And let us start back up...

As bedrooms go, specifically in regards to teenage boys, mine is not archetypal. I do not have posters of famed sports heroes or a secret stack of Playboy’s shoved underneath my bed. Absent is a stash of condoms.


What I do have is a desk with a computer where I spend hours at a time on the Internet, researching different parts of the world and then documenting reasons to one day visit or live in those places. I’ve decided it’s a more productive fetish than searching for “Asian fellating Donkey” or “Horse Cock knocks out Bitch that had it Cumming.” On a side note, those are things that Ben has looked up before. So far, I have 28 pages of dreams.


On my nightstand, I have a Bose Sound Dock that, when needed, drowns out the noise in my world. On my walls, I have two framed pictures, one a Rothko painting and the other a portrait of Mark Twain. I particularly like the Twain portrait. His lips are curled into a slight smirk and his eyes reveal a depth of knowledge far superior to anything that I reasonably hope to know.


A three-tiered bookcase is neatly stacked with 92 books that I still need to read. Next up is “Catch-22.”


I’d consider opening it tonight but I am tired and still angry from the dinner table episode. Because I would like to get a good night’s sleep, I decide that my tension needs to be relieved.


Masturbation is more about survival for me than it is for pleasure. It centers me. Consider it my Yoga. I’m actually embarrassed by the act. I tried it once in the bathroom and caught a reflection of myself in the mirror. Face contorted, what little muscle I did have pulled taut, a horrifying look at what I assume my love partner will see when I lose my virginity.


Inconspicuously tucked in my sock drawer, hidden in a manila envelope, under felt lining are five pictures of Marta. I pick one that showcases Marta in a bikini on a family trip five years earlier to Barbados. Playing quietly in the background is Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 24, a beautiful piece of music, both sensual and forceful, perfect for making sweet love to Marta in my mind.


The sheets are smoothed, pillows are fluffed, lights dimmed and most importantly my door is locked. I will not be interrupted like some cliché teen movie where the mother walks in and sees her son jack hammering away.


Efficiently I slip out of my clothes and under the covers. The requisite white wash cloth sits neatly folded on the pillow next to me. All of thirty seconds passes before I am at attention and ready to proceed. I fling the picture aside and close my eyes. My face is concentrated now, like I’m cracking code. Only with an erection.

Sweat forming on my brow. Face flushed and rosy, rhythmic pumping. And cue breathy, self-conscious sex talk.


“Ohh…baby. You like that Marta? You want some more of that? You’re in luck because Daddy is feeling generous.”


I do my best Marta voice.


“Yes, give it to me harder Walt. Impale me with your heaven stick.”


I shake my head, more disconcerted than turned on. Focus. Keep on task. Getting close now. A few more pumps and…


The walls in the house can’t shelter from me from the thunderbolt that strikes me from my parent’s room down the hall.


“ GODDAMMIT EVA! It’s been A FUCKING year and I’m about ready to EXPLODE! Open your legs or I’ll be forced to find it elsewhere!”


My eyes detonate open.


You can’t be serious! I try to keep hammering away at the task at hand but my mother slurs an earsplitting response.


“You have a SMALL WIENER!”


I rip the covers off, repressing a mini-throw up as I waddle, manhood in hand, over to my computer desk. My ears attempt to take refuge under my headphones as I valiantly try to get Mr. Winkie back to Happyland.


“OH SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS!”


Headphones not working! Another slurred response.


“You’d like that wouldn’t you!”


Please, no more!


“No thanks! Been there, done that! Wasn’t very fond of your anal dungeon!”


Can’t breathe! Parents once had anal sex!


“Why don’t you be useful and get me some wine you DICK!”


I give up my quest for discharge and slump in my computer chair.


A door slams and presumably my father stomps down the stairs toward the couch.


I look wistfully in the direction of the idle wash cloth, which has unceremoniously escaped clean-up duty.