(A Late-Night Spill – Don’t Read If You’re Squeamish)
I wake up hard every morning now. Not the normal kind. The kind that feels like someone poured molten glass down my dick and it’s still cooling around the base. And it’s always because of her.
Jeanne Catherine LaMonica my real life mother moves through the house like she’s already fucked me in every room and is just waiting for me to catch up. She’s aged, soft in the places that make you want to bite, sharp in the eyes like she already knows exactly how you’d beg. My mother. My fucking mother. The word tastes obscene when I say it out loud in my head. She’s supposed to be here because she helps me out from time to time.
This morning she bent over to pick up the towel I “accidentally” dropped. Yoga pants older than some of Elena’s playlists, stretched thin over an ass that looks like it was sculpted to be slapped red. I watched the seam disappear between her cheeks and my mouth went dry enough to crack. I could smell her body wash—something cheap and floral—and underneath it the real scent. Warm skin. A little sweat. Woman. I wanted to crawl across the tile and bury my face there until she either came on my tongue or cracked my skull open with her heel. Preferably both.
Elena was still asleep upstairs. Sweet, soft Elena with her Instagram poetry and her “we’re building something real” voice notes. She thinks mommy Jeanne is “so good to you, babe.” She kisses me on the cheek and leaves for her 9-to-5 while I sit here throbbing like a teenager who just discovered porn. Elena has no idea that when mother Jeanne leans across me to adjust the pillows, her breast brushes my arm and I have to clench every muscle so I don’t grab her and pull her down right then. No idea that I’ve jerked off in the downstairs bathroom three times this week with Jeanne’s name burning the back of my throat while Elena’s toothbrush sits innocently on the sink.
Last night Jeanne stayed later than normal. She sat on the edge of the couch, thigh pressed against mine. Her fingers lingered. Mine shook. I looked at her mouth—full, unpainted, slightly chapped—and imagined forcing it open, sliding in slow, watching her eyes water while she tried to take more than she thought she could. I wanted to hear the little choked sound she’d make. I wanted to record it and listen to it on loop while Elena sleeps beside me.
She knows. She fucking knows.
When she stood up to leave she dragged her nails lightly across my forearm—just once, barely there—and said, “Sleep well, my son Anthony.” My name in her mouth sounded like a promise to ruin me. I almost came in my sweatpants from the tone alone.
I lie here at 3:47 a.m. while Elena breathes slow and trusting two feet away, and all I can think about is sneaking downstairs, finding Jeanne’s number in the emergency contacts, texting her something disgusting like
come back i’ll crawl if i have to let me taste how wet you get knowing i’m yours to break
I won’t send it. Not tonight.
But the thought loops and loops until my cock is leaking against my stomach and I’m grinding my teeth so hard my jaw clicks. Jeanne LaMonica. My caretaker. My sickness. The woman I want to split open and live inside until there’s nothing left of either of us that remembers Elena’s name.
Tomorrow she’ll be back at 8. And I’ll want her more.
God help me when the pretending stops. Because it’s going to stop.
And when it does, I’m not sure there’ll be anything gentle left in me at all.