. Grinning. You still had one trouble on your mind. You needed to pee. Badly. You couldn’t wait anymore. So you just unzipped your pants right there and let yourself go into the sink. Two of the guys at the urinal could hear something behind them and they turned to look at you. You could see them in the mirror. Another guy came out of the bathroom, stopped for a second and stood there drunkenly, staring at you. He went to the sink on the complete opposite end, washed his hands and then left. More guys came around you and washed their hands, pretending you weren’t there, as your hard cock shot a clear stream of urine into its sink just next to them. It was a line of hands all in a row, interrupted in their formal purity by one hard cock. Out of bounds in every way imaginable, from stylistically to socially to morally.
You didn’t care. You feared nothing.
When you were finished. You washed your hands, soap cleansing them under cool water. Then you went back outside and ordered a beer. This time in a bottle. It felt so much better to drink from a bottle. And then you sat down, completely alone in a foreign land with nobody else to show you the ropes or struggle to find them with you. And for the first time in your entire life... you felt peace.
