A Slice of Pie
By
Tim Stillman
It's spring. Imagine a time when you believe that everything will turn out okay. I was in my 16th year. I had a boyfriend. We had been together two years. He told me something and he cried. I had never seen him cry before. Though it was still late March, it was hot already. We had just had sex. We told each other, we loved each other. And we did. He said it was his brother, who is a neat kid, and doesn't mind his big brother is gay or has a boyfriend. He said he had to talk to me, and he was afraid it would wreck everything.
His brother was 13, and had told my friend last night that their mother had come on to him. My love sighed and closed his eyes as he lay his head on. Played with his penis, we were soft now. I stroked his blonde hair, and felt myself harden, next to his cheek. He kissed me there. He asked, you won't go away, will you? No, babe, I told him, you're safe with me. We stopped talking for it while. I thought about their mother. She was still young. And she was pretty. A lot of the guys in school had the hots for her. She was English teacher for the 11th grade.
We were in the back yard of our house. It was late. We were partially dressed. When you think about it I guess it's kind of hot to imagine having sex with her. When you think of the actuality of it, he said, voice muffled at my penis and she came onto a 13-year-old, and that 13-year-old was her son. He turned over, looked at me. His eyes were liquid black in the moonlight. I touched his nose with my finger. I don't want it to be so hot this year, I wish the climate change would just -- -- I had my hand to his face, as I caressed it. You won't think anything bad about me. Will you? He asked.
I smiled. He was a dream. He was tawny colt like, an unlimited find. You mean, I whispered, like its passed down in the DNA? It was maybe one in the morning, as I if I our parents give a damn. Anyone can smoke pot in front of them, no matter how young, even the kids, even us. Pink hair and violins. So he described his mom, who did not have pink hair, but she knew about violins. I describe mine, as I want to get the hell away from them as quickly as I can please stop it. He stopped chewing on my nipple. He sat up. He put the rest of his clothes on. I said sorry. He said you don't mean it. Come on, you can do it. I told him.
We're dust bunnies to them, he said. You can suck me if you like, I whispered, and I really really want you to, I can come again. He moved a little further away from me. You would be thinking of her, wouldn't you? Don't be silly I started -- -- I reached over to him, I stopped. Has it been her all the time, he asked me. I dressed as well. We had our shoes still off. No socks. Oh my God, he looked at me. Oh my freaking God. I turned away from him. He put his hand my cheek, his hand touched my chin as he turned my face to him. Oh for Christ's sake. I said, look, you don't know anything about it. He did not say anything for all of five minutes or so. The cicadas are making that sawing sound that kept me awake most of the night. Damn, I hate those things.
I look like her, don't I? No, I responded, no way man. We were sitting with our legs drawn up. What was it like? He asked me. How long ago was it? Did you pay her? Did she pay you? Or is my brother in all of this, too? You're sick in the head Fred, I laughed, as I leaned over to kiss him. He pushed my shoulders back. He made me fall over. But she never hit me. I told him. I do not hit you. You push me like you never done before. He said he was sorry. I said it was once. The kid was not around. She's not a bad person.
He laughed and was it funny? Sure, it was a laugh riot. I should not have told him. I should have lied. Okay, she was sad, afterwards. Oh yeah, he said, she's really sad all the time. My God, I've never met anyone quite she sad, before. When she cries from morning till night. We just love her so much. There's nothing we would not do for her. Then he looked at the ground, picked up a blade of grass, put it in his mouth and chewed. What was it like? I asked him. He said, don't know what you're talking about. Asylum for a while had been in us. He comes asunder tonight, and so I.
How old were you? Why does everybody ask how old were you? Is there some demarcation line? One year, one day one minute. I love you, I told him. Somebody said, she'll have sex with him. One way or the other. It was kind of cool, actually, he said. It's not cool. I said, to have sex with your mother. You articulate his life in one single incident, a push of my shoulders, we never were angry with each other before. Not ever. What I do? I looked at him; I did not know what to say. I felt lost. I felt that terrible moment when you know that love has gone. The first second of a heart beginning to break.
It was before I fell in love with you, I told him. It gets messed up, he said, to no one in particular. Before I knew what he was doing, he had reached over to my crotch and felt my hard on in my jeans. He drew his hand away quickly. Far too quickly. That is not the reason, I told him. Sure, he laughed. Would you stop with this laughing thing? I asked him. It's creeping me out big time. He said, it was her. All my life was her. She divorced my dad, because he was drinking too much, or so she said. I was three. She did everything in the world for me, and made sure everybody in the world knew it. So now, she wants my kid brother, like she had you. And she had Kenny. Kenny? Kenny? I asked in shock.
The him, that was your former love, Kenny. You know, you tell me you had her or she had you and you love that. You love having sex with my mom. It was fun was kicks was daring. What the fuck, I said. Then, if she screwed the whole damn town, when do you care about your brother? When did it become a challenge for you? Was it different for you? Didn't you kind of love it when she sucked you off? I mean after all, you wanted it to him. They start to go off and off just to be you, did you? You're hurt, you're jealous, she wants Tommy, had me had Kenny had God knows who else. You want it to be you. Your mommy your willingly beautiful body and sexuality and face and voice. Talk to God or somebody or a counselor. Go home, I said, suddenly sickening. He stood up. He told me to stand up. He clocked me in the mouth. He drew blood. I fell to the ground. He stood there so tall. He unzipped his jeans. Took out his hard cock, forced it in my mouth, and made me suck him, while I was bleeding. The symbolism is ridiculous. He moved my head up and down hard. But he couldn't come.
He pulled his cock out. His bloody cock. He knelt, slowly and with that childish feeling inside him that you could actually read. I put my arms around him. He began to sob. He would cry often after this, when we were alone. And I would tell them it's going to be okay. I would tell him I loved him. I would cradle him in my arms. After all, it's about time somebody did. It's about damn time.