April 21, 2006
Fiction
What Mama Says About The War On Terror
Apparently someone wants a fight. The Tick Off game has begun—where he starts with your current infraction and goes back to the last one and the one before that all the way back to the one where you said something about his mother. Or more specifically, he starts with the fact that while discussing the current wartime situation, you dared say “fucking” in a public place and embarrassed him. You know you did; he gave you that “watch yourself” frown and room-scan.
He doesn’t realize you’re ready to fight. You want to.
He’s Ticking full throttle now: you sure were pretty for him, weren’t you; yesterday, I mentioned taking a nap, waking up and jacking, you left in a huff; the day before that, I couldn’t hang that neon clock over the bed because you said no; and mom couldn’t believe you wouldn’t eat her lasagna—it doesn’t matter that you hate ricotta cheese—
Nagasaki and The Cold one are around the corner. History does repeat itself. This one is WWI: trenches dug and warring over 2-3 hundred feet of stupid ground. He’s laid down the red gauntlet and is advancing artillery. You hear it in your head, the one thing your mother told you that she never had to explain: never do what they want you to do; you may not win, but you won’t lose either.
You stand. When you reach for his collar, he smacks your hands away, thinking you’re going for his jugular. You have to fight your way in, but finally you reach your goal and rip, buttons zing. He can’t figure this strategy out and ceases fire. You battle his belt buckle, but finally manage to jerk his pants to his knees. Taking him unprepared into your mouth, you work your defenses out on his cock, stiffening it with every graze of your teeth, every foray of your tongue.
Is that a threat
He throws you on the bed where you land on your face. You’re surprised how fast he tears through your clothes. He pushes your legs apart and stuffs himself inside you. The little noise you can’t help but make spurs him on. He pulls all the way out and slams in again and again and again until finally he has to stay in. He grabs your hips and pulls and pushes you on and off his dick.
Yes
He fucks you wild and you both listen to the sound of your flesh pounding, smell the musk of your day. Your hearts pump adrenaline instead of blood. His hands march to your nipples, the attack hardening them. He’s sweating and it drops and explodes on your back. He abandons a breast and slams the freed hand into your hair, yanks it, stretches your neck.
I hate you
I hate you
You’re both screaming. You can feel it coming, so you jam your hand between your legs and assault your clit, quick strikes. When he jerks his dick out and pumps himself into the sweat on your back, you come.
He thinks the battle’s been waged; a truce called. You pillage the bedside table’s drawer, grabbing up tools. Slipping your legs into leather straps, you slide the long dildo into your greasy insides and oil up the shorter one. He’s not sure about this, but he’s not about to back down either.
I dare you
You fuck him like he fucked you—push in, pull out, slam, hands on his hips, on and off, nipples. Then you up the ante, turning the vibrators on, the buzz impossibly loud. His neck is in your line of sight, tempting your teeth. His veins throb in your mouth. He’s buckling. With one hand you reach around and grab his dick, making your hand a pussy that you fuck him with, while your other hand closes around his throat, squeezes.
You scare me
You scare me
You’re both screaming. You can feel it coming, so you jam some more, going deeper, searching for the exact spot that will become your mount, your fortress. Impregnable. When you find it, he’s already sprayed the blankets.
You reposition yourselves—back-to-back, 2-3 hundred feet of stupid ground between you, Nagasaki and The Cold one around the corner. That’s when you hear footsteps coming down the hall. Was it the screaming? Of course it was the screaming.
Your child stumbles into the bathroom, pees and flushes. The sleepy footfalls stop outside your locked door. You’re sitting up, now. Do you get out of this bed you’ve made, carry your child back down the hallway and tuck her in? Or do you stay right where you are, letting her believe you didn’t hear her knock, forcing her to find her own way into her own covers? One thing’s for sure; you know you’ll never be able to explain it.
• • •
lives in the clutter of her writing, family and mutt dog. Sometimes in the dark of the night, she drags a blanket and husband into the back yard just to curl up under the sky and look at him. Other times, she plunks herself behind the wheel of a Mustang and drag races. Her work has appeared in Identity Theory, storySouth, Pindeldyboz, The Barcelona Review, Absinthe Literary Review, The Rose and Thorn, Smokelong Quarterly, Penthouse, Outsider Ink, Literary Mama, Edifice Wrecked, Mad Hatter’s Review, Chick Flicks, the Harrow and elsewhere. She’s always writing, even when she isn’t. www.tomishaw.com
