10.15.02 - 12:22 am
i never walked in on them- never saw the blink of my mother's skin between the streetlamp and the pillow. my father's thigh, wirey and pale, was never illuminated by cracks in the blinds.
i never heard my mother groan, never heard desire in her voice- the gusty bellow of the moment just before.
and come to think of it, i've never seen my parents touch. no hand-holding, no nuzzling in movies, no kissing on the lips when they thought we weren't looking.
but my friends had stories.
"i walked in and my mother had a dildo in her hand..."
"...father was behind her with his cock shoved in her rear."
we laughed and pretended to get sick at the idea. we winced, relieved that the stories weren't our own.
but it's terribly sad to think that maybe it wasn't just luck that i never walked in- that maybe they never even did it at all.
my parents, born again.
and i wonder about them. what they do when they're alone. whether my mother, closing her eyes in the shower, puts her hand between her thighs and rubs until she can barely keep herself from gasping- shaking through the knees and curling into the tile wall.
i wonder about my father. whether, alone in the day, he sits at his desk opening the mail- his hand in his pants, clutching his cock like he does his marriage.
and i wonder if, after, they feel guilty. if they wish they could do the things they do alone with each other instead. i wonder if they think about love and what it means.
but mostly i wonder if they ever stop to think, while wiping the sex off of themselves with a kleenex, what the hell they're doing anymore.
