Congratulations on Patching Things Up with Your Gay Son!

You stopped talking to your son about four years ago when he told you he was gay.  You responded by throwing a pitcher of water at the wall of the restaurant and screaming for five minutes straight.  Then you stomped out of the building and threw a garbage can into a police car.

Luckily the officers affected were tremendous homophobes, so their gay-hate outweighed their rage at seeing their precious car damaged.  They let you off with a verbal warning and an invitation for a “people negatively affected by gay children” support group. 

You thought about him constantly, even as your festering hatred for the thought of two men embracing one another metasticized in your imagination like a cancer.  It grew and grew in size until finally, a month ago, you emailed your son, asking if you could meet him.

He said maybe, pending an interview process.

The last few weeks have constituted that process: furtive, overwritten emails, qualified apologies, and slow, steady movement towards reconciliation.

Today it’s going to come to a head.  You’re going to meet your son and his husband in a small café near the university where your son teaches.  It’s famed for serving big, heaping plates of food and permitting people to sit outdoors and smoke if they like.  It’s very bohemian and, in your mind, the perfect place to showcase your newfound support for your son’s decision to be himself.

You’ll catch up with him in fast motion, falling into geniality easily, rapidly, running through the last four years in rapid asides: relationships, promotions, books, movies, travel.  You’ll show him pictures on your cellphone of your new wife holding her cellphone.  Your son will laugh.  For the first time, he won’t seem to hate her.

“I’m glad you found someone,” he’ll tell you over a heaping patty melt.

“Me too,” you’ll murmur, looking at his husband affectionately.  His husband will smile back over his tea.

At this point your son will go to the bathroom.  And you, in what you’ll later consider an effort to show your support for your son’s sexuality, you’ll lunge across the table and, boop, plant a kiss right on his husband’s mouth.

You’ll both be into it, and you’ll both be somewhat embarrassed by the whole event.  It’ll last less than half a minute.  Neither of you will say a word to your son when he gets back from the bathroom.  You’ll just sit, politely talk, and then leave.  You won’t see each other until your son’s Christmas party later that year.  Even then, nothing will be said.  You’ll never know if he told your son what transpired during his bathroom visit, a fear that will plague you to your grave.

Congratulations on Patching Things Up with Your Gay Son!

Congratulations on Getting Your Denim Jacket Back!

Sometimes you’ve got to just let the world do you wrong. But far, far more often what you really need to do is strike back against the world and say HEY FUCK YOU WORLD! GIVE ME BACK MY JACKET!

And if the world is your cousin Randy, and if you add a summary stabbing on to shouting, this is exactly what’s going to transpire today.

And Cousin Randy, after the third stab, is going to loosen his grip upon your jacket. And you’ll triumphantly drape it over your shoulders and quietly sit back down to enjoy what’s left of the braised chicken at your sister’s wedding.

Once the jacket’s good and on you’re also going to spit on Randy for good measure, just to make sure he knows what’s up. You wouldn’t do that last bit if he wasn’t family.

Congratulations on Getting Your Denim Jacket Back!

Congratulations on Completing Your Taks with Great Enthusiasm!

A lot of people would start what you’re about to do and quit halfway when the full gravity of the situation dawns on them. But not you. Today you’re going to kiss that girl on the mouth, haul her drunkenly into the back seat of your Toyota Camry, slip your hand awkwardly into her pants and start going to town, and you’re not going to stop no matter what.

You won’t stop when you hear hoots from the street. You won’t stop when you spaz out while making out with her, slamming your head into the ceiling of the car painfully. You won’t stop when she says “Yeah daddy” when you enter her with your finger. And you won’t stop when you realize, quite suddenly and profoundly, that you’re finger fucking your cousin in the backseat of your Camry in front of your best friend’s house.

This will be for two reasons, really. First off, you’re kind of in to incest play, and you don’t think it’s that weird to fuck a cousin (you normally make love to women, but as we all know, when it’s a blood relative you can never make love to them, you can only fuck them). Hell, you sort of prefer it, and even when you’re not fucking someone you’re related to you sometimes like to imagine them as a family member, or imagine them talking to you about your extended family, what they’ve been up to, how their health issues have been developing or declining. That sort of thing. You even pay prostitutes to talk like this, when you visit them.

The second, and far more relatable reason, will be that you are a gentleman, and a gentleman does not stop what he’s started, especially when a lady’s orgasm is on the line. So even though you’ll feel a little lukewarm at the prospect of publically showcasing your fetish, you’ll feel that your embarrassment is less important than your cousin’s sexual fulfillment. So even as the hoots turn to scandalized whispers as people slowly realize just what’s going on you’ll continue finger banging away, until your cousin finally spasms against your hand, grinding herself into you, crushing your palm between her crotch and the fabric of jean and car seat underneath her.

Only then will you pull out your hand, delicately wipe it on a towel you keep in the backseat for this purpose and whisper into her ear as she pants against your collarbone.

“I think we should go back inside. People might be wondering where we are.”

Congratulations on Completing Your Task with Great Enthusiasm!