I’ve thought about this a lot over the last few weeks.
Do you know how, in stories of this ilk, there’s typically some bolt-of-lightning effect, a ‘lightbulb moment,’ where everything ‘makes sense’ and some ‘inner beast is awoken?’ The truth is that things don’t work like that. It’s not that –
All right, that’s not fair. I can’t say that. I was about to say that these things never work like that but I can’t speak for anyone else. All I can say is that’s not how it worked for me – and I don’t know anyone who’s been through the same things I have, though looking around on the Internet makes it clear plenty of people have.
Just nobody I know.
Okay, getting away from the point. It’s just that this is hard to write out.
Here’s the thing: I fucked my son.
Here’s the other thing: I can’t work out why.
Oh, he’s cute as hell, don’t get me wrong. And that cock? It’s just delicious. Turns out he’s just as sick as me, too, but that’s all icing on the cake. Or cum on the face. Both those things.
But why him? That’s the bit I can’t work out. There are tons of reasons why I shouldn’t want to but they just… don’t seem to apply.
I’ll start from… I don’t really know where the ‘start’ is. So I’ll just pick a point and go from there.
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I have a really satisfying marriage.
My husband Albert, perhaps in spite of his name (which he’s always found boring and mundane; as much as I’d like to, I can’t really disagree, so I call him Al), is a very, um, broad-minded fellow. We met at an orgy in university when we were both barely eighteen and painfully naive. I’d like to say that as soon as I saw him sparks flew, but that would be bullshit. Maybe because I had three other cocks in me at the time and he was just someone waiting his turn. The point is, we met, we fucked, it was good but not actually any better than anyone else I had that night.
Then we didn’t meet for another, oh… four years, I guess.
That was at a strip club in Melbourne where I was working. He was in for a buck’s party – his own buck’s party – and the Best Man picked me to strip for the groom-to-be. We broke a lot of rules in the private room and getting DP’d by those two wasn’t the least of it. Sadly, it got me fired – I really liked that job.
Luckily, it got the Best Man in a really happy mood, which meant that when they found me crying on the footpath outside the club, he was the one who suggested I come with them.
We all went back to some dodgy hotel room and fucked like mad – me, seven guys and another girl I used to work with (different job, a call centre, but we’d stayed close). I got pregnant, the Best Man got wildly drunk, Al got informed (by the Best Man) that his fiancee was cheating on him (with his Best Man).
I always thought it was a bit hypocritical of Al to drunk dial his fiancee and tell her that he was balls-deep in another woman and that she was a cheating whore who could go fuck herself, when he’d been balls deep in me for several hours before that. But that’s what he did.
They broke up. I had a miscarriage. We got together. It took us another year to work out that we’d actually met – and fucked – before.