Note to the reader: This story may put some readers off. If you are homophobic or adverse to a young man enjoying himself alone, sexually, with play-toys and other items, this might disturb you. Like all of my stories, however, this is not the end of the story. Things happen to Matthew that are anything but homosexual. A girl figures into the picture, and so does a slightly sci-fi slant. You just have to read a while to get there.
I found my parent's machine in the rear of their closet, the bottom box in a stack of three. Inquisitive-I was snooping to begin with, so I was inclined to look at any box taped up like Fort Knox-I sat the smaller boxes aside and slit the tape down the middle with my pen knife. It was the same clear tape from the garage, so I didn't worry. Carefully repacked into what I guessed was the original shipping carton, I found a disassembled machine. There were no instructions visible and I decided it was some kind of exerciser that Mom had bought, used enough times to bored] her, and then packed away in the closet. I did question why they'd stored it here rather than the garage or upstairs in the attic. I didn't wonder very hard tough. I re-taped the box and put everything back where it was. It disappeared from my thoughts until one night two years later when I was cruising porno websites.
Fuking Machines, I read. Purposely misspelled. My eyes popped, watching one in action. The girl was surprisingly cute, dark blond and looked a lot like Mom at 25. By then it was just me and Mom in the house, and she was clueless what I did anymore. I looked at the bedroom door anyway, checking the thumb-twist, before returning to the screen.
Something about the machine looked familiar. I propped my chin on my hand and tried to figure out why. I worked at it mentally for five minutes, then off an on as I watched more videos and slowly beat off. I lost interest once I came and turned off the computer. It was bedtime anyway, one of the few things Mom sought to enforce. I unlocked the door and watched TV until she opened the door and said lights out. The instant I caught her face in the door, it clicked.
No way, I thought to myself. That can't be right. The next day after school I went to prove myself right.
"Mother fucker," I whispered. I removed the individual pieces from the box and laid them out on the floor. It was not the same model the brunette had used, but a close family member, I thought. Maybe by the same company, though I found no identifiable markings. I knelt there on one knee with my mouth open, dumbfounded.
I had slit the same tape I sealed the box with two years ago; I was sure of that. It had the same partial thumbprint I'd left on a corner for ID. Mom and Dad's breakup had occurred 8 months ago, and Mom certainly hadn't used it since then. I guess not in the year and four months before that, either. Probably not for years.
Holding on to it for old times sake, I wondered? We are certainly a family of packrats.
Mom worked 8:30 to 5:00, and was usually home just before six. I'd need more than two hours to figure the thing out, determined that it worked, and disassemble and pack it safely away. It hit me then that something was missing. The most important part, though nothing electrical or mechanical: no dildo was in the box.
Hmmm, I thought, wondering if she had one. I found it under her mattress at the top of the bed. I felt stupid for not checking there first.
She had a collection. The one for machine was obvious: made of soft, translucent red plastic, 6" long and normal-penis-shaped, just like the one in the video. It came with an attachment for fixing to the machine. There was a smaller version I tentatively identified as being for anal use, a set of anal beads, a vibrating egg, and a flesh-colored dildo that made me exclaim "Mom?" in disbelief. The shaft was 7" long, almost 2" thick, with a base flat on the bottom in the shape of a scrotum. My mother uses this thing? More likely my Dad used it on her, a thought that both aroused and repulsed me. I had not yet developed intimate feelings for Mom and was naturally queasy at any suggest of her having sex. That would come later. I returned the parts to her stash and replaced the machine in the closet.
I also found a baggie of pot and medicine bottle full of fine white powder. I suspected this was cocaine, but had no clue how to tell for sure. I made a decision to find out at a later date. I had no doubt concerning the bag of pot. Even the smell was potent. I carefully resealed the bag, checked the bottle cap and returned both to the stash.
The next day, Thursday, I got down to work. If Mom and Dad had these goodies stashed in the bedroom, what else might I find in a hunt? I searched thoroughly over the next two afternoons and the following Monday and Tuesday. My efforts were rewarded: In the closet I discovered various bottles, tubs and tubes of lubricant, some scented, some not, some apparently very expensive. Unearthed in the attic were more toys, including a bizarre device designed to masturbate you with stroking and suction-like actions. Sultry Susan was a formed plastic head, complete from the ears forward, a woman's face with her mouth open in an invitingly wide "O", winking demurely with her right eye. Battery or AC powered, you stuck your cock in her mouth and down a very soft, surprisingly real feeling throat. A search online provided here name and invited the use of my choice of lubricants for hours of enjoyment. I regarded Susan with rightful skepticism; oh, how uneducated I was.
A second object I liked even less. This was a truly realistic soft plastic rendition of a woman's genital area, modeled on a girl with her legs splayed and drawn up so that her vagina and anus were completely exposed. She even had a triangular patch of pubic hair stitched into the plastic above her vagina ... a bizarre touch, but surprisingly effect. The model included a full set of butt cheeks and her abdomen about half-way to the belly-button. I was smart enough to know Mom had used neither device. I shuddered at the thought of using either. Oh, how simpleminded I was.
A month passed, during which I stewed and fantasized. Sultry Susan had taken on the characteristics of my mother's face and fueled the daydreams with obscene values of testosterone. When the day finally came, I still had not mentally resolved to experiment on myself. I sidestepped the issue, making it secondary to assembling the machine.
A week before flying out, Mom told me she'd be in New York for a three day conference. Dad was inconveniently out of town and would not return until Tuesday, the day before Mom's return. That left Aunt Lucy or my cousin Jack's family. Take my pick, she said.
"Why can't I stay home?" I asked.
She looked at me crossly. "Not an option, Matt. Curtain A, or Curtain B? You don't have to decide right now."
"I want to stay here," I repeated.
She rolled her eyes.
The next day, ready to go with Cousin Jack's family, she confounded me by asking: "Why should I trust you here alone?"
I shook my head, misunderstanding. "I don't want Aunt Lucy and Uncle Rich. Uncle Rich is a real creep, Mom."
"No," she said impatiently. "Why should I trust you home alone for three days?"
I blinked, lost for words. "Really?" I finally asked. "You'd let me stay here?"
Sighing dramatically, she crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. "An IQ of 134, and you can't answer a simple question?"
"Simple question?" I complained. "There is no answer. You trust me, or you don't trust me."
"I don't trust you," she said. "But you're surprisingly mindful for a 14-year-old. Don't get your hopes up, though," she cautioned, holding up her hand. "I have to OK it with your dad, and he'll most likely shoot it down. Set your sights on burdening Sallie and Ted for three days."
Incredibly, I spent Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday nights alone with the machine.
Mom flew out at 1:25 PM, and I waited until 4:18 PM when she called my cell phone with the news that she was alive on the ground in New York. How I managed a steady voice I don't know. I felt like I'd been injected with pure caffeine. I promised to check in with her 3 times a day, minimum, but right now she had to claim her luggage and get to the motel and check in.
"Don't make me regret this, Matthew."
"I won't Mom," I promised. "I have no intentions of screwing up my good fortune." I could sense her shaking her head as we hung up.
I went immediately to the garage and got the household tool box. In Mom's bedroom, I did a once over looking for anything suspicious, like a nanny camera-I was that paranoid, yes-and then raided her closet for the big box. It took twice as long to set assemble it as I thought it would. I berated myself later for not going online, identifying the model, and downloading the instruction manual. By 6:15, I was done.
And what, I asked myself truthfully, was the point of this exercise in futility? I looked unhappily at the dildo drooping slightly at the end of the long aluminum tube.
"Come on Matthew, just admit it," I said. "Who would you use this on besides yourself?" I sat down on Mom's bed and told myself the truth. "No one."
I ate dinner, and then spent an hour in my bedroom watching TV. I lay on the bed with my arms folded tight, hands clamped in my armpits. I refused to admit I was gay.
Okay, so you want a dick up your ass, I thought. So what? Men by the score do it, boys also. They even get married nowadays and get it legally up the ass in 13 states. It's still considered queer, and death to a school kid's reputation, but no one will ever know but you.
.... There is more of this story ...