My Mother’s Bed by Joe Brewster
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Joe Brewster
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Right out of high school I went out with an artist chick named Neeko.
I thought Neeko was hot.
Not everybody did.
Mainly because she treated all guys like assbags.
Dudes with immature macho hang-ups got turned off quick. They couldn’t deal with her radical feminist outlook. I was mature enough to appreciate her female-centric ethos and secure enough to not be frightened by it.
And, let’s face it, most guys are assbags.
From her Doc Marten soles to her jet-black henna-streaked tresses Neeko wore her Post-Punk Riot Grrrl street sensibilities for all to see and spit in the eye of any asswipe dumb enough to diss her because of it.
She strutted her stuff like one dark, badass Diva and she had the talent to back it up.
I knew jackshit about art but I dug her vibe.
I worshiped her Punk-Goddess persona and didn’t care who knew it.
She pretty much owned me.
I kind of sacrificed my self-respect and dignity to help her art.
I was constantly humping her stuff from one 'gallery' to another all the time.
Gallery is a nice way of saying 'abandoned warehouse' or worse.
Some of her stuff -- her ART-- was heavier than a wet piano.
I busted my ass setting it up for her. Catching hell from her. I never did anything right.
According to Neeko I was a simple-minded low-life no-brained fucktard.
I knew it was just her artistic perfectionist tendencies talking. I let it slide.
Being in her presence meant a non-stop stream of sluicing verbal abuse that never let up. I was pummeled into submission by the unstoppable force of it all.
In the quiet moments after she finished supervising me putting an installation together she'd apologize.
Usually.
Sort of.
To hear her tell it I had no idea of the stresses she was under to make good in the art world.
Me, being a common vulgar working stiff with no sense of art or culture, I just had no concept. I was too feeble-minded to grasp the ramifications.
So it was understandable that Neeko blamed me for bringing all her venom onto myself.
It made me feel kind of guilty inside, and stupid too, because I really didn’t get her art. I was culturally challenged that way. I mainly believed in Neeko herself, not necessarily her product, her art.
It was all she could do to not physically assault me when I didn’t place an art piece in the precise centimeter where it was supposed to go.
Actually, sometimes she did physically assault me. Just open handed slaps or a kick in the ass. Nothing to get offended about. Under those circumstances I was practically asking for it. Being such a dipshit art-tard.
There were a couple pieces of hers that I almost got.
One thing was this big old bed for an installation she called 'My Mother's Bed' and it really was her dead mom's old bed.
Neeko cut out old 1950’s magazine adverts for products like floor wax and hand lotion and dish soap and any old thing directed at women.
She taped them together with Band-Aids(tm) and made a bedspread out of them and put them on this big brass bed.
On the wall above it she put a Crucifix made from a wooden spoon crossed against a spatula.
I thought the whole thing looked pretty cool.
"It's a Psycho-Sexual Feminist indictment of Post Modern Popular Culture," she told me.
I didn't see the connection but what I thought didn't matter.
I kept my mouth shut and hauled that thing all over town.
After straining my back single-handedly setting it up a few times it didn’t quite seem so cool looking anymore.
The only piece of Neeko's I halfway legitimately understood was a comic book rip-off of Superman. A single giant cartoon panel with Lois Lane leading Superman into her bedroom holding a leash around Superman's neck.
"Shouldn't the leash be on Clark Kent?" I asked. Feeling like something of an expert on the subject. Seeing as how I'd collected super-hero comics as a kid.
"You're such a Dumb-fuck," she said. "Kent's a cunt. Like you. A nutless wonder. He has no power. Sexually speaking he's a fucking zero. He’s got no balls. He doesn't need to be harnessed. Until he becomes Superman he's no more useful to her than any other limp-dick motherfucker."
Ouch! I got her point.
I knew she was just kidding about me being a cunt and all. Neeko liked poking fun at me. Calling me about five different kinds of Gopher/Chauffeur/Flunky/Wuss right to my face but that was just her dark-edge sense of humor. That’s one thing I liked about her.
When her art friends came around Neeko made me fetch beers and drinks for them all. Being a non-artist, and a guy, I was a second class citizen in their circle. I had to make myself useful and be at their disposal like a servant or a valet.
One of her leathered-out girlfriends looked at me and asked, 'Hey, Neeko. What's with the skeezer Bitch? This dickless motherfucker’s kinda creeping me out' and all of them fell into each other, being playful, laughing. Stuff like that.
"You're not fucking that scuzz, are you?" another friend asked her.
"No way!” She told her. “Maybe I’ll fuck him in the ass with a strap-on if he don’t get his shit together.” They laughed like hell at that. “Otherwise, forgetaboutit. He's just some dick-weasel douche-bag with a van that I let haul my shit around."
I know that sounds terrible but you had to know Neeko. She was just having fun. Besides she was telling the truth about not fucking me. We'd been going out for months but I'd never been in her pants. She didn't have to be so blunt about it but that's kinda why I liked her. Neeko didn't play games. She'd tell it like it is.
I knew all about that crowd. The women had a special bond. They talked shit about all men- unless they were artists and/or gay.
The only reason her friends all treated me like dogshit was because I was such a real man. A solid hetero. Straight as the day is long.
So really, when you look at it that way, the worse they abused me the more they were actually complimenting my masculinity.
Especially when they tied me up and flogged my bare ass.
I could handle that.
One day I just finished setting up 'My Mother's Bed' and we were putting the final touches on straightening the spread.
She stood there barking at me, shouting commands, directing me to smooth it out more or adjust it to get it even.
Everything had to be just-so. Precise.
We finished up a few hours before the opening.
“Gimme your keys,” she said. “I gotta go get ready. You stay here and make sure nobody fucks with my shit.”
“There’s nobody here.” I told her. She was so damn overprotective of her stuff.
“Just do what I say before I beat your brains in, Maggot!” she grabbed my shirt front and bitch-slapped me. ”This gig is for real, Bitch! It’s fucking juried! If I medal I get accepted to Kleinhaus Academy. If I get the Gold I rule, motherfucker!”
“I didn’t know.”
“What’s to fucking know? Just do what I tell you to do and don’t fucking touch nothing!”
She stomped out leaving me alone to chill and watch her shit.
I stood there looking at her bed with each advertising page Band-Aided (TM) together so perfectly. Neeko really was a perfectionist. Obsessively so.
It reminded me of something I hadn't thought about in years.
When I was a kid, fifteen or sixteen or so, I had a stash of comic books under my bed. I'd bring them out every once in awhile and stack them in even piles out on the floor of my bedroom. Everything just-so. Precise.
Maybe I had a OCD. I don't know. It was compulsive and I knew it was kind of nuts but it made me feel good so what's the harm in that?
I just liked to see them all perfectly stacked like that. Hundreds of them.
One day in the middle of one of my stacking sessions my bedroom door opened and a girl walked in.
It was Quinn from next door. She'd got locked out of her house and came over to our place and my Mom sent her back to my room.
We were in the same grade at school but light-years apart in any way that mattered.
We never talked. Then again I never talked to any of the girls at school. I was too scared.
Quinn especially scared the hell out of me. She was one of these Thrash-Core punk chicks. She tore the wings off insect kids like me and ate us for lunch.
"Hey," She said.
I just kind of waved. I was speechless.
"Cool." She said as she looked at my stacks.
I about creamed my skivvies. I'd have thought for sure someone like Quinn would beat my ass if she knew I did silly kid shit like collect Superman comics. Her being hardcore and all. I could see her taking off her chain belt and wrapping it around my neck half-strangling me till I cried out for mercy.
"Nice collection," She said. Looking straight at me. Thinking maybe I didn't hear her the first time.
I bolted for the john. I needed to get my shit together. Caught with my stacks out like that had me totally vulnerable. Totally susceptible. The least little insult or jibe could be fatal. If Quinn so much as sneered at me now it'd totally shatter what little self-esteem I had left.
I had to calm down.
I threw some water on my face and went back to my room.
I opened the door and there was Quinn in the middle of the room kicking the living shit out of all my stacks.
She stopped as I entered and the last few comics fluttered through the air to the floor settling on the jumbled heap.
Utter nameless rage shot through me. I stood there trembling as a deafening pulse thundered in my skull. I didn't know whether to shit or go blind.
I'd have killed anyone else.
But Quinn made my rage get jammed up inside me, clenched and throttled, and I got imprinted from the inside out by the Amazon-terror Quinn instilled in me.
In that moment-- I got owned.
Quinn stood calmly and kicked off her Chucks, her black Converse All-Stars(tm), and slithered out of her skinny black jeans. Her black panties slid to the floor and lay around her ankles. She stepped out of one leg hole and with just a flick of her other pale bare foot--- toenails gleaming with black nail polish - she kicked the queef-stained briefs into my face from across the room.
She slunk down to the floor leaning her head and shoulders against the side of my bed, naked from the waist down, wearing nothing but a Ramones T-shirt, with her bare bottom resting on my pile of wasted mags. Her moist sex gleaming, taunting me.
Whatever inhibitions I should have felt in this situation were blotted out by the naked crush of primal need as she lay there and hissed, "Kiss it..."
The words thumped my soul like the beat of a big bass drum- KISS IT.
I crawled on my belly like a reptile through the torn mess of colored paper. I slithered between the V of Quinn’s thin white legs and kissed her dark patch. I kissed it all right.
Hell yes I kissed it!
I lay there, arms under her skinny thighs, her ass in my hands, while she palmed the back of my head and had her way with me.
Quinn turned my face into her sex toy.
Loser-as-fuckbrain-dildo.
I was her tool. Nothing more.
But this tool of hers was no dumb object. I was a Loser, sure, but I could feel. I could think.
My mind registered her contempt.
I was conscious of being used and humiliated.
I bore the full brunt of Quinn's scorn as she strictly dictated exactly how I could move to be of use to her; directing how I should hold my tongue and where I should lick.
Quinn worked the glorious scent of her funky wet sex against my outstretched tongue, controlling the pressure and cadence, as she rubbed her hairy pussy all over my bitch-ass face.
The derision in Quinn's superior manner was palpable.
Quinn took her time climaxing. Many times she brought herself close to orgasm.
The ache and the agony of being so close to sexual ecstasy contorted her face into a crumpled caricature of itself.
To look at her you'd think it was torture.
Unable to speak she kicked me in the kidneys to signal me to be still a moment. Then she’d slap me in the back of my head to get me going again.
I thought my neck would snap when she finally came-- the way she thrust-out and bucked her hips.
We lay there for a while exhausted. The heavenly stink of her cum on my face totally fucked my mind. I was zoned-out in dreamland. Pants full of cum and dick twitching.
Quinn got up, dressed, and walked out and that was it. The next day at school she acted like it never happened. We never mentioned it ever.
Years later at graduation we happened to walk out of the auditorium together. I didn’t recognize her at first in her cap and gown then I heard her voice, “Hey,” she said, “We made it.” Like we were friends or something.
“Yeah,” I said back, “We made it.”
She gave me a hug and disappeared into the night and I never saw her again.
Ain’t life strange?
There I was daydreaming when suddenly I heard a voice that made me think I was hallucinating.
“Hey,” it said.
It was Quinn.
“Damn, I thought it was you.” She said. “Long time no see. How you been?”
I blanked out. “Fine.” I finally said.
Quinn really hadn’t changed much. A little taller maybe and fuller in the chest.
She wore a Stooges black tank top with a wide black patent leather belt and spandex micro-mini, black of course, and over-the-calf black lamper Doc Marten’s and black fishnet leggings.
Quinn fucking rocked.
She played bass in the all-girl band that was going to perform.
“We’ve got some catching up to do.” She told me with a smile. “I owe you one.”
“Yeah?” I wondered.
It was weird. She came up and put her arms around me.
She practically cradled me she was so affectionate.
“Remember that day I trashed your bedroom and made you go down on me?” she said, tilting her head back to get a good look at me, “I thought sure you’d run your mouth about what a skank-ass slut I was. Everybody else did. Hell, even my so-called friends spread rumors about me being a whore when I didn’t even do anything. You I treated like a scumbag and practically raped your face but you never let out a peep about it. I know. I’d have heard.”
I just stood there looking up at her beautiful blues eyes twinkling back at me.
“I always wanted to apologize but I didn’t know how.” She continued as she brushed her cheek against mine and softly told me, “I was such a hard-ass I was afraid I’d break into a million little pieces if I let that part of me show. I was scared.”
“Really?”
“Sure, I guess you’re pretty cool now if you’re an artist or whatever but back then in high school you were such a fucking spaz and a half that I was coward. If I’d have apologized and made friends with you I’d have never been able to live it down. Even if I just used you for sex like I wanted to. You were just too far down the food chain for me to overcome that.”
“You really liked me?” I asked mystified.
“Are you kidding? You gave me the best head I’ve ever had. Too bad I was too weak to capitalize on it and make you my sex slave when I had the chance. I still fantasize about that time.”
“Imagine that…” I couldn’t believe it.
She dropped to her knees.
“Like I said, I owe you one.”
She unzipped my pants and started to fellate me. Pardon my French but it seemed too grand and glorious a thing to call it a blowjob.
I was fully erect in a matter of seconds.
“Jeezus,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a nine inch pecker? I need some of this.”
I never figured my dick was anything special. It seemed average or smaller compared with the guys in the porn vids I’d seen.
Quinn practically picked me up and threw me on Neeko’s bed installation and jumped on top of me.
I helped her tear off her leggings and panties so she could slide onto my cock.
Damn! Quinn was ripping the shit out of Neeko’s magazine bedspread, just like she did to my comics way back when, and just like back then I didn’t give a shit. She needed sex and I was just the bitch to give it to her.
I had to reach over my head and grab on the brass bars of the headboard to keep us from trampolining on to the floor.
Quinn fucked my brains out. She had me ready to cum in no time flat.
“Don’t you dare!” she yelled. “You fucking cum before I’m ready and I’ll cut your motherfucking dick off, Bitch!”
I believed her and it worked. I was too scared to cum.
Quinn was using me with such force I thought the bed would break. I couldn’t feel my dick anymore. It was numb.
Quinn came in buckets, flooding the bed in musky liquid stink of sex.
God she looked so beautiful towering above me as I finally got my nut.
She lay down on top of me, with me still in her, and kissed the side of my face cooing in my ear, ”You’re the only guy I’ve ever known that minds what I say and doesn’t give me any shit. I think I love you.”
And then she fell asleep. I thought only guys did shit like that.
Now I knew how chicks felt.
I didn’t dare move. I didn’t want to disturb her.
After a few minutes I fell asleep.
“WHAT THE FUCK?!?” Neeko shrieked when she got back.
She was fit to be tied. Pissed off. Outraged. The whole bit.
Quinn and I jumped up and Neeko’s whole aura changed. She stood there looking at the installation and got calm and quiet. It was scary.
“This is fucking genius!” she yelled out. “I’m the fucking greatest!”
I could kind of see what she meant.
The advertisements were crumpled and torn and wet and stinky with sex but they looked like it was all done on purpose. The whole thing had been put together with such care and precision that even after Quinn did her pole dance on me the piece had an artful construction about it.
Quinn’s shredded fishnets and panties lay strewn across the bed. Neeko picked up the black panties and told me to wipe my dick off with them and she threw those back on the bed.
Neeko was wearing a lace-up black leather bustier under her jacket and she took it off and hung it on the post of the headboard.
Then she removed the Wiccan necklace she was wearing that had a bunch of Pagan fertility charms on it and fixed this on the wooden spoon Crucifix.
Then she took a
lipstick and crossed out the word ‘MOTHER’S’ in the title
board: My Mother’s Bed.
In that moment I understood that she really was an artist. She knew her shit.
Needless to say she won the Gold Medal and got accepted to her academy.
After that Neeko cut me loose. She didn’t need me anymore.
I put my loading and set up skills to good use as Quinn’s band’s new roadie. Not to mention all-around sex toy.
Tough job but somebody’s gotta do it.