My best friend Stephanie and I were at the movies to see Titanic for about the eleventh time. We were in line ordering our popcorn when her father came in and got us. Her father told us that I had to call home.
In a boring, homogeneous world, guys everywhere would have the same hair, the same body, the same dick. And every woman would have the same shape, and their vaginas would be the same size and color. But figuring out who in your family tree you can thank or scream at for the size of your penis is far trickier.
Each day brings us a new chance at humiliation through accidents made through technology and social media. Accidentally hitting the "share to Facebook" button on Pornhub, pocket dialing your boss while you're in the bathroom, sending a dirty word to your mom because of Autocorrect, accidentally tweeting a vagina plane from your work account instead of personal, and on and on. But there's one thing so awful, so terrible, that most of us would never be able to recover emotionally: accidentally sexting your significant other's parents.
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The things a mother will do for her son, the wonderful, special things that only a mother's touch can satisfactorally achieve: picking glass out of their hand, wiping a dock leaf over their nettle-stung knee, tweezering out bee stings, wiping chocolate off their face with a spit-dampened tissue, and Yep, the latter does, it seems, actually happen. We just came across a disturbing account on a forum called Female First long story from a mother who religiously tossed off her son in order to "straighten his penis".
Sounds to me like the progressive myths are getting a little scrambled, but I digress. Cunty Horny? Sharon Needles?
Someone grabbed my right arm, shook me hard, jerking me out of a deep sleep. The king of the jungle, his loin cloth tented with desire for my forty-eight-year-old body, vanished. Instead, in the vague darkness of my bedroom, I saw the coffee-colored face of my son, Kaleb.
There was a smell to the room, of stale perfume, my father's cigarettes and of bodies. Even so, I was drawn to this room, as if to danger, a wish to pit my puny strength against my father's, whose every command was law. My mother made up my parent's bed each day by dragging a thick maroon cover over the top to hide the rumpled sheets and blankets.
I guess I just have too much time on my hands because about a month ago I started having real strange thoughts about my mother. Maybe I should introduce myself, hi, my name is Josh, and I want to be a motherfucker. Mom, Dad, and little sister.