When I was a little boy my dad used to kiss me hard on the lips. His thick mouth would press hard enough against mine to leave traces of saliva around the edges. As I’d lay in bed I refused to wipe or lick his saliva away. I’d let it dry against my lips until my skin grew chilly and dry from the moisture. He was a better kisser than my mom. If it came down to measuring their love for me based solely on a physical connection he would’ve won Father of the Year every time. My mom, of course, loved me more than my dad did, and yet she refused to kiss me or my sister so hard. I believe she wanted us to be loved evenly. My dad had made it quite evident that he loved me more than my sister, as well as that he would’ve preferred that he’d had two sons. My sister wore boyish clothes and kept her hair short. When her hair grew long she’d tie it all in a tail and play sports against other boyish girls. She’s grown into such a beautifully strong woman, tougher than me physically and emotionally, and most likely has had sex with more women than I have. That’s good for her. She deserves the best. When I was a little boy I used to fantasize about my mom. It was always the same fantasy that played out. As I would lie on my stomach and absentmindedly watch Nickelodeon, I’d thrust my dick harder and harder against the carpet for no other rhyme or reason than that it felt real good. My fantasy always began with a storm strong enough to cause our power to go out. I’d be sound asleep in my comfortable bed—lightning would strike as thunder boomed and then my nightlight would shut out. The room would change entirely for the worse, no longer possessing the feel of a safe womb, but rather overtaken by the monsters that live under beds and feed off children’s limbs, blood and urine. Without the nightlight I was to be doomed, I’d know it. But in an instinctive moment of courage I’d leap from off my bed, far enough to be out of the monster’s reach, and sprint to my mom’s room to fall all into her salvaging arms. Oh, mommy! I am so, so a’ scared… I’d sleep close to her, comforted by her warm skin and breath that’d fall on my ears as she slept. Beautiful. I’d lay on my stomach in her bed and begin thrusting against her sheets. Illuminated by only a moon shining through her rain-spangled window, her face would glow radiantly, the same way it must’ve when she was pregnant with me. When I’d then begged for her to feed me carrots and peanut butter, hot hoagies with pastrami, creole mayonnaise, mangoes, breakfast food for dinner and coffee beans for a snack. And she’d given me everything I’d ever asked for without question. Oh, mommy! I am so, so a’ hun-gee… My fantasy always ended the same way: with me laying in her bed, my swollen dick tucked between my legs and my hands soaked in sweat. I’d wake her up gently and ask her, “mommy, I can’t sleep… can I please have a glass of warm milk?” And you better bet she’d give me my warm milk without question. And you better bet I’d smile wide with the greatest relief. You know why, my friends? Because a man spends the first nine months of his life striving to leave a woman’s body, only to then spend the remainder of his life striving to come back inside.
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