The Cerebral Catalyst

I wondered how my asshole felt. With Grandpa behind me, panting, telling me to spread 'em. His hands on my chubby hips. Making his way up to my little boy A-cups. The zigzag sound of his zipper coming down. I knew what was under his beat up shorts. I've touched it. I've watched it squirt. I've seen it turn into a rollie pollie right before we'd go and eat dinner with Grandma. It's been in my hands plenty of times, but never up my ass. The air was so hot in his room. Only in his room though. I guess the heat excited him. The little twigs he still had for bangs were getting wet. The way we were positioned, I got a good view of his memories and achievements. His wedding picture, him holding my dad, and him getting a purple heart for taking one in the ass. I thought about it when I got older. Maybe he was using my ass as a way to get back at the Vietnamese. His smile was the same in every one. He never was a man to show interest or concern. So him getting lively for the birth of his son or getting a medal from his country was unlikely. His beady eyes tore through the brushed silver frame and right through me. I felt him push up. Pressing his wrinkled cock between my floppy white ass cheeks. I yelped and Grandma banged a pot into the stove. Before I had time to make another peep, his left hand was over my mouth. They were pink like pigs feet and as tattered as his shorts. I really felt him this time. My reflexes kicked in and I tightened up. This only gave him more encouragement. Little grunts escaped his stubbled mouth. He worked away. Scooting my feet across the hardwood until I was forced up against the Queen size. My ankles met the metal bar under the bed. Banging harder into it with every thrust. His Porky Pig hands got a tighter grip on my mouth. My lips became coated with the sweat from his palms. I held my tongue back from licking it. His hand made it near impossible to breath. I never was all that great at breathing out my nose (I'm still not). I felt my eyes water and my heartbeat moved from my chest to my head. I tried it out my nose and let my guard down. He slipped it all the way up. He really had to cover my mouth this time. While he worked, I imagined a chili dog and what it was like up there. Brown and filled up with mashed potatoes and hamburgers. Stinking and gooey and runny. That's when the thrusting stopped. His grip loosened off my mouth and his fingers drug slowly over my bottom lip and down my neck. He let out a breath like he lifted the T.V. out of the living room and took it out of me. I felt him wipe the head of it on my right cheek. I backed away from the bed and held one of my feet out. An indention had formed on my ankles. Sorta like the Grand Canyon. I heard the swishing sound of clothes being put on. The alarm clock ticked and I wiped the tears from my eyes on my Batman shirt. He put one hand on my shoulder and rubbed it. I climbed up on the bed and laid on Grandma's side. He left the door cracked. I let the ceiling fan wash over me while I waited for the dinner call.

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Matt Finney is a poet/writer from Millbrook, Alabama.

posted 03.17.08.

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