Sunday, October 16, 2011

Beyond The Pleasure

The last time I fucked my Mother I was 25 years old. My father had warned me years earlier that this would happen, but he was a drunk or an addict or jealous or something. I never saw his addictions in action, just the result. Needless to say, I never thought I would reach climax inside my Mother, but I now know, that she did.

That was 5 years ago.

With little debate, my parents divorced when I was 8 years old. Mother said words about my father like substance abuse, manic depressive disorder and paranoia. My father only said one word about Mother and repeated it often: Infiltration.

My parents had joint custody the first year, but after Mother realized that my father never took me back to his apartment on the weekends, interstate hotels instead, she decided to take action. When I was questioned about the weekend living arrangements I just told everyone what my father had told me “We we’re on vacation.”

When Social Services asked to inspect my father’s apartment he refused. They threatened with giving Mother full custody and he complied. His apartment looked like Special Agent Fox Mulder had moved in. Books on alien invasion we’re scattered on the floor, black and white pictures of UFOs lined the living rooms walls and an over-sized push-pin dotted map of the northern region of Kentucky hung over his desk. The only thing missing was a poster that read “The Truth Is Out There”. I’m sure it was being illuminated on the bathroom wall with a black light.

I didn’t see my father much after that. He would come by the house from time to time and Mother would let us have an hour together. We attempted to throw a football around in the backyard once, but he just kept explaining to me how a football was actually based on an early alien science that us humans named angular dynamics (and my friends wonder why I don’t want to play Fantasy Football).

When I was 15 my father convinced Mother to let me go to the movies with him. I was pretty stoked when he produced two tickets to the matinee showing of Independence Day. Unfortunately, he ruined the summer block buster by inserting his own commentary through out the film. His ultimate buzz-kill came when the mother-ship destroyed the White House. He sternly grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear an H.G. Wells misquote:

“The joke of today is the crisis of tomorrow”.

When the credits rolled he asked if I had learned anything. To his disappointment, my response was “Yeah dude, the Fresh Prince is a bad ass”.

Mother was waiting in the driveway when my father dropped me off. Without saying goodbye he just rolled down his window and backed out of the driveway yelling at the top of his lungs “We are not alone, my boy! We are not alone…”.

It had been 10 years since I had seen my father, he looked good in a suit. The viewing was on a Sunday and we buried him the next morning. They said mental illness was the cause of death, which is the nice way of saying he stabbed himself repeatedly in the stomach with a letter opener.

Mother consoled me that night with a bottle of wine and seduction. My father surprised me the next morning with a letter in my mailbox:

Son,

You were adopted. She can’t reproduce. You’ll be dead by 60. They’ll say it’s gastric cancer, but you’ve been infiltrated.

Dad