Good Golly, Mrs. Mommy!

Good Golly, Mrs. Mommy!

by DiscipleN


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You know how it is, when it’s your birthday, and you’ve unwrapped your presents, and you blow out the candles on your birthday cake, and everyone wishes you ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!’, and they sing songs and swat your butt, except everyone is only your mother, and you want to fuck her more than anything? Well, I don’t care if you think that’s messed up, or that I should cut off my scrotum and sew it into a bloody hand bag. When you consider what happened next, you wouldn’t care either!

“Dear, would you please fetch my hand bag?” Mother smiled. She wiped a big glob of whipped cream from the corner of her mouth and licked her fingers. “Just think, in a couple years, we’ll be able to celebrate with something more potent than chocolate cake and ice cream.”

“Sure mom.” I reached for the diminutive imitation of a carpetbag sitting on the kitchen counter. I handed it over and watched her pry into its packed contents.

“I’m so glad you took that home economics class, your cake is delicious!” She was kind not to mention that whipped cream was an unusual frosting for chocolate cake. She continued to mine her purse. “Here we go.” Mother pulled her hand out of her feminine rucksack and held up a condom.

“Do you know what this is?” She gave me a stern look.

“Yeah mom, it’s a rubber.” What’d she think, that I was out of the loop of ninety nine percent of my high school, like fundamentalist christians who aren’t allowed to use the letter ‘x’ in case they might spell a frightful, three letter word with it?

“Oh, pooh.” Mom instantly sulked. “I know we should have had this talk sooner, but now that you know, I guess you’ll be wanting to drive the car.

“Mom, I got my license a year ago.” Something weird was going on with her. I peered closer at mom. She didn’t look drunk, and I hadn’t seen her drink anything except bottled water.

“Really, and what would your father say about that?”

To this astonishing remark, I said nothing. My dad, her one and only husband, was pushing down valkyries and tossing back beers in Valhalla. I believe I gaped.

“Don’t give me that look young man. What if you got into an accident? The family Desoto would be ruined, and your father wouldn’t be able to commute to work. Why, he’d have to take the bus like one of those poor, unfortunate Negroes.”

‘Negroes?’ I pushed my chair back and seriously considered shitting in my pants. Hell, black guys in the school’s computer club would serve my ass for tri-tip if I ever called them Negroes. And as for a Desoto, wasn’t he a latino middleweight?

I burst out laughing. “Right mom. That’s a good one.”

“Hmmph! You listen to me, young man. I’ll not have you disrespect me like that. It may be your birthday, but you’re not too old to be sent to your room.”

My wholehearted laugh caught in my throat and gagged me. I coughed and continued to cough. I could hardly breath with all that freaky in the room. Any second I expected Rod Serling to crawl out of the oven and give me the Heimleck maneuver.

“Off you go. You can think up there, about what I said, while I clean up this mess. Don’t forget to take your presents.”

Out of sheer incredulity, I stood up, grabbed my gift certificate for Wal-Mart and my three new Gamera DVDs, walked out, up the stairs, and into my room.

This had to be part of some secret plot to surprise me on my birthday. I went over the day in my head, trying to detect a pattern.

I woke up, heard mom showering, and waited in my bed until she’d left our bathroom. My mind drifted, trying to imagine my mother’s firm hips and quart sized breasts, their nipples swollen, water sweeping soap suds down her tall, slim figure. I grabbed my boner and gave it a hardy wanking, wondering if mother ever wanked her, as I imagined it, puffed out clit. It’s a great way to begin the day and pass time while the bathroom was occupied.

After my own shower, I met mom in the kitchen. She kissed me on the cheek and wished me happy birthday. I helped her make breakfast. My mom isn’t the greatest cook. She’s more likely to heat a packet of instant creamed cereal than whip up eggs florentine. We compromised and had scrambled eggs with my special hash browns.

Yeah, I got plenty of kidding taking a Home Ec. class, but a couple girls went out of their way to help me, although I admit I wasn’t so brave as to ask any of them out. I did get an A in baking. So naturally, it went unsaid that I would be baking the birthday cake. I could think of nothing abnormal about my mom this morning.

I gave my mom a list of ingredients to pick up at the store. She would meet me at noon, and I’d use the school’s kitchen after my classes. I already had permission. I didn’t particularly like our own kitchen oven, it had a nasty habit of dropping 30 degrees in the middle of a two hour chateaubriant.

When she met me at noon, she handed over an ice chest with all those yummy chocolate cake ingredients. She hadn’t spared any expense, gourmet chocolate sauce, dutch cocoa powder, bittersweet chocolate chips, organic flour, milk, eggs, butter, whipping cream, cane sugar, and real vanilla extract. Mom helped me lug the chest to the school kitchen closet. It didn’t fit my locker.

“Good luck, Hank. I’m glad I won’t be around to screw it up by accident.” Mom grinned. She was totally competent as an jet engine mechanic, but she employed kitchen tools with the same ‘big wrench’ attitude as her work tools.

There was nothing odd about mom at lunch time. The first grief in my day came from an unexpected direction. When the school bell finally rang, I dashed to the kitchen eager to craft some rich chocolate cake. I could taste the tender goodness, smell the warm, intoxicating scent in my head. It would be a long wait while it baked.

It turned out to be a very long wait. There, standing around the open closet and opened ice chest were six guys from the hockey team. Their mouths were covered with dark sauce, and they pulled on the milk carton like they were partying at a kegger.

“What the FUCK! That was suppose to be my birthday cake.” I screamed at them. I didn’t know I had it in me.

The biggest one of them looked my way and chuckled. “Happy birthday twerp. You’re welcome to whatever’s left.”

“Sorry.” Another turned to me and grinned. The other four grinned and said ‘likewise’ down the line. They all burst out laughing. Daring me to confront them more. I stood there simultaneously furious and petrified with fear.

Having finished raiding the ‘good bits’ in the ice chest, they filed past me, laughing all the way out the door. The last one cracked an egg over my head. He had the nerve to explain the obvious.

“Loser, we’re jocks. When we see an opportunity, we take it. Malcolm spied you lugging the chest in here and overheard you say chocolate to that old broad. Your mum, eh? Not a bad looker for someone who had a boy as ugly as you.”

The door slammed behind me, my body quivering from their threatening subtext. Egg white dripped down my nose. I think I had a fit then. The immediate afterward is a blur in my memory. I jumped up and hollered, cursing them. I cursed myself more. After washing my head in a sink I took inventory of what was left: three eggs, whipping cream, butter, and a sack of flour evidently used in a game of catch. Even the vanilla bottle was missing. One of them must have been able to read the word alcohol on the label. I was upset, but I wasn’t devastated. I prowled around the kitchen looking for something, anything that might help me get a grip. In the far corner of the same closet I found a cardboard box of old food stuffs.

Most schools don’t offer cooking classes anymore, but Mammoth H.S. was as slow to change as it’s mascot. The stuff I discovered must have been collected over the years, things that normally wouldn’t go bad. Baking soda, navy beans, various spices (probably flavorless), dried mushrooms, powdered sugar, and a few box mixes for stuffing, baking chicken, and flavoring sloppy joes. At the very bottom, I noticed an ancient looking logo for “Aunty Rocker’s Devil’s Food Cake”.