My Mother's Bed
by Joe Brewster
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Joe Brewster
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
oooOOOooo
In my younger days I dated a Starving Artist named Neeko.
I thought Neeko was hotter than hot.
Not everybody did.
Mainly because she treated all guys like assbags.
Immature dudes with macho hang-ups hated Neeko's guts. They couldn't deal with her radical feminist outlook. I was mature enough to appreciate her hyper-female point of view 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 anyone dumb enough to diss her because of it.
She strutted through life as a dark and mysterious, Badass Diva-- and she had the talent and the attitude to pull it off.
I knew zilch about art but I dug her vibe.
I worshiped her as a Punk-Goddess Shiva and didn't care who knew it.
In the process my self-respect and dignity got sacrificed to help her art.
She constantly had me hauling her stuff from one 'gallery' to another.
Gallery is a nice way of saying 'abandoned warehouse' or the unused space of a hipster coffee bar. She rarely got invited to a place actually dedicated for art.
Some of her stuff -- her art-- was heavier than a wet piano.
I busted my ass setting it up for her. I was constantly catching hell. It seems like I never did anything right.
According to Neeko I was a simple-minded no-account fuckoff.
When that happened I knew it was just her artistic perfectionist tendencies talking. I let it slide.
Whenever I was anywhere within earshot of Neeko I'd get a non-stop stream of verbal abuse that never let up. All her anger and frustration came gushing out directly at me and I was pummeled into submission by the unstoppable force of it all.
But in quieter moments, once things were settled in and she'd finished supervising me assembling the installation, Neeko'd calm down and apologize to me-- in her way.
We'd sit and chill and she'd give me a little heart to heart talk.
She'd patiently explain that I had no idea of the stresses she was under to make it in the art world.
I, being a common vulgar working stiff with no sense of art or culture, had no ability to think in aesthetic terms. I was too low-class and feeble-minded to grasp the ramifications.
So it was understandable that Neeko blamed me for bringing all her venom onto myself. It pissed her off that I was unable to follow simple instructions. No matter how hard I tried I just couldn't seem to do things right.
It didn't matter that she made outrageous demands and changed her mind five times a minute- she's a great artist, that's what great artists do!
Part of the problem with following her orders and keeping up with the changes came down to this: I didn't see the point.
It made me feel guilty inside, and stupid too, because I really didn't get her art. I was culturally challenged that way. I believed in Neeko herself, as a person, not so much her creative output, her art.
It was all she could do to not physically assault me when I didn't place a piece in the precise spot it needed to go.
Actually, Neeko did physically assault me. She never punched me or anything like that. Just open handed slaps or a swift kick in the ass. Nothing to get offended about. Under those circumstances I was practically asking for it. Being such an ignorant 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 advertisements 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 it over 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 it didn't matter what I thought.
I kept my mouth shut and hauled that thing all over town.
The only other 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. I felt like something of an expert on the subject. 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 assumes the role of 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 that. Neeko liked poking fun at me. She'd call me 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 of the things I liked about her.
When her art friends came around Neeko made me fetch beers and drinks for everybody. I was happy to do it. Being a non-artist, and a guy, I was a second class citizen in their circle. That's just the way it was. I had to make myself useful and be at their disposal like a servant or a valet.
Her leathered-out girlfriends would look at me and ask, 'Hey, Neeko. What's up with the skeezer Bitch? This dickless wonder is kinda creeping me out' and they'd all fall into each other, being playful, laughing. Stuff like that.
"You're not doing that fugly putz, are you?" another friend might say.
"No way!" She told her. "I might fuck his 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."
That sounds harsh 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 part of why I liked her. She didn't hold back. Neeko didn't play games. She'd tell it like it is. Keeping it real.
I knew all about that feminist art crowd. These women had a special bond. They talked shit about all men with the exception of most gays and some artists.
The only reason all her friends treated me like crap was because I was 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 me on my masculinity.
One night they stripped me naked and tied me up and took turns flogging my bare ass with a short leather quirt some chick used as a key fob. The rest of them spit on me and fizzed beer in my face and poked me with stuff. They were pushing the envelope. Testing my limits.
I knew if I reacted badly it would hurt Neeko’s image. She had a rep to protect. I wasn't about to punk out on her. I had to show them her man wasn't some fair-weather flunky that bailed when the fun got a little rough.
I took it in stride. I went along with the gag saying, “Thank you, Ma’am, may I have another”. They wore my ass raw but I didn't complain. When they got tired of using me as their whipping boy I toweled myself off and went about my business as though nothing had happened. I went back to serving them drinks while they laughed in my face and cracked jokes about me.
I could see Neeko was proud of me. She didn't say anything but at the end of the night, when I would usually clean up, Neeko said to let it go until morning. She gave me the night off to show her appreciation. She continued to treat me the same as ever but my loyalty and dedication had earned her respect. I could feel it-- even when she slapped me around.
ooOoo
I had just finished setting up 'My Mother's Bed' for a new exhibition. We were putting the final touches on straightening the spread. Neeko stood over me, barking out commands, cracking the whip, directing me to smooth it out more or adjust it to get it even.
Everything had to be exactly precise. Just-So.
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 to mess with it." 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 me by the shirt and bitch-slapped me. "This gig is the real deal! It's fucking juried! If I medal I get accepted to S.C.U.M.haus Academy. If I get the Gold I win a major fucking grant! I’ll rule the World, motherfucker!"
"I didn't know."
"What's to fucking know, you fucking Pinhead Bitch? 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 stuff.
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, my first year in High School or so, I kept 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 had to be precise. All the edges even and the corners square. Just-so.
I might have had a mild case of OCD. If that's possible. I don't know. It was compulsive and I knew it was kind of nuts but it made me feel good to see everything so perfectly straight and neat. What's the harm in that?
I just liked to see them all stacked orderly and exact. Hundreds and hundreds of them. I’d be lost in concentration for hours getting them just right.
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 been 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 hardcore 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 wouldn't think she'd approve of my comic book fetish.
I'd have thought for sure someone like Quinn would beat my ass if she knew I did silly kid stuff like collect Superman comics. Her being hardcore and all. I could imagine her taking off her chain belt and wrapping it around my throat to where she’d be half-strangling me until I cried out for mercy.
"Nice collection," She said. Looking straight at me. Acting like maybe I didn't hear her say, 'Cool' the first time.
I bolted for the john. I needed to get myself 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 cold water on my face. Then I toweled off. I looked at myself in the mirror for a second, took a deep breath, 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 like wounded birds through the air before falling to the floor and 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 the look Quinn gave me made my rage get jammed up inside me. Clenched and throttled and stopped. I got imprinted from the inside out by the Amazon-terror Quinn instilled in me.
In that moment-- I got owned. Hopelessly and completely, Quinn owned my ass.
Quinn stood there calmly facing me and kicked off her Chucks, her black Converse All-Stars(tm), and slithered out of her skinny black jeans. She shimmied out of her black nylon panties and they lay around her ankles. She stepped out with one foot 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 to the floor while leaning her head and shoulders against the side of my bed. She lay there, naked from the waist down, wearing nothing but a Plasmatics 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 swamp of torn-up colored paper. I slithered between the V of the Quinn's thin white legs and kissed her dark patch.
I lay there, arms under her skinny thighs, palming 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 personal sex toy.
I was her tool. Nothing more.
But this tool 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 me how to use my tongue and where I should lick.
Quinn worked the glorious scent of her funky wet sex against my compliant mouth, controlling the pressure and cadence. She rubbed her that hairy pussy of hers all over my bitch-ass face.
The derision in Quinn's superior manner weighed on me like a psychological avalanche.
Quinn took her time climaxing. Many times she brought herself close to orgasm.
The ache and the agony of being so close to sexual release contorted her face into a crumpled caricature of itself.
To look at her you'd think it was torture.
Unable to speak she'd kick me in the kidneys to signal me to be still a moment. Then she'd jerk my head with a quick tug on my hair 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 and floating in dreamland. Pants full of cum and dick twitching.
Suddenly Quinn got up, got 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 at the same time. 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 for few seconds. "Fine." I finally said.
Quinn really hadn't changed much. A little taller maybe and definitely fuller in the chest.
She wore a Bikini Kill tank top she'd made herself and a vintage 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 at the opening.
"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 as my sex-bitch like I wanted to. You were just too far down the food chain for me to overcome that."
"Really?" 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 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 instantly fully erect.
"Jeezus," she said. "Why didn't you tell me you had a nine inch cock? I need some of this."
I never figured my dick was anything special. It seemed to be average size or smaller compared with the guys I'd seen in the porn videos.
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 reached over my head and grabbed on to the brass bars of the headboard to keep us from trampolining onto 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 with the musky liquid stink of sex.