a.
I wanted to be kind but all I could achieve was cruelty. I wanted to be kind to the friend who had been dumped by a guy she thought she would marry and grow old with, only to realize all he wanted from her was sex; I acted concerned and hugged my friend and we got drunk and then I fucked her; she called me this other guy’s name the whole time and when she left, she never talked to me again because a month later she committed suicide, leaving a letter blaming that guy for destroying her soul. I couldn’t go to the funeral and mutual friends left me nasty text messages and emails. I sent flowers to the funeral parlor because that seemed like the kind thing to do.
b.
Her sister smeared dog shit on the windshield of my car. That was not a kind thing to do but I understood.
c.
I tried to be kind to a young woman who was jogging with her dog and the dog was hit by a car that sped off. I told her I could drive her and the dog to the vet and she yelled at me: “My dog is already dead, you goddamn jerk!”
I did not understand this; I was trying to be a good person and she acted like it was my fault. I told her to fuck off. That was a kind thing to do because she would later meditate on why I said it and realize what she did wrong. She will never treat a stranger offering kindness like that again, should another dog of hers ever get killed by a car.
d.
A guy at work was in a jam. He was short on his rent by $210. His landlord was not happy that he always paid the rent late and told him he would be evicted if it happened again. I loaned him the $210. He promised to pay it back. A week later, he stopped coming to work and people said he had moved to a different state where rent was cheaper.
e.
There was a small island that was hit by both a hurricane and an earthquake the same week. Two-thirds of the 23,000 people who lived on the island had their homes destroyed and were living in Red Cross tents. I sent the Red Cross $100 through its website.
The next morning I sent another $100 because I didn’t think the first was enough.
f.
There was a snail on the sidewalk. Someone had stepped on it: its shell crushed, green fluid oozing out like sap from a tree, eyestalks looking frantically about for safety. I stepped on it and killed it.
That was the kind thing to do, like shooting, in the head, a horse with a broken leg.
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http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Hemmingson
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
06 March 2014
13 February 2014
SOAP by Paul Beckman
She laughed until she wet her pants and then laughed more because she wet her pants. He laughed because she did and that’s all it took to get him started.
Paul Beckman has kids and grandkids. He's been published in The Raleigh Review, Boston Literary Review, The Brooklyner, Web Del So, Pure Slush, Playboy, Soundzine, 5 Trope, Word Riot, and other wonderful venues in print, online & via audio and photography. Stories upcoming in Ascent Aspirations, Pure Slush, Full of Crow Quarterly, Metazen & The Boston Literary Magazine. Published story website www.paulbeckmanstories.com
—You startled me, he laughed and then got the hiccups from trying to catch his breath from laughing and holding his breath and now his breathing being out of control.
—It happens every time, she said, when she regained her composure after putting on dry panties. He could only nod his big round face, now tear-stained from laughing tears. She looked at him and began laughing again.
—No. No, she said. Don’t please. Please don’t make that face, you know what happens when you make that face, she laughed, and then it was too late for her and she wet her last pair of panties.
They showered together. She squatted before him and soaped his legs and ankles and then his feet—one at a time and between his toes. She rubbed her hair into his scrotum and felt him grow. She soaped her hands again and washed his balls. She positioned him so the water spray didn’t hit her in the face. She soaped his cock and sucked it without washing the soap away.
He tried to maneuver her out of the shower and into the bedroom and she sucked him harder and as she slid her mouth around his slippery soapy cock he remembered, he remembered but didn’t want to—he, Oh God, get it out of my head—he remembered his mother. He remembered his mother washing his mouth out with soap, Kosher soap, no less, after repeated warnings, for saying a swear when he was young and he could taste the soap today and believe you me he didn’t want to think of his mother at this time.
He was still hard and she was sucking him and playing with his balls and he leaned back against the tile—the cold tile and she scooched out of the line of water and then stood and soaped his chest. She stood on her tip-toes and—don’t do it—no, no don’t do it, my mother, my mother— and from her tip toes she—oh please don’t—she kissed him and he tasted her soapy lips and thought of his mother again and it was only a hint of soap on her lips or maybe just a mind trick that he could taste the soap but it was enough to make him close his mouth and eyes and see his mother hovering over him in front of the sink, him standing on one of the red kitchen chairs and she holding a fistful of his hair in one hand and pushing the bar of soap into his mouth with her free hand—and no, no that’s not what I want to be thinking about he thought. I want to stay hard but not in front of my mother and as long as the soap taste stayed, his mother stayed and he opened his eyes to rid himself of his mother and think only of his hard-on and he had to chase his mother away so he screamed:
—Go! Go! You’ve done enough damage. He screamed louder, afraid that the sounds of his scream would break loose from his mind.
He turned the water off and led her out of the shower. They each had a towel and wiped the water off one other and he led her to the bed and patted her between the legs when he saw water droplets and rubbed her mound with just the right pressure while his mother watched and he had to put his face into her to escape his mother and he inhaled and inhaled her aroma and tasted her until he was sure his mother had disappeared from the room and he did his best not to notice the faint smell and taste of soap and then she started laughing again.
—Your mustache . . .she couldn’t finish what she started to say and tried again.
—Your mustache. . .
She was laughing because his mustache was tickling her and he ignored her laughter and kept on with his lips and his tongue and all the while he was breathing in her essence and she giggled and then moaned and then invoked God and then with all the blasphemy she could muster invoked God’s name again and pulled his head deep into her with both hands and thrust herself up into his mouth even more and then she fell back on the bed and started to laugh uncontrollably and despite his frustration at the turn of events he began to laugh and tears streamed down his cheeks and she said
—Don’t make me look at that face right now or I’ll lose it again and she helped him turn over onto a fluffy pillow, she had pushed a big fluffy pillow for him to lie on and. . .
The thought of the word "fluffy" made her laugh once again and he asked her what she was laughing at and she could only get out the word ‘fluffy’ and then to stop herself from laughing she bit his cheek that was lifted up by the big fluffy pillow and she bit him again and he had to adjust himself as he lay face down because he had gotten hard again—his erection pushing into the big fluffy pillow and for a nano second the words ‘fluffy pillow’ ran though his head and she began taking more and smaller and harder bites and he was hard and couldn’t lie still and wanted to turn over and do her—he wanted to turn over on the fluffy pillow and do her but her tongue was so busy that—oh that tongue—and for the briefest of thoughts—truly the briefest, he wondered what his mother would wash her mouth out with.
—It happens every time, she said, when she regained her composure after putting on dry panties. He could only nod his big round face, now tear-stained from laughing tears. She looked at him and began laughing again.
—No. No, she said. Don’t please. Please don’t make that face, you know what happens when you make that face, she laughed, and then it was too late for her and she wet her last pair of panties.
They showered together. She squatted before him and soaped his legs and ankles and then his feet—one at a time and between his toes. She rubbed her hair into his scrotum and felt him grow. She soaped her hands again and washed his balls. She positioned him so the water spray didn’t hit her in the face. She soaped his cock and sucked it without washing the soap away.
He tried to maneuver her out of the shower and into the bedroom and she sucked him harder and as she slid her mouth around his slippery soapy cock he remembered, he remembered but didn’t want to—he, Oh God, get it out of my head—he remembered his mother. He remembered his mother washing his mouth out with soap, Kosher soap, no less, after repeated warnings, for saying a swear when he was young and he could taste the soap today and believe you me he didn’t want to think of his mother at this time.
He was still hard and she was sucking him and playing with his balls and he leaned back against the tile—the cold tile and she scooched out of the line of water and then stood and soaped his chest. She stood on her tip-toes and—don’t do it—no, no don’t do it, my mother, my mother— and from her tip toes she—oh please don’t—she kissed him and he tasted her soapy lips and thought of his mother again and it was only a hint of soap on her lips or maybe just a mind trick that he could taste the soap but it was enough to make him close his mouth and eyes and see his mother hovering over him in front of the sink, him standing on one of the red kitchen chairs and she holding a fistful of his hair in one hand and pushing the bar of soap into his mouth with her free hand—and no, no that’s not what I want to be thinking about he thought. I want to stay hard but not in front of my mother and as long as the soap taste stayed, his mother stayed and he opened his eyes to rid himself of his mother and think only of his hard-on and he had to chase his mother away so he screamed:
—Go! Go! You’ve done enough damage. He screamed louder, afraid that the sounds of his scream would break loose from his mind.
He turned the water off and led her out of the shower. They each had a towel and wiped the water off one other and he led her to the bed and patted her between the legs when he saw water droplets and rubbed her mound with just the right pressure while his mother watched and he had to put his face into her to escape his mother and he inhaled and inhaled her aroma and tasted her until he was sure his mother had disappeared from the room and he did his best not to notice the faint smell and taste of soap and then she started laughing again.
—Your mustache . . .she couldn’t finish what she started to say and tried again.
—Your mustache. . .
She was laughing because his mustache was tickling her and he ignored her laughter and kept on with his lips and his tongue and all the while he was breathing in her essence and she giggled and then moaned and then invoked God and then with all the blasphemy she could muster invoked God’s name again and pulled his head deep into her with both hands and thrust herself up into his mouth even more and then she fell back on the bed and started to laugh uncontrollably and despite his frustration at the turn of events he began to laugh and tears streamed down his cheeks and she said
—Don’t make me look at that face right now or I’ll lose it again and she helped him turn over onto a fluffy pillow, she had pushed a big fluffy pillow for him to lie on and. . .
The thought of the word "fluffy" made her laugh once again and he asked her what she was laughing at and she could only get out the word ‘fluffy’ and then to stop herself from laughing she bit his cheek that was lifted up by the big fluffy pillow and she bit him again and he had to adjust himself as he lay face down because he had gotten hard again—his erection pushing into the big fluffy pillow and for a nano second the words ‘fluffy pillow’ ran though his head and she began taking more and smaller and harder bites and he was hard and couldn’t lie still and wanted to turn over and do her—he wanted to turn over on the fluffy pillow and do her but her tongue was so busy that—oh that tongue—and for the briefest of thoughts—truly the briefest, he wondered what his mother would wash her mouth out with.
(Previously published in the anthology Sex and Laughter)
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