TYBS#21 (MAY 2007)
Here’s another short short that got lost in editorial limbo. This case is worse than most because MANUAL, the men’s magazine where this story was supposed to come out in, had already commissioned the illustration and I had already been advised of a possible publication date.
Just goes to show you can never be too sure. It doesn’t come out `til it comes out.
I’ve probably been watching too much of The Sopranos lately but people reneging on their word just makes me want to do an assault on their office with a baseball bat and see how their polished glass tables measure up against my aluminum friend. Then we’ll get a real answer out of these debauched socialites who think journalism means gift bags and envelopes with cash.
In any case this story is an excerpt from the short novel “Faith in Poison.” It’s part of my upcoming second book (a collection of four novellas) News of the Shaman. Coming soon. I hope you watch out for it.
Meanwhile, here’s a middle finger to the glossy that commissioned this piece (the artist adds his own “up yours” as well), jerked us around and never put it out or paid for it. Getting a venue for publication, here in TYBS, is still a means of empowerment and cherished autonomy. Enjoy the story.
* * *
Mutha Load
At times I call up friends that I haven’t seen in a while but have bumped into recently. Rico is one of them. I call and ask him if he’d like to have a beer, catch up, whatever.
“Um, yeah. S’okay.” Rico says with his scratchy voice, “but I got to take a bath first. Why don’t you come over here and hang out so you don’t have to wait?”
Fortunately we both lived just a few blocks from each other but we never knew `til we met each other purely by accident the other day. I didn’t know he still lived at his parents’ old house.
Rico takes baths that stretch up to two hours long depending on his mood. But I say yes since it’s just a trike ride away.
Once there, I’m greeted by the maid who’s about to go home for the weekend. Rico, his frizzy, curly hair standing up in deformed spikes, tells me to wait, make myself comfortable. That everything is pretty much still where it was since elementary. Then he goes off to shower.
I must say that Rico’s house is a veritable three floor mansion and has rooms furnished like a five star hotel. Him and me go way back to primary school. We used to watch a lot of dirty movies in his bedroom and, in high school, smoke pot and cigarettes.
One thing Rico has as well is a gorgeous mother, the real MILF/Stacey’s mom kind. She’s still young, having had Rico and his sister when she was barely out of her teens. I remember she had incredible light brown skin, a handsome face that radiated freshness and the biggest tits off a Filipina I’d ever seen that wasn’t in the movies. Rico’s father was a big shot stock broker who was often on business trips abroad.
One time, we had to use the Playstation (God knows what his parents play, simplified Dance Revolution?) in his parents’ room and I had to sit on this chair where his mother’s bra and shorts had been left hanging.
I somehow found a section of that day’s newspaper to cover my upper body. Then I let Rico engross himself in beating the hell out of the other racers in Jet Moto. This precaution up, I started sniffing the inside of the cups and, I tell you, I had enough fuel for erotic fantasies to last me a decade. The scent left on those D-cups were part honey and part sea spray. Still jack off to it from time to time, the memory losing only the details but none of its essence.
I kept smelling it for the next half hour, pretending to be engrossed with an article about some new hemp that was undetectable to tests. That was until Rico finished the damn game and we had to go down and eat.
That day I cursed Shakey’s delivery for being so fast.
Anyway, I never got the chance to do that again on account that I never really got back into their house. See, they had a big family dispute. Turned out, Rico’s dad was cheating on mom. This was before he died of avian influenza. I remember he looked like some emaciated, undead aswang in his coffin. Horrible.
I suppose I should have said sorry to poor Rico. Fantasizing about my buddy’s mom doesn’t help friendship any. But he doesn’t know it and lack of that knowledge keeps him (and me) from harm.
Well I’m here now. Rico’s still in the shower and mom can’t be anywhere over 40 (or thereabouts – she was in her late twenties when I pulled that stunt). I want to find out if my luck will hold since, with the maid gone, there’s nobody else in the house. My fantasy mom, I’ve been told, is off in Hong Kong shopping her ass off.
I go to where I remember the main bedroom is and find it unlocked. The room’s smaller and more feminine now, more geared to a single person. I spot some clothes on a chair, but there’s only a shirt and jeans.
Unfortunately, the clothes cabinet is locked. I rummage in the drawers and find the old, worn Kama Sutra book his dad kept in the library along with a mother lode of Hustler and Shaved on the bottom of a mahogany desk.
Me and Rico read them in secret whenever we could. What Rico didn’t know was that, when we were leafing through the sex manual, I imagined his mom and me in the myriad contortions detailed therein. I close the drawer and shrug. This wasn’t what I came for.
I open the door to the bathroom and bingo! It’s a black bra hanging on the laundry hook behind the door with a bonus: lacy, translucent undies, almost see-through. Those maybe-I’ll–get-lucky kind you find in any woman’s wardrobe. I grab them both and step back out, tossing both garments onto the bed.
I pick up the bra first and sniff. Still the same old Rico’s mom scent: equal parts sweet honey, salty sea and a faint trace of sweaty musk. I realize I’ve gone to sit on the bed with the panties on my lap. That I’m clutching the bra to my nose. My head is swimming like a cyanide-bonked fish. After I don’t know how long I drop the bra, pick up the undies and inhale deeply.
I am on my knees in an instant, my strength buckling under the strong feminine odor. Riding the sensation I find that Rico’s mom has lost none of her touch on me. What I previously mistook for sweat is stronger here, the musk aggressive, delivering a kick to my synapses, filling my jeans to bursting. Painful and splendid.
There’s a bit of spotty, whitish discharge in the middle, no more than a few centimeters long but quite visible on the material. I lick it. It tastes salty, viscous but languid as it goes down my throat.
I hear the shower turned off and Rico walking back to his room. I take a last sniff and put the bra back on the hook behind the bathroom door. I fold the panties neatly and stuff it in my back pocket. I turn off the lights and gently close the door as my hard-on dwindles.
Just goes to show you can never be too sure. It doesn’t come out `til it comes out.
I’ve probably been watching too much of The Sopranos lately but people reneging on their word just makes me want to do an assault on their office with a baseball bat and see how their polished glass tables measure up against my aluminum friend. Then we’ll get a real answer out of these debauched socialites who think journalism means gift bags and envelopes with cash.
In any case this story is an excerpt from the short novel “Faith in Poison.” It’s part of my upcoming second book (a collection of four novellas) News of the Shaman. Coming soon. I hope you watch out for it.
Meanwhile, here’s a middle finger to the glossy that commissioned this piece (the artist adds his own “up yours” as well), jerked us around and never put it out or paid for it. Getting a venue for publication, here in TYBS, is still a means of empowerment and cherished autonomy. Enjoy the story.
* * *
Mutha Load
At times I call up friends that I haven’t seen in a while but have bumped into recently. Rico is one of them. I call and ask him if he’d like to have a beer, catch up, whatever.
“Um, yeah. S’okay.” Rico says with his scratchy voice, “but I got to take a bath first. Why don’t you come over here and hang out so you don’t have to wait?”
Fortunately we both lived just a few blocks from each other but we never knew `til we met each other purely by accident the other day. I didn’t know he still lived at his parents’ old house.
Rico takes baths that stretch up to two hours long depending on his mood. But I say yes since it’s just a trike ride away.
Once there, I’m greeted by the maid who’s about to go home for the weekend. Rico, his frizzy, curly hair standing up in deformed spikes, tells me to wait, make myself comfortable. That everything is pretty much still where it was since elementary. Then he goes off to shower.
I must say that Rico’s house is a veritable three floor mansion and has rooms furnished like a five star hotel. Him and me go way back to primary school. We used to watch a lot of dirty movies in his bedroom and, in high school, smoke pot and cigarettes.
One thing Rico has as well is a gorgeous mother, the real MILF/Stacey’s mom kind. She’s still young, having had Rico and his sister when she was barely out of her teens. I remember she had incredible light brown skin, a handsome face that radiated freshness and the biggest tits off a Filipina I’d ever seen that wasn’t in the movies. Rico’s father was a big shot stock broker who was often on business trips abroad.
One time, we had to use the Playstation (God knows what his parents play, simplified Dance Revolution?) in his parents’ room and I had to sit on this chair where his mother’s bra and shorts had been left hanging.
I somehow found a section of that day’s newspaper to cover my upper body. Then I let Rico engross himself in beating the hell out of the other racers in Jet Moto. This precaution up, I started sniffing the inside of the cups and, I tell you, I had enough fuel for erotic fantasies to last me a decade. The scent left on those D-cups were part honey and part sea spray. Still jack off to it from time to time, the memory losing only the details but none of its essence.
I kept smelling it for the next half hour, pretending to be engrossed with an article about some new hemp that was undetectable to tests. That was until Rico finished the damn game and we had to go down and eat.
That day I cursed Shakey’s delivery for being so fast.
Anyway, I never got the chance to do that again on account that I never really got back into their house. See, they had a big family dispute. Turned out, Rico’s dad was cheating on mom. This was before he died of avian influenza. I remember he looked like some emaciated, undead aswang in his coffin. Horrible.
I suppose I should have said sorry to poor Rico. Fantasizing about my buddy’s mom doesn’t help friendship any. But he doesn’t know it and lack of that knowledge keeps him (and me) from harm.
Well I’m here now. Rico’s still in the shower and mom can’t be anywhere over 40 (or thereabouts – she was in her late twenties when I pulled that stunt). I want to find out if my luck will hold since, with the maid gone, there’s nobody else in the house. My fantasy mom, I’ve been told, is off in Hong Kong shopping her ass off.
I go to where I remember the main bedroom is and find it unlocked. The room’s smaller and more feminine now, more geared to a single person. I spot some clothes on a chair, but there’s only a shirt and jeans.
Unfortunately, the clothes cabinet is locked. I rummage in the drawers and find the old, worn Kama Sutra book his dad kept in the library along with a mother lode of Hustler and Shaved on the bottom of a mahogany desk.
Me and Rico read them in secret whenever we could. What Rico didn’t know was that, when we were leafing through the sex manual, I imagined his mom and me in the myriad contortions detailed therein. I close the drawer and shrug. This wasn’t what I came for.
I open the door to the bathroom and bingo! It’s a black bra hanging on the laundry hook behind the door with a bonus: lacy, translucent undies, almost see-through. Those maybe-I’ll–get-lucky kind you find in any woman’s wardrobe. I grab them both and step back out, tossing both garments onto the bed.
I pick up the bra first and sniff. Still the same old Rico’s mom scent: equal parts sweet honey, salty sea and a faint trace of sweaty musk. I realize I’ve gone to sit on the bed with the panties on my lap. That I’m clutching the bra to my nose. My head is swimming like a cyanide-bonked fish. After I don’t know how long I drop the bra, pick up the undies and inhale deeply.
I am on my knees in an instant, my strength buckling under the strong feminine odor. Riding the sensation I find that Rico’s mom has lost none of her touch on me. What I previously mistook for sweat is stronger here, the musk aggressive, delivering a kick to my synapses, filling my jeans to bursting. Painful and splendid.
There’s a bit of spotty, whitish discharge in the middle, no more than a few centimeters long but quite visible on the material. I lick it. It tastes salty, viscous but languid as it goes down my throat.
I hear the shower turned off and Rico walking back to his room. I take a last sniff and put the bra back on the hook behind the bathroom door. I fold the panties neatly and stuff it in my back pocket. I turn off the lights and gently close the door as my hard-on dwindles.
Illustration by Nelz Yumul aka Dark Bulb (www.nelz.deviantart.com)
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