Chapter #19Colonizing Mars by: Seuzz   You wake with wood, and waste no time rolling over to cradle it. It feels good: fat and meaty, like a drumstick.
You smile behind your closed eyes at the quasi-pun. Feels good in my hand like a drumstick.
Just the kind of pun that the drummer for Suburban Howl would appreciate.
You grip it, nurse it, let it rise— And then relax.
Because the relief you'd get from releasing the tension is nothing on the relief you feel at landing where you were aiming.
* * * * *
What a fucking comedy it was last night. You remember it from two perspectives.
The first: Huddling inside the bed under the covers, listening to the muffled shouts of lots people talking—even yelling—all at once, followed the bouncing on the bed as someone returned to it. Then the pursuit of warmth, and the shoving and sinking into the hot, sticky patch you found in the bed with you.
And the second: Being woken by a battering and hollering from the other side of the bathroom door, and throwing yourself out of bed to find your bug-eyed little brother shrieking about a blue snake on the loose in the house. You were still yelling at him to go back to bed, and he was still screaming that it had slithered into your room, when your mom and dad, in underwear and nightgown, burst in from the hallway. You caught the look on your mom's face when she saw you weren't even wearing underwear, but you were too pissed off at Oscar to care.
When it all settled down, and everyone retreated—Oscar whimpering from a sharp slap from your dad—you put the lights out again and got into bed, only to be woken some later by the sensation of the most tremendous and engorging shit sliding up up your rectum, and springing a mighty erection as it pushed its way inside. You remember panic, then wooziness, then nothing save a memory of briefly opening your eyes again to find things softening again.
So now here you are. How lucky for you that Mars sleeps in the nude.
You weren't woken by the alarm, and you pull your phone from under your pillow to find it won't go off for another ten minutes, so you kill it, then half roll/half fall out of bed to the carpeted floor, where you doze for a few seconds before rousing yourself and throwing yourself into your usual l five-minute stretching routine. So invigorated (as far as that goes), you shamble into the shared bathroom squeezed between your room and Oscar's. After closing the door to your room, and taking care to lock the door leading into his, you turn the shower water on to the hottest blast you can manage.
Before getting in, though, you spread your feet to study your newest body in the mirror.
Marco "Mars" Renteria returns you a smoky smirk from under hooded lids.
It's a good body. Trim, tight, no fat, a couple of visible abs and pecs with definition, and biceps and shoulders with shape. Dark, wide-set eyes under a broad brow, and tight, hollow cheeks tapering down to a narrow jaw. A thick, dark, full mustache trimmed down to quarter-inch of fuzz. Your hair—black, loose curls cropped short—relaxed during the night so that it droops over your forehead and the tops of your ears, but you'll fix that.
Yes, a good, hard body—and a tough, hard mind to go with it. Different from the others, connected to whole new avenues to explore.
Though you got started early, you don't waste any more time in the shower than you have to with shampoo and conditioner and body wash. Afterward, you rub off as much moisture as you can with a towel, then use a dusting of talcum to take off the last of the dampness. Built into the bathroom is a capacious walk-in closet with drawers and shelves and spaces to hang shirts, tucked into two separate alcoves, one for you and the other for your brother. You take out and pull on fresh boxers and Levis, and a green-and-yellow Paisley shirt, which you button up just to below your breastbone, and whose sleeves you carefully roll up to just below your elbows. You pad barefoot back into your bedroom with fresh socks and flop onto the bed to pull on them and the black Doc Martins.
That done, you return to the bathroom and use plenty of light mousse to pile your hair up and push into shape. That last bit done, you stretch and arch your back—roll your head and shoulders around—then give yourself a last, quick look in the mirror, and a sharp wink. You unlock the door to your brother's bedroom—
And you hesitate, then pull it open just enough that you can peep in. It's empty. You gnaw your lower lip.
Then you quickly creep in and over to his laptop.
It powers up as you open it, and with a few hurried backward glances at the bedroom door, you open the browser and check the history.
Yep, a porn site was the last place he visited.
You open it, glance quickly over the images, then close it and shut the laptop up.
I wonder if Oscar snoops on my laptop too, you wonder as you sneak back out through the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. Probably not, you conclude. If he did, he'd notice that you never leave it without logging out, and then he'd probably do the same with his laptop. Likely, he'll never learn to do that until your mom or dad happens to check his laptop—as they once checked yours—and see what kind of thing he likes to amuse himself with.
* * * * *
Oscar's at the table when you come swaggering in. He only gives you a brief look, and ducks to late when you swing over and slap him hard across the side of his skull.
"Little shit," you hiss at him as he scowls back. "Frick was that bullshit all last night? 'Oooh, a snake got in my room!'"
"There was!" he insists.
"You and your frickin' nightmares." You'd use harder language, but your mom is in the kitchen preparing her own breakfast. "Next time just whack off. That's the only snake you got in your bed. Don't even got that, prob'ly."
You wheel for the kitchen before he can reply.
Your mom is in there, scrambling some eggs to go with her toast. She only gives you the briefest glance, and doesn't even say "Good morning" as you open the refrigerator to take out some milk.
Shit, you think. She must be really mad about busting in on you last night and finding your junk hanging out in the breeze. You wouldn't think she'd take it that bad, that she'd have just tried to ignore it. Like, what's the big deal about? It's way more comfortable.
But she's giving you the cold treatment, so you say nothing either as you fix some cereal, microwave some bacon, and pour yourself some orange juice. You drop it all onto the dining room table and hunch over it with your phone, same as your brother.
Your mom takes her breakfast in the kitchen.
No one says anything, and you make sure to wolf everything down and hustle it into the dishwasher before your dad can join you.
* * * * *
Oscar's a freshman this year, so you have to drive yourself and him both out to school. "Get yer fuckin' feet off the console!" you snarl at him when you're in the car, and slap at his knees so he's drop them to the floorboard. "What you fuckin' figure you—?"
"What's your fucking problem?" he yells back.
"My fuckin' problem is I was up half the night on account you was fuckin' wacked out on I don't know what! You on something, man? Dad's gonna talk to you about it all, you know that." You start the car. "Gonna ask if you're buying or taking pills or some shit."
Oscar is scowling at you with a hurt look, but he doesn't say anything, and you ignore him. It's a silent drive all the way out. Even before you're out of the subdivision, he's pulled his hood up over his face—he's dressed in a hoodie, sweat pants, and flip flops—and sunk back down into his phone. When you're still a full block from the school, and stopped in the backed-up traffic, he jumps out of the car and goes stalking, stork-like, down the sidewalk toward the school with his backpack bouncing on his skinny shoulders.
Maybe you shouldn't have said anything to him about last night. That was really bad luck, getting caught by him—and not being able to get inside him. True, he wasn't your target, but it would have been better to be him now, bouncing along toward the school on those stilts he grew two years ago, where you could sit and plot further moves, than to have him on the loose wondering about that "blue snake" he saw slither into his brother's bedroom.
Well, it'll all be for the best, won't it? So he thinks he saw a snake, he'll just tuck the covers up tight around the bed and sleep with his head under the pillow; tiptoe around the house feeling paranoid about slithery things on the floor or in the closets, not inside his own brother.
Still, it worries you a little, and in the back of your mind you make a note about making his possession a priority. He's only a freshman, but he's pretty popular down in his class, apparently. Mars is musical, but Oscar is athletic: he's actually bypassed the freshman basketball team and made it onto the JV squad. It's even starting to look like he's got a girlfriend.
The though of which is a sudden, savage blow.
Fuck the cunts, comes the thought. Three girlfriends, three nuclear breakups. Fucking not worth it. They get in the way and the don't even put out. It's one reason Mars has thrown himself hard into the band, as a solace and as a "fuck you" to the girls who didn't understand what it meant to him.
Though Mars would never admit to himself, you understand that's why he was such an asshole to Dana yesterday.
Because damn she was hot!  You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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