Somebody...

They had finally left. Between the hours of 8am to 3:15pm when my Dad came home from his music-teacher job, I could do to this house whatever I please. It began with a large messy breakfast that demolished my mother’s immaculate and gigantic kitchen; eggshell pieces left over from their aggressive and careless extraction into an unwashed mixing bowl, probably used the day before to house an obscene bowl of Fruity Pebbles; gravy—not sure when, why or how, but that morning, I distinctly remember gravy on the countertops; coffee was also present—wafting through every room from each disposable cup that had I decided to grab each time I made a visit to the fridge.
Around 10am, I felt that I had waited long enough for a cocktail; a cocktail thrown together with haste, or rather total disregard; one mixed with the spoon from the Fruity Pebbles bowl into a large blue plastic cup, at one time used at a truck stop to hold my mother’s perversely tumescent Big Gulp; one sloshed together with indeterminate amounts of mixed booze and generic sodas; one crafted behind the aged and wise hand carved wooden bar handed down through several generations of German heritage on my mother’s side. My morning had nearly been perfect.
It was just enough time to get a little drunk, very full, and enjoy the leisure of a fully loaded cable TV, and the comforts of an entire bag of salt and vinegar potato chips by my naked chubby love handles—all the while lapsing into decedent bliss while I await the return of my hard working father.
When my mystical Sprite and gin fueled concoction started to kick in, things began happening downstairs. This was an absolutely calculated occurrence. After all, I did intentionally make breakfast, eat, and watch TV in nothing but gym socks. I knew this time would present itself in the most obvious and physiological manner. The climax of my perfect day, if you will, would be when the blue felt from my mother’s couch tickled my balls in just the right way as I slipped into a smiley gin and tonic stupor under the beguiling tits and ass of the latest MTV reality spin off. After I licked the salt from my stubby fingers, I peeled my sweaty taint from my mother’s couch to obtain the basic clean up essentials: a few paper towels for the initial heavy spurts, and a box full of aloe infused Kleenex brand tissue for the last few droplets at the tip, due to sensitivity. My working area was nearly complete. One final, and critical component was still needed to bring things to fruition; my copy of Weapons of Ass Destruction 9, on VHS because it was cheaper than the DVD, and a grainy image somehow makes it all just a little dirtier.
Not to bore you with the details of the following 3 minutes and 33 seconds, but my friend, it was spiritual. The smell of salt and vinegar chips next to my sweaty balls and ass turned into an intoxicating potpourri when blended with the smell of my gin-rum-vodka-Sprite-grape soda mix and Mom’s carpet freshener. I’ve never cum so hard in my life. My desperate grabs for the paper towel resembled the panicking spasms of a cerebral palsy sufferer having a heart attack. Jettisoned streams of liberated jizzum reached heights I thought to be impossible for any man, let alone a man with my modest endowments. Despite the paralyzing ecstasy I was experiencing, I managed to catch the bulk of it using every side of the paper towel sheets. As planned, I delicately wiped the tippy-tip with expensive tissue designed for the chafed and ailing nose of a sniffing child. For 10 minutes, I simply laid there, reveling in the post-masturbatory coma. My mind had officially been blown.
The thought of each and every one of my coffee cups, hot sauce stained paper plates, and salted pubic hairs strewn about my mother’s living room all comforted me in the way a banana and a bowl of rice might comfort a starving child in Ethiopia. The oppressive respect and demeanor I assumed in presence of my parents had been vaporized in this afternoon of piggish shit-wallowing.
She came home early. It was as jolting for me as that last sentence was in this transitionless paragraph. My mother, also a teacher, had left school after lunch on this otherwise perfect Friday; Good Friday—a half day. Why hadn’t I thought of this? Such a thought didn’t even have time to formulate in my brain until much later. Once the gentle squeak of her Miada tires signaled her arrival, the rush to hide and destroy all evidence of this terrible display of wicked hedonism took over my body like a biological function. My limbs were involuntarily moving with the speed and grace of God’s most majestic creatures; the chips somehow magically sealed themselves with the proper clip and neatly tucked themselves into their designated corner of the cupboard; my gin-rum-vodka-Sprite-grape soda cup was washed and stacked, well within the average 90 seconds it takes my mother to get out of her ironically tiny car; my hands, belly, and chest were wiped and readied with a respectable polo t-shirt and my despicable ball sack was donned with khaki slacks my grandmother had bought me for Christmas. I was ready. My heart was pounding out of my chest, but I was ready.
My mother, easy as can be, slid right past me, and into the kitchen. She was in a rush. This was good news. She hardly noticed I was there. She had asked to do my laundry, which I quickly pretended to resist. I announced my plans to leave the house for a quick walk and a bite to eat.
This time, I was in a rush. As I made my way to the front door, aching to smell the redeeming absolution of autumn leaves and fresh air, my mother had walked into the living room to kiss me goodbye.
“What’s this?” she said pointing to the pile of tissue and paper towel still wadded up in the corner of the couch.
“Uh,” I said.
My mother bent down to grab what she thought were the remnants of her sons ailing nose and a sympathetic attack of the sniffles.
“Uh.” It’s all I could say. I was paralyzed from head to toe.
“Uh,” I said again and again.
“Uh.”
‘Don’t pick them up,’ I thought. ‘Whatever you do, do not pick them up.’
She picked them up. The best a young man—in my case 28 but who’s counting—the best a young man can hope for is that the tissues have crusted and solidified. They hadn’t. The white and clear mucusy substance ran down my mother’s arm as she stared at it for a moment, unable to reconcile its true meaning. While the thought occurred to me that it wasn’t over—that she still might take it for run-of-the-mill snot and toss it without further deliberation into the trashcan—she locked her eyes on a rather colorful display on top of the family VCR. A plastic VHS casing had beckoned her closer with its multitudinous displays of sin and acrobatic buttholes. She picked it up and examined it for what seemed to be hours, but was most likely a few life-altering seconds.
I expected some sort of response; some disappointing shake of the head; some quick lecture on respect and responsibility. Even a standard, “go clean your room,” would have sufficed. No. She just put it back on top of the VCR and slowly left the room. As she made her way up a few steps to her bedroom, I could only think of one word—one desperate attempt to formulate an excuse, or at least a childish reactionary blame game. No. No. One word made its way out of my mouth and onto the carpet fresh floor.
“Somebody…”