The First Meeting

madonnaI pick my nose and eat it, but only when the snot is dried up and crusty.  When I wipe my ass, not only do I look at it, I take a sniff.  When I perspire, I like to wipe the ball sweat out from under my testicles and sniff that too.  I do the same thing after I finger a girl’s ass.  I’ve hid in the bottom of a port-a-potty to sneak a glimpse of girls vaginas, I’ve let a guy suck me off, I’ve had sex with two dwarfs (dwarfs don’t like to be called midgets), a one-eyed whore from Germany, and so many prostitutes I can’t even count, and though most of them were street walkers, when I have the money I do get escorts.  I’ve never shit on a woman, though I have watched it happen and I have pissed on a couple of freaky girls when I’ve been asked.  I’ve been arrested for soliciting prostitution three times (but only convicted once), I’ve been involved in three gang bangs, one bukkake, let a girl ride my toes, had sex with a East Indian virgin who was dressed up like a Klingon (girls at Star Trek conventions are even easier than female wrestling fans) and once paid seventy dollars to sit in a room and jerk off with a bunch of red necks while watching a heroine addict get fucked from behind by a chocolate lab named Hershey.  And I masturbate and average of 7.3 times a day (I worked it out one time when I had nothing better to do).

My name is Jake, and I am a sex-o-holic.  Or is nympho the proper word?  I figured I’d get all my sick twisted secrets out right now, even the ones about smelling my ball sweat and eating snot because you all have opened up to me so much tonight and I don’t want you to think I’m holding back on you.  I’m not sure how it started, but my best guess is my childhood, and the one event that I think really started it all for me happened shortly after I entered my fourteenth year.

We (that is me, my mom and my dad), were living in a geared income neighbourhood, the projects, the public housing system, whatever you want to call it.  I’d spent most of my thirteen years walking back and forth from school, and coming home at night to hear my dad yell at my mom, to watch him smack her around, or to get yelled at and smacked around myself.  It sounds rough, but when you live with it everyday, it just doesn’t get to you as much as you’d think.

My mom put up with a lot, and didn’t go out much.  It was a lot like that Dolly Parton song where the mom doesn’t miss the finer things in life, only we never got to the mommy leaving daddy a letter bit and going off and being happy.  Anyways, one night my mom decides she’s going out with her friends and tells my dad so, and he ain’t so happy about it, not that he should really give a shit because just like that Dolly Parton song, my dad spent most nights out of the house himself so it’s not like he’d miss her.  So he does his usually yelling fit and hauls off and hits my mom, only this time he seems to be a little more angry than usual.  Usually it was one smack and my mom rolled onto the floor sobbing and that was it.  He usually grabbed a beer and headed straight to the car at that point, but this night he decided that he’d do a little more, so he climbed up on top of my mom and pinned her arms down and gave her another smack, and then another.  The third time around I felt something in me, and though my dad was over six feet and easily five times my body weight, when I saw his open hand turn into a fist I knew I had to do something, so I jumped on top of his arm.  He didn’t get that punch in on my mom but he gave her another good slap before he turned on me.  I got a couple of his fists in the stomach and then a couple of kicks in the ribs while I was on the ground, but he gave up when I started crying, then he grabbed a beer and headed out to the car.

So there I was, sitting on the living room floor, gasping for air, crying like the thirteen year old I was and straightening out my plaid pyjamas (I had decided about five months prior that the Batman jammies were a little too juvenile for me).  My mom was about five feet from me and she was all a mess herself.  Her mascara was smeared, and tears were wetting her cheeks, and her pale legs were stretched out across the floor.  Her short black skirt and a white, low-cut, top remained unstraightened.  When she had gotten enough strength up she crawled over to me and asked if I was alright, taking me in her arms and pressing my head against her chest.  “It’s going to be okay.’ she said petting my thick tuff of dark brown hair.  “It’s going to be okay.”

I don’t know what it was about that instance, but something was different.  I had put my arm around my mother before and she turned my head into her chest like she always did when she comforted me, but something was different.  My eyes opened up and I looked up at her.  Her left eye was already swelling, and she was just staring at the wall through the tears that continued to stream out.  I looked down and saw her cheap, needle-thin cross dangling in her cleavage, and noticed for the first time how tender and supple the skin of my mother’s chest looked.  My friends had always told me that my mom was ‘hot’, but this was the first time I really noticed her as a woman.  Then I realized that the hand that I had put around her to comfort her had slipped forward and was cupping one of her breasts.  She didn’t seem to notice this and continued to hold my head against her bosom.  I let my eyes fall on the rest of her body, her hips, her legs, her knees, and then I tried to sneak a look up her skirt, though I couldn’t get a very good angel from where I was sitting and I didn’t want to move my head away from the tender bosom.  I curled into her further and let one of my knees sneak into her skirt and pressed it against what I discovered was a warm, moist, mound.  I was filled with so much excitement that I could not hide it and that was when my mother broke in: “What is this?”

She was pointing at the tent pole that had popped up from beneath my flannel pyjamas.  All I could do was blush.  “I dunno.”

“Well, don’t be ashamed, it is perfectly natural.  Do you get them often?”

I nodded.

“Well, no worries.  It happens to all boys.”  Then she put her arms tightly around me for a moment again only to suddenly stop and pull away from me as if she realized that she was the cause of my rising excitement.  She looked down at me, her arms still across my waist, and then, just as I thought she was going to scold me, she reached down to my pyjama bottoms and pulled the string that was holding them up, undoing the knot so that she could reach inside and pull out my… well, you get the picture.  My hand slipped under the shoulder of her top and pushed it over her shoulder, exposing one of her breasts.  I took the tender flesh of it into my mouth and as she started to stroke me, I pulled her breast out from her bra.

“Lay back.” she said, and I did so compliantly, and watched her as she straddled my still body.  She slipped her hand up her skirt and with the other hand guided my budding manhood in between her legs.  I’m not sure how she did it, but she had pulled her panties aside and slide herself onto me all while slipping her top off.  I felt her wetness consume me, her warm moistness envelope the most sensitive member of my body, and felt it all slide down slowly, and the slide back up.  “You know I love you, right Jake?”  I nodded, staring at her full breasts as they bounced lightly in front of my eyes.  I’m sure it didn’t last for very long that time, but it seemed like a good ten minutes to me, and though I was unaware of what an orgasm was at the time, in hindsight I realized later that I had given a woman an orgasm for the first time, and shortly after I went myself.  It was the most incredible feeling I had ever had in my life up to that point.

And that is it, that is the story of how I lost my virginity.  The story of how I came to choose the evil path, how I became a sex-o-holic.  Freud would love it, I know.  That wasn’t our only time, but by the time I was in my thirties we had stopped, though my mother wasn’t too happy about that.  Since that night the only gratification I’ve been able to find in life is through sex.

I’ve taken up much of your time, and I know some of you would like to speak, so I will tell you about how I killed my father and hid his body next time.  For now, I will step aside so the rest of us can take our turn to share.

Oh yeah, I also had sex with a mentally challenged girl.  More than once.  I still insist that I.Q. test flawed and socially biased and contest the degree of her condition, but she looked a lot like Jessica Alba would if Jessica Alba had wide-set eyes.

And I once had sex with a Tim Horton’s cashier.  His name was Ace.

Rambler About Rambler

Jason John Horn is a writer and critic who recently completed his Master's in English Literature at the University of Windsor. He has composed a play, a novella and a number of short stories and satirical essays.

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