Short Story (Contains Sexuality and One Moment of Violence)

GalwayGuy2

The spit fell from the young man’s mouth in one long green dribble that dripped on to the floor.

Disgust and indignation rose within Barry’s flesh. Why would you do that? Is it such a bother to swallow that piece of spit? Who knows who will step on your ejaculation when it’s hardened by the chill? For a moment he imagined beating him with his walking stick. He wouldn't hurt him, not really, but he’d give him a sharp bap to teach the pup some manners.
His age did not factor in this fantasy. A gust of wind would him trembling like a leaf, but in his mind he stood proud and strong. That spittin’ young man had walked on by the time he had finished his little fantasy. So, what could he do, but shake his head and wish that young man dead. And, of course, make his way to where the woman waited for him.

He did his one-man waltz as he stumbled through the city. The water from the rain soaked the sound from his walking stick as if it were honey into dew. It was unfortunate it could not block the Jackasses of this city’s neighing voices. Toned, tan, thin and ready, these lads are lookin’ for someone not so steady. Look at them. Look at those tight t-shirts that exposed every inch of their young bodies. Look at their hairless cheeks, as soft as any woman’s, those lashes longer than most girls, and their lips to rival any of the kinder sex. But look at those eyes that glittered at exposed pieces of feminine flesh. They glanced at him and he looked away in fear that their eyes would linger too long on his own flesh.

There was something rotten in the men of this age. They were fed a steady diet of tit from birth to death. The moment, the very moment, they were weaned off their mother’s breast is the moment they went searching for their likeness on the owl-d intranet. Being exposed to all that sexuality at such a young age…God, he feared for this world. To see a man pounding unmercifully into a woman, pulling her hair as she groaned, going harder as she dug her fingernails into his buttock to urge him deeper…

He swallowed and pushed those thoughts away. Let others worry about this generation. He had a lady to see, and he wouldn't let a lady wait for any man.

The staircase door had static that stung his fingertips and the hallway’s paint peeled at his lung’s gasp. He had planned to give a sharp, a confident, a goddamn commanding, knock on the door, but he paused to check his breath. His zipper, thankfully closed, was next and his collar last. Finally, and he couldn't help but think of those gombeens outside, he checked his dark-grey hair. Plenty of hair out of place, but not so much to make him appear an old fogey, and not too little too make him appear a queer.

Only then, did he knock.

The door opened and showed the figure of the woman he came to see. Light haloed the back of her head, shadow her already bright eyes and added a rose tint to her lips. An old man’s heart, and plenty of other parts, could be awakened by a sight like that. A face like that had a woman’s appeal and her body had a woman’s voluptuousness. It was the damndest thing, but he sometimes couldn’t tell the age of the girls of this generation. Sometimes he’d catch his eyes lingering and wonder whether a she was a twenty year old woman or a seventeen year old child. But this girl was a woman with every inch of her body.

They both smiled and welcomed each other and seemed unsure of whether to hug. He thought it too presumptuous. She was probably too shy.

So, she ushered him. He sat on the cough and eyed the rooms. Clean, tidy, and well managed. Pictures of a boy lined the mantelpiece, no ashtrays were in sight, and the floors had the look of constant maintenance. His eyes alighted on the bookcase and caught on a spine with cracks across its surface. It’s name pinged a memory. Where had he heard of Anne Rice’s Sleeping Beauty Trilogy.

When she followed his gaze, her eyes lowered and a blush suffused her cheeks. Being a good man, a gentleman, he looked away with a smile.
There ain’t nothin’ wrong with those owl-d ‘Lady Novels’. Bit of wine and jazzle-dazzle. They were so romantic that they were beyond reason and so metaphorical that you couldn’t whether a man washed dishes, or a woman’s body. Not his cup of tea, and he hoped any woman of his would keep it to her own time, but it did no harm.

‘Thank you for coming at such short notice’, she said.

‘For a lady like you I’d come any time you wanted me to’.

She blinked at him, ‘Well. Okay. It’s just, I found some…illicit magazines in my son’s room…’

‘Your son?’

‘Of course. You know, I just thought it was time for a ‘talk’ and, since you’re an old, I mean distinguished, man, I thought you could have a chat with him.’

‘Of course your son…’

‘If you don’t want to it’s okay’.

‘No…no, I’ll be happy to’.

The room seemed darker than when he entered the floors with more encrustations of dirt, and the young mother with more evil in her eye. They were both aware of the difficulty he had getting up. She seemed unsure whether she should help or let the old man soldier on. He knew that if she tried to help him with her feminine hands that he would lose the last bit of respect he had for himself.

‘Down the hall’. He asked and she nodded. Now, to let the old sod do his business.

The lamplight ended at the hall and he stepped into a cold sort of darkness. Again, he knew there was something wrong with this generation. What sort of woman would have a child at her age? What sort of man would leave her? A goddamn harl…

He shook his head and stepped in front of the door. Light leaked out from the crack beneath. It lit his face, but left his body in shadow. Now he had to do a mother’s work. For a son that gave his mother grief so much that she could not talk to him. For a son that most probably tugged himself to brutalization and humiliation. A son that would turn into this generations Steubenville rapists.

The door opened with a whisper, and closed with a hiss. He had ‘em both locked in now, and they weren’t leaving ‘till he and this ****er got to the bottom of this.

The son still had a trace of a child around his features and had a mother’s haircut. He put his age at fourteen, or fifteen, at the most. A child that had to be thought and disciplined into betterness.

‘I heard your watchin’ porno’, he pulled out a computer seat and sat his old body down. The only thing that stopped from belting some sense into that, that, woman’s son was the tip-tapping of his walking stick.
The son blushed and looked as if he was about to die. He took the lord’s name in vain. He cursed his mother. Then he put out his hands as if to say, Look, we all do it.

‘Is it the domination that you get off on? Is it the chokin’, and the slappin’, and the sick thrill of a woman being taken advantage of?’

Those eyes, so much like his mothers , opened in mock innocence. He appeared shamed, and shocked, and with a need to prove him wrong. Those dirty hands riffled beneath the bed and came out with a wrinkled magazine. He would’ve handed it to him, but a look in the old man’s eyes kept him back. Instead, the son threw it and the old man surprised himself at being able to catch it.

Time to look at what filth this little **** was lookin’ at. As if by magic the magazine opened onto the middle page. It showed an Asian woman wearin’ nothin’ but a smile. She had no hair down there and his eyes lingered too long. Her bum hole was as ripe a his own, and her womanhood as innocent as a schoolgirls.

Anger rose within him as his body rose at the sight. He flung the magazine and laboured to his feet to see the son’s shocked eyes.
‘Is this the **** you look at you little ****er?’

The son could only fall back on his bed. The old man could only come closer and closer and try and stop his arm from snaking out. But, he couldn’t and his walkin’ stick smacked the child in the stomach.

‘You like your woman too look like little children? Do you!’, he raised the stick again but stopped when the child flinched away. He had to calm himself. He had to regain control. It was not his fault. The boy was a child shaped by this generation of porn, breast-feedin’, and short skirts.

The walk to the chair sent pings to his knees. Every blip of pain flicked the anger away until his inside seemed made of ice.

The old man told the son the plan. He’d be damned if a woman like that raise her son to be a pedo-pastor. Their talk was long and hard, but he reckoned he thought the son the error of his ways. It ended with a warning from an old man to a young man. Even though his skin wrinkled from his body at the touch of the vile young man’s flesh, he gripped his shoulder as the son shook in guilt of his evil ways. But he’d feel the blessin’ of redemption.

The mother asked him whether he gave him a talk. He told her yes and told her to give him some space to save some embarrassment.

‘You see, a boy like that has got to be told right from wrong. I know, I know, you’re a single mother, but someone’s gotta do it. So, will I come over next week.’

Her handshake did not seem sure. She hurried him out. Slammed the door and left him in the sticky hallway.

While he stood alone in that hallway, he wondered: Will she ever let me back in?




My Thoughts: God, the mother has no toone does she?

Also, that ending is pretty bad. I wonder did his over-reaction fit his character? I'm not sure it did.

Anyway, any thoughts?

Das Kitty

Hey GG2.

Can I ask you what the main character's role was? Who was he and why was he invited over to the house?

I think his overreaction did fit his character, if I'm reading it correctly. He flogged the younglad because it was like flogging himself? And he's trying to deny his own base nature, so it's easier to whack the younglad rather than himself.

About the youngfella though. He didn't really ring true. Why would he submit himself to the ould lad? Why didn't he grab the stick and break it over him? Why would he even entertain the questioning?

It got a bit confusing in parts when we switched settings, like from the street to the grubby hallway. It took a few sentences for me to catch up. I'd put a double paragraph mark anytime I changed setting where you don't explicitly move the character to it in the text.

GalwayGuy2

I wanted to write a character that the readers would agree with, as in the comments on pornography, and then would slowly disagree with. I put in the breast-feeding comment as a bit of a nod towards his, slightly funny, rant at the beggining.

I guess the old man doesn't really have a role. He was invited to talk to the young man and it's only now I realise how unrealistic this is.

Eh, I think this is a time where social commentary ruins a story. I don't think I really have any reason for there relationship.

I think his overreaction did fit his character, if I'm reading it correctly. He flogged the younglad because it was like flogging himself? And he's trying to deny his own base nature, so it's easier to whack the younglad rather than himself.

That is half of it. Thankfully, I've always been able to tell peoples ages, but some older men find it more difficult. So, I started to think of a man who think of someone as a 'child' but they look like an adult. I'm talking in the upper teens.

Also, he's angry at himself and the mother. You know he wanted to get into a relationship with her (you know, the descriptions of her house are almost comments on her as a wife) but she just saw him as an old man. So, he's taking a bit of his temper out on the child, as, you know, I put in the fact that he has his mother's eyes.

About the youngfella though. He didn't really ring true. Why would he submit himself to the ould lad? Why didn't he grab the stick and break it over him? Why would he even entertain the questioning?

I imagined him as still young enough for his mother to cut his hair. That's what the mothers haircut comment means. 13-14, or 12. I didn't really think too much of his age tbh. You know, I was a bit silly with that scene. It would probably be more realistic for him to be watching online. And it woud add more of a grey morality to the whole thing if he was watching a video with spanking or rough elements. The reader would probably be a little confused about what to think of the old guy.

It got a bit confusing in parts when we switched settings, like from the street to the grubby hallway. It took a few sentences for me to catch up. I'd put a double paragraph mark anytime I changed setting where you don't explicitly move the character to it in the text.

True. I was trying to go for a bit of a movie effect. I think the problems with the description rather than the structure Just my opinion.

I decided to put this story up because it's the most potentially controversial one i have :P Everything after this is probably smooth sailing.

Eh, I'm very unhappy with the story. The old man should have had a more panicked speech pattern. Also, my own social commentary kind of ruined this story.

Thank you for reading