What Mother Feels

The female paraphernalia is all hidden. The body surface all curves toward that "hidden." Follow the thighs, the belly, the buttocks, they all lead you to something just a bit further on: if your testes are pumping out the right stuff to stimulate the explorer. My testes were pumping nothing. I didn't know they existed. My explorations were all on the surface. For instance: one day in the basement Bonnie says she wants to feel what her mother feels. She wants it inside her. Little SybaRight was generally very cooperative. I take my little peanut and try to stuff it into the only front crack I knew: the little fold of lips you can see on any standing female. (Bonnie was standing, her back against the concrete blocks of the cellar wall.) She tried to spread her legs, still standing, to help me. An acrid reek rose from her movement. All that probing front and back had never gone deeper than the width of a blade of grass. This was my first whiff of an asshole too damn proximate, but I soldiered on. This was smelly, sweaty work. Before giving up we both agreed: "Our parents must really love us to put up with all that to have us."