Todestrieb
"I'm glad the priest is gone. He tried to touch me."
You turn angrily on your younger cousin, who mumbles these words through a mouthful of cheese puffs.
"You little shit. Can't you have any respect?"
Normally he would shoot something back at you, but even in his puerile adolescent mind he realizes there are certain boundaries that cannot be crossed. He disappears into the living room, passing old Aunt Fiona on his way out. She is sitting alone in an upright chair, her head bent over some dull old rosary beads that click incessantly in the silence. Sensing you looking at her, she meets your gaze with her evil black crow eyes.
"There should have been a wake!"
"I told you before. No one fucking does that anymore. It's grotesque." You are not normally rude to elderly family members, but you know that there aren't any boundaries you must respect today. The whole world must pity you and offer up an infinite berth for bad behavior. "Stupid old bitch," you mumble for good measure as you turn towards the staircase, the same staircase down which you used to race your brother on Christmas mornings. A few people are still here in your old house, but most of them are gone. That was the last earthly event dedicated to your mother, and it was over so soon. Now begins the likewise short process of forgetting.
You trudge up the stairs, paying inordinately close attention to the faux Oriental runner. You have almost crashed into him when you notice his black-polished shoes right in front of you. You stop abruptly, gazing up to meet the eyes of "the guy". None of you could remember his name; he was just "the guy" or "the boy", the one who served your drinks on a faux silver platter and then took them away when you had finished. His blue eyes blink guiltily at you.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude up here. It's just that the downstairs toilet is clogged." He smiles sweetly at you. He must be about your age, probably a little younger. He has a thick Boston accent.
"It's claahged, eh?" you parrot back to him. No one in your family could ever stand the idea of joining ranks with the stuffy bourgeoisie, so you call him "the guy" rather than "the server" and you sometimes mimic his vernacular. Your mind slides with alcoholically polished ease from the intricate patterns on your floor to the friendly simplicity of your new acquaintance. "Come on in," you say, not lowering your voice at all, nodding towards your bedroom.
"Ok," he answers after a brief pause, taking one quick glance down the stairwell before following you in. You shut the door and lock it.
"I need to relax," you sigh, removing your velour cardigan and placing it carefully over your desk chair. You feel as though you've just come home from a good long jog. "Want a light?" you ask him, pulling a box of cigarettes out of the sweater pocket. "Go on. It's not a problem here."
"Thanks," he says as you flick the lighter on, holding it steady for him. For a few moments, the only movement in the room is the slow wafting of smoke up to the ceiling. He looks around your room, smiling a little at your dusty old collection of Barbie dolls, the peeling lavender wall paper, the Sesame Street pennant hanging over the door. You stare with impatience at his crotch. If you don't intervene soon, his friendly curiosity will turn into friendly questions and you'll have to tell him that it's your mother's funeral where he has been serving, not the final farewell after-party for some useless great uncle.
You don't let him finish the cigarette. Pulling it from between his fingers, you put it out on the back of your left hand. You feel a sharp sting which instantly subsides. Throwing the butt onto the floor, you slowly pull your own cigarette from between your lips, stubbing it out on your right hand. The same sensation, but slightly decreasedÂ…He stares at you for a moment, then cracks a wide smile. You could tell from the way he spilled drinks that he was the easygoing type.
"Hardcore," he says.
"They're my stigmata," you reply, turning your back to him. You quickly remove your camisole and unhook your bra, letting it fall to the floor. You turn abruptly back towards him. His eyes have already assessed the height and are right where they should be to take in the thrill of your firm upturned breasts. He opens his mouth as you slowly lean over him, allowing him to partake of a still-soft nipple between his chapped lips. The chafing turns your nipples instantly hard, and you encourage him with a gentle rubbing behind his ears. He responds in kind, softly wrapping two warm arms around your waist.
As he keeps busy with your breasts, your attention has begun to wander. You are filled with a great restlessness and you stare expectantly at the door, like maybe the next time you open it you will find yourself in a far more interesting and meaningful place.
To hurry things along, you kneel down in front of "the guy", pushing his legs apart like a loose-swinging gate and picking impatiently at his buttons. Not wasting a moment, you pull his eager penis out from under his boxers, running one hand roughly up and down the shaft. He grips nervously at the back of the chair. You don't bother to look up at him before diving down to take him hungrily in your mouth. His whole body is stiff and nervous and it occurs to you that he is quite inexperienced. This shouldn't take long. Up and down and up and down, your head bobs in a decisive motion. Not even a minute has passed before you hear a pathetic whimper from above, and then it is all over.
Swallowing the new contents of your mouth, you stand up, turn around, and put your bra and shirt back on. You pop a stick of gum and make for the door.
"You're still on for another half an hour," you say as you open the door wide, smiling as you hear the guy scrambling to hide his parts back in the safety of his plaid boxer shorts.
"My name's TomÂ…" he begins, but you are already halfway down the hallway.
You turn angrily on your younger cousin, who mumbles these words through a mouthful of cheese puffs.
"You little shit. Can't you have any respect?"
Normally he would shoot something back at you, but even in his puerile adolescent mind he realizes there are certain boundaries that cannot be crossed. He disappears into the living room, passing old Aunt Fiona on his way out. She is sitting alone in an upright chair, her head bent over some dull old rosary beads that click incessantly in the silence. Sensing you looking at her, she meets your gaze with her evil black crow eyes.
"There should have been a wake!"
"I told you before. No one fucking does that anymore. It's grotesque." You are not normally rude to elderly family members, but you know that there aren't any boundaries you must respect today. The whole world must pity you and offer up an infinite berth for bad behavior. "Stupid old bitch," you mumble for good measure as you turn towards the staircase, the same staircase down which you used to race your brother on Christmas mornings. A few people are still here in your old house, but most of them are gone. That was the last earthly event dedicated to your mother, and it was over so soon. Now begins the likewise short process of forgetting.
You trudge up the stairs, paying inordinately close attention to the faux Oriental runner. You have almost crashed into him when you notice his black-polished shoes right in front of you. You stop abruptly, gazing up to meet the eyes of "the guy". None of you could remember his name; he was just "the guy" or "the boy", the one who served your drinks on a faux silver platter and then took them away when you had finished. His blue eyes blink guiltily at you.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude up here. It's just that the downstairs toilet is clogged." He smiles sweetly at you. He must be about your age, probably a little younger. He has a thick Boston accent.
"It's claahged, eh?" you parrot back to him. No one in your family could ever stand the idea of joining ranks with the stuffy bourgeoisie, so you call him "the guy" rather than "the server" and you sometimes mimic his vernacular. Your mind slides with alcoholically polished ease from the intricate patterns on your floor to the friendly simplicity of your new acquaintance. "Come on in," you say, not lowering your voice at all, nodding towards your bedroom.
"Ok," he answers after a brief pause, taking one quick glance down the stairwell before following you in. You shut the door and lock it.
"I need to relax," you sigh, removing your velour cardigan and placing it carefully over your desk chair. You feel as though you've just come home from a good long jog. "Want a light?" you ask him, pulling a box of cigarettes out of the sweater pocket. "Go on. It's not a problem here."
"Thanks," he says as you flick the lighter on, holding it steady for him. For a few moments, the only movement in the room is the slow wafting of smoke up to the ceiling. He looks around your room, smiling a little at your dusty old collection of Barbie dolls, the peeling lavender wall paper, the Sesame Street pennant hanging over the door. You stare with impatience at his crotch. If you don't intervene soon, his friendly curiosity will turn into friendly questions and you'll have to tell him that it's your mother's funeral where he has been serving, not the final farewell after-party for some useless great uncle.
You don't let him finish the cigarette. Pulling it from between his fingers, you put it out on the back of your left hand. You feel a sharp sting which instantly subsides. Throwing the butt onto the floor, you slowly pull your own cigarette from between your lips, stubbing it out on your right hand. The same sensation, but slightly decreasedÂ…He stares at you for a moment, then cracks a wide smile. You could tell from the way he spilled drinks that he was the easygoing type.
"Hardcore," he says.
"They're my stigmata," you reply, turning your back to him. You quickly remove your camisole and unhook your bra, letting it fall to the floor. You turn abruptly back towards him. His eyes have already assessed the height and are right where they should be to take in the thrill of your firm upturned breasts. He opens his mouth as you slowly lean over him, allowing him to partake of a still-soft nipple between his chapped lips. The chafing turns your nipples instantly hard, and you encourage him with a gentle rubbing behind his ears. He responds in kind, softly wrapping two warm arms around your waist.
As he keeps busy with your breasts, your attention has begun to wander. You are filled with a great restlessness and you stare expectantly at the door, like maybe the next time you open it you will find yourself in a far more interesting and meaningful place.
To hurry things along, you kneel down in front of "the guy", pushing his legs apart like a loose-swinging gate and picking impatiently at his buttons. Not wasting a moment, you pull his eager penis out from under his boxers, running one hand roughly up and down the shaft. He grips nervously at the back of the chair. You don't bother to look up at him before diving down to take him hungrily in your mouth. His whole body is stiff and nervous and it occurs to you that he is quite inexperienced. This shouldn't take long. Up and down and up and down, your head bobs in a decisive motion. Not even a minute has passed before you hear a pathetic whimper from above, and then it is all over.
Swallowing the new contents of your mouth, you stand up, turn around, and put your bra and shirt back on. You pop a stick of gum and make for the door.
"You're still on for another half an hour," you say as you open the door wide, smiling as you hear the guy scrambling to hide his parts back in the safety of his plaid boxer shorts.
"My name's TomÂ…" he begins, but you are already halfway down the hallway.