The last time I kissed a frog's ass is the first time I met your mother. I suppose I’ve kissed her on the mouth since then, but I’ve come to think of her less as a frog’s ass. Nowadays she’s more of a Sign of Settlement. There are only so many times you can lie to yourself about what’s available. Take you for instance. I started out with one intention in life: to raise a daughter better than my son -- my son being the product of a youthful indiscretion your mother has been kind enough to ignore on account of her ugliness limiting the men willing to sink a cock in her. Anyhow, I always figured a girl would suit me better than a lad, considering the fact I hadn’t done very well with the former. Rather than try to strike out twice, I decided to be statistically considerate of my situation. Of course, that meant first finding some womb or another willing to house my seed. This proved more difficult than I calculated. After all, women do have certain lists they like to run through when contemplating a man, and though these are not necessarily universal, they do tend to blend together in places. Jobs are one factor. Smell is another; most women do not like to date a man who smells regularly of beer and cigarettes. Sense of humor, check. But money and looks are more important than most are willing to admit. No one likes to look greedy or shallow. Fortunately, men are naturally unencumbered by such limitations. For instance, I can be as shallow as I like, and it is somehow expected of me. On some occasions it has made me seem more of a man by comparison, said comparison being useful in the sexual accusation of a, shall we say, beta male. “Naw Brandy, don’t go home with him. He’s looking for cock, and no offense, you might pass for butch in the right light. HEY! I’m not saying a thing, I like the way you look, but those near queers are a strange lot: looking for something they can figure is male enough and what’s that do? Leave you with a complex when he finally gets right and real about who he is.” It works. Not always, but it does. Now that line in particular worked on your mother. Brandy Winston Hanks. She drove a battered Honda Civic round town and looked like she could kill a man with her jaw. Half black like milk in strong tea. Makes it smoother. You didn’t know her back the way she used to be, body fit enough to make a boy look pathetic, ripped tone and six pack, but a face that was easy to fun up as a tranny gob. Truth be told, I felt like I was taking my chances, despite the feel of her gash, till you came along. Her taking the deposit put her at the top of my list for blushing brides, and I’ll admit I started to see more subtle ways she might be attractive. Sometimes it just takes a closer look. That isn’t to say I lost my balls. I’ve seen better since, but I don’t think of her as a frog’s ass, wishing on a kiss for a big tittie angel… come to think of it she does have some fine big tits. Fake ones, but delightfully huge. There’s value in size, but I digress. Yours'll be popping out fine, just the right size. How do I know? I know my blood.
Now at first, Brandy didn’t want to get married. I said, “Who the fuck wants a marriage? I just want the kid, a little access now and again.” We did the figures and put together that our combined incomes would set us up something comfortable. So we split rent on a spot near to downtown, making it easiest for us to walk to work. Our respective jobs: Brandy a bartender, and myself a man of many trades. Small towns are good about small crops; you make due with what you have; I had enough mechanical know how to make me a handy man, however, I preferred a freelancer style, picking up jobs when I cared to find them. No one else in town being close to my skill level, I managed to get by alright. For one thing, I could undercut the cost of any auto shop, the same true for plumbing. The only problem folks had was finding me when they needed me most. But whatever. Money in hand is more proof than anyone should need of talent. And talent makes you wanted. I guess I wouldn't’ve done as well if I lived in city, but I’ve always been mindful of my limits, your mother being proof of that. I stuck to where I could win. I paid my share of the bills and rarely asked her for a thing. From time to time I tried to stir the fire between us, especially when my hang dangle got rock diamond hard, throbbing to split itself open. Sometimes we got back together. Mostly we just watched TV in the same room. I’d make dinner, or she’d, or we’d go get some carry out. Neither of us ever really cared for most other folks. And to her credit, Brandy always let me drink my fill… so long as I didn’t get weird or grabby. I’d make compromises like smoking in a room other than one she occupied, and she’d not insist on toast being too specific a shade. The full fact of the matter is that it worked. There were occasions, even after you were born and unlike prior when the, according to her, “hormones” were making her “crazy horny,” we screwed sober. On purpose if you will.
Anyhow, nine months later: water (ruining the new tile I‘d been laying down), blood, screaming, “GET THIS FUCKING THING OOOOUUUUTTT!! -- she grabbed a knife, not a scalpel, an honest to god bone carving machete. Your momma had to be restrained and all such madness. I almost died laughing a couple of times. But eventually, the doctors knowing best, you came out. I will not lie. I puked when the placenta just sorta slorped out of your Mom. That was just gross, there’s no other words for it. But that’s life, don’t be getting a complex or nothing. Shit, now as I go on, that’s about five years past. You mom is still as fine a gal as I could hope to have, though not the best I’ve seen, I think you’ve come to understand, but she’s my lady. She didn’t leave me when I spent that thirty days for punching Josephus Walker. Age is not a license to avoid an ass whooping, you remember that. Sixty can still be a motherfucker is all I’m saying. It’s just nice to know it can work, ya know? Yeah, we still got the same shitty place we moved into first, but it’s home. It’ll be home till we get like hermit crabs. Sure your mom ain’t as tone as she used to, but I’m not exactly the pick of the litter much more myself. We take what we can get, we’re just lucky we got each other. Not like before.
…
I started something, seeing as it’s your birthday. I put fifty bucks in the bank under your name. I can’t touch it, somehow made sure of that. They say it’ll grow, but they being the bank I don’t know how much to trust them. The point is it’s there. You’re welcome. I didn’t do my best, the first time around. Brandy don’t like to hear about it, but what the fuck can she say about what’s unheard? That said, trust me she hates being working on your birthday, but the fact of the matter is plain: we need the cash more than you need the memory. And it’s only as bad as you’re willing to think. You got your doll. Probably chuck it out some years from now, but ech. Like I’m one to judge. I’ve lost, pawned, or garbaged just about all there is for a person to own. Heh. Not to sound maudlin. Junk type things mean more the older you’ll get till a point where they start to mean less, like a rise and slope, from zero to peak to zero. And it’s the down slope you find what matters. Mark my words. It’s all toys and dolls till you’re too old for that shit then the next round of do-dads and whatnot. There was still so much I wanted when my son got born. And make no mistake, kids are a drain, cash money leeches. There isn’t a penny they can’t spend without a fucking choice made on their part. You’ve already spent thousands without even asking. I mean, we could be shitty parents, but then the guilt and the villagers’ glares. I mean, this town ain’t big enough to be shitty folks, and we can’t live anywhere big enough to disappear, so… the money bleeds out. I hate you for it some times. Lets be honest. Lets put all the cards out. I got miserable for a stretch and thought I’d figured how to make my life right. Guilt can be canceled if regret is over compensated; I’d do better with one than another. This is the one. I’ve got to get you right. Better! Better. Maybe just, one day you’ll meet your brother and be able to say, “He wasn’t so bad. He just didn’t know what to do. Maybe if people were clockwork, mechanical and such, he’d have been more sure.”
…
Whatever. What do you say we get some more of your cake?
Now at first, Brandy didn’t want to get married. I said, “Who the fuck wants a marriage? I just want the kid, a little access now and again.” We did the figures and put together that our combined incomes would set us up something comfortable. So we split rent on a spot near to downtown, making it easiest for us to walk to work. Our respective jobs: Brandy a bartender, and myself a man of many trades. Small towns are good about small crops; you make due with what you have; I had enough mechanical know how to make me a handy man, however, I preferred a freelancer style, picking up jobs when I cared to find them. No one else in town being close to my skill level, I managed to get by alright. For one thing, I could undercut the cost of any auto shop, the same true for plumbing. The only problem folks had was finding me when they needed me most. But whatever. Money in hand is more proof than anyone should need of talent. And talent makes you wanted. I guess I wouldn't’ve done as well if I lived in city, but I’ve always been mindful of my limits, your mother being proof of that. I stuck to where I could win. I paid my share of the bills and rarely asked her for a thing. From time to time I tried to stir the fire between us, especially when my hang dangle got rock diamond hard, throbbing to split itself open. Sometimes we got back together. Mostly we just watched TV in the same room. I’d make dinner, or she’d, or we’d go get some carry out. Neither of us ever really cared for most other folks. And to her credit, Brandy always let me drink my fill… so long as I didn’t get weird or grabby. I’d make compromises like smoking in a room other than one she occupied, and she’d not insist on toast being too specific a shade. The full fact of the matter is that it worked. There were occasions, even after you were born and unlike prior when the, according to her, “hormones” were making her “crazy horny,” we screwed sober. On purpose if you will.
Anyhow, nine months later: water (ruining the new tile I‘d been laying down), blood, screaming, “GET THIS FUCKING THING OOOOUUUUTTT!! -- she grabbed a knife, not a scalpel, an honest to god bone carving machete. Your momma had to be restrained and all such madness. I almost died laughing a couple of times. But eventually, the doctors knowing best, you came out. I will not lie. I puked when the placenta just sorta slorped out of your Mom. That was just gross, there’s no other words for it. But that’s life, don’t be getting a complex or nothing. Shit, now as I go on, that’s about five years past. You mom is still as fine a gal as I could hope to have, though not the best I’ve seen, I think you’ve come to understand, but she’s my lady. She didn’t leave me when I spent that thirty days for punching Josephus Walker. Age is not a license to avoid an ass whooping, you remember that. Sixty can still be a motherfucker is all I’m saying. It’s just nice to know it can work, ya know? Yeah, we still got the same shitty place we moved into first, but it’s home. It’ll be home till we get like hermit crabs. Sure your mom ain’t as tone as she used to, but I’m not exactly the pick of the litter much more myself. We take what we can get, we’re just lucky we got each other. Not like before.
…
I started something, seeing as it’s your birthday. I put fifty bucks in the bank under your name. I can’t touch it, somehow made sure of that. They say it’ll grow, but they being the bank I don’t know how much to trust them. The point is it’s there. You’re welcome. I didn’t do my best, the first time around. Brandy don’t like to hear about it, but what the fuck can she say about what’s unheard? That said, trust me she hates being working on your birthday, but the fact of the matter is plain: we need the cash more than you need the memory. And it’s only as bad as you’re willing to think. You got your doll. Probably chuck it out some years from now, but ech. Like I’m one to judge. I’ve lost, pawned, or garbaged just about all there is for a person to own. Heh. Not to sound maudlin. Junk type things mean more the older you’ll get till a point where they start to mean less, like a rise and slope, from zero to peak to zero. And it’s the down slope you find what matters. Mark my words. It’s all toys and dolls till you’re too old for that shit then the next round of do-dads and whatnot. There was still so much I wanted when my son got born. And make no mistake, kids are a drain, cash money leeches. There isn’t a penny they can’t spend without a fucking choice made on their part. You’ve already spent thousands without even asking. I mean, we could be shitty parents, but then the guilt and the villagers’ glares. I mean, this town ain’t big enough to be shitty folks, and we can’t live anywhere big enough to disappear, so… the money bleeds out. I hate you for it some times. Lets be honest. Lets put all the cards out. I got miserable for a stretch and thought I’d figured how to make my life right. Guilt can be canceled if regret is over compensated; I’d do better with one than another. This is the one. I’ve got to get you right. Better! Better. Maybe just, one day you’ll meet your brother and be able to say, “He wasn’t so bad. He just didn’t know what to do. Maybe if people were clockwork, mechanical and such, he’d have been more sure.”
…
Whatever. What do you say we get some more of your cake?
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