Robert Devereaux by Baby's First Book of Seriously Fucked-Up Shit

Author:Baby's First Book of Seriously Fucked-Up Shit [Shit, Baby's First Book of Seriously Fucked-Up]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-07-07T05:13:27+00:00

It was in American History that we met Lorelei Meeks, she of the owl eyes and large glasses, breastless, thin as a rail, blank of face, and devoid of personality. Lorelei was a non-entity, a vacuum of need, a woman who faded into every 92

Baby’s First Book of Seriously Fucked-Up Shit background. Her body begged to be written upon and we, with our fat fountain-pen full of sperm, scribbled all over her.

Whatever it struck our fancy to do with her she gave in to. Dad and I divvied up her holes. Every pinch of flesh was ours to caress and lubricate and shackle up and slap until it blushed or bruised or bled. And in the morning, after a shower, she’d be wiped clean again like a newly sponged chalkboard, empty as Orphan Annie’s eyes and yearning to be used anew. Our grades suffered, for which we made Lorelei pay in welts and cigarette burns, and in enemas of ice-cold Coors.

At Thanksgiving we brought her home.

We thought we could divert our river of rage onto our wispy girlfriend. We thought that having a receptacle we could empty our lust into any time we liked would lessen our desire for our former spouses or at least allow us to keep it under control. But we were wrong, as wrong as a Biblethumper. We found out just how wrong when the front door swung open and our two beloved soulmates, all smiles, welcomed Jason and his dear Lorelei into the home Rhonda and I had built in the spring of ’71.

While we sat in the living room, going through the maddening ritual of “introducing the girlfriend to the family,”

all sorts of bells and whistles were going off inside our head.

My dad stole glances at Arlene, her hair gone white now, dignified lines of age making more lovely the face he hadn’t caressed as a lover for nearly twenty years. She seemed genuinely spritely in her deep blue dress and her pearls, and her short white hair hugged her head just so. But I was in agony over Rhonda, looking sexier than ever at forty, stylish in her washed-out jeans and bulky breast-defining sweater. Her hair tumbled long and blond down her back, soft and springy and natural in a way that brought to mind her blond pubic softness and the sweet pink labia so long denied me. Thank God they ignored Jason, choosing instead to pour their endearments into the smiling nullity that sat, legs crossed, nervously beside him on the couch.

But inside us, an idea was gathering bits of itself together.

The location of rope and tools in the garage, of clean dust rags 93

Robert Devereaux

in the closet, of scissors and carving knives in the kitchen, suddenly took on grave importance. It was as if the house itself was shoving Dad and me into some inevitable sequence of bloody dance steps.

We heard Jason’s thin voice fielding inane questions.

From the way they received his answers, it seemed that our facade of calm was somehow being maintained.

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