[Editor's Note: Jack Grisham is an author, hypnotherapist, T.S.O.L. front man and all-around troublemaker. This column may or may not be factual, with characters who may or may not be real.]
He could hear her breathing in the bedroom–low, alcohol-sodden inhales and exhales sending sour air staggering across the bed sheets. Occasionally, a wet Dewar's burp belted from her mouth and rudely traversed its way into the living room. She was his mother, and he was hoping she'd be passed-out until morning.
He rose from the sofa and went to find the broom. There was broken glass in the kitchen. The beautiful crystal vase of roses he had given her on Mother's Day had been swept from the counter and onto the floor. He had cowered when her great arm rose high into the smoke-filled air, then tumbled violently toward the flowers–her bicep, larger than his thigh, rippling in the air, the mounds of soft, discolored flesh acting as a cheap-gift assassin for her displeasure.
“Richard!” she yelled. “Are you out there?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Mommy wants her baby.”
]
He opened the bedroom door and peeped in. His mother was sitting up on the bed. She had pulled off her nightie and was drunkenly rubbing her breasts.
“Get your things, baby,” she said. “I'm feeling hot.”
“Don't you think you should rest, dear?”
“DON'T YOU THINK YOU SHOULD SHUT THE FUCK UP?” she asked.
“I'm sorry, Mother. I . . .”
“Get your fucking things.”
Richard walked to the closet and retrieved a large brown suitcase. Its edges were worn rough, its cheap vinyl handle two sordid nights away from breaking.
“Get out your diapies, baby.”
“Oh, Mom.”
“Rickie, Mommy is getting angry.”
He took off his shirt, pants and underwear, folding each piece neatly, and then he removed his socks and rolled them into a ball. He stood before her, 5-foot-3, 130 pounds, hairless as a baby.
“Come here,” she said, “and bring your diaper.”
[
Richard moved toward the head of the bed. His mother held out her arm, her palm upturned.
“Park it right here,” she said.
Richard spread his legs and straddled her hand. He sank down until his meager genitalia were lying upon it. She squeezed.
“Mommy is sorry she broke the vase,” she said. “You're a good boy, aren't you?”
“Yes, Mother. I am good.”
“But you're not that good.”
Richard felt his cock stiffen–a nervous ripple touched his heart. He hung his head.
“No, Mother,” he said. “I have been bad.”
“Yes, Rickie,” she said as she struggled toward the edge of the bed. “Help Mommy up.”
She rose from the mattress and towered over him, her flesh rippling toward the ground. She grabbed his hand and pulled him along to the bathroom, stopping for a brief moment to grab a pink plastic bag and a thin rubber hose from the case.
“Ass up, over the tub, Rickie,”
He knelt over the cold porcelain rim of the bathtub, his knees on the floor, his head hanging, eyes closed.
“Spread your cheeks, baby.” Richard complied.
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