Chapter 2: Lives of Sons and Daughters

All of his life, Roberto had lived with his mother and father in the same house. In that small bungalow, just a single thin wall separated the only two bedrooms. He couldn’t help but overhear when his parents made love. It happened five to ten times a month, consistently over the years. Sex was routine enough that no particular time stood out for their son.

They must have explained sex to him starting very early, so he would understand (in an age-appropriate way) the overheard sounds—they didn’t frighten him even when louder or more passionate than usual.

As a little boy Roberto believed his parents were over-tickling each other. That’s why he heard his Mom making all those “ah, ah, ah” laughing noises in their bedroom.

You know what was worse? When he hung out with his friend Marc at his house down the street, Marc’s fat mother (Sally) was always farting. Loudly. Echoing through their house. Marc always got a pained embarrassed expression when she erupted. At least they kept out of range of the smell.

But one day, the blast was so long, so loud, and so flabby, that the boys just lost it and fled to the yard, howling. After that, Marc visited at Roberto’s, only.

A few weeks later, Marc was staying over for dinner at Roberto’s house, because his mother was held late at her job that day. No big deal. Network news was playing on the television. Instead of the usual boring old beige guy in a beige suit at a beige desk, the picture changed. Now showing a brilliant white beach, dark blue ocean, bright sky, lush foliage, and a reporter in a bright coral pink blouse and green pants. The TV screen lit the darkened room like a disco, and it caught all of their attention.

“Turn it up!”

“ ... activity began early this morning according to the government’s security office.” The reporter stepped to her left as the camera viewpoint shifted, showing a gray pillar of angry roiling ash topping a ragged mountain.

“Residents have been advised to flee their nearby homes.”

Marc and Roberto weren’t watching the screen. They watched each other, snickering.

“Eruptions are expected to continue both night and day.”

Now they were openly laughing.

“Instruments near the crater have detected pockets of dangerous gases.”

They were shrieking now, tears running from their eyes.

“For many years now, there have been repeating eruptions from the bowels of Mount Salliée.”

They were on the floor now, rolling. Marc finally stopped only because he was hiccupping. Roberto just gasped, like a hooked trout stranded on the riverbank.

The TV was turned off. Roberto’s father looked at his wife, questioningly. She showed him the universal symbol of confusion: shrugged shoulders, hands spread, palms turned up: ¯_(ツ)/¯

They never received an explanation.

As Roberto grew older, puberty walloped him with rapid growth (he reached his full height by age 14) and it sprouted that massive prong between his legs. He turned 15 when Pablo, his older half-brother, moved away for college. At last then he had full privacy in his bedroom.

Roberto became an obsessive masturbator. He fapped so hard and so often, he actually abraded the skin on his dick. From the symptoms, Diego diagnosed the issue and handed his son a bottle of lube.

“What is this for, Dad?”

Diego mimicked lubing his hand, coiling his fingers into a tube, and thrusting that hand back and forth in front of his pants.

His son shrieked, and fled to his bedroom, slamming the door. Sheepishly, he returned an hour later to retrieve the bottle. But his mother interrupted him, handing over a large box of tissues.

“Roberto, sweetie, please use these instead of splooging on your old gray t-shirt.”

This time, the shriek was louder. And he didn’t come back until the next morning.

(But he had taken the lube and the tissues away with him to his bedroom.)

During his high school years, Roberto was still self-amusing at least daily. Additionally, whenever he overheard his parents’ lovemaking, he yanked down his pants and jerked off. It was automatic. A few times, his ears even told him that he and his mother were coming at the same time!

Those times when he overheard, he masturbated quietly, assuming they could hear him just as easily. In his mind’s eye, he was there in bed with them. He imagined his hand on her tit. He even felt on his own nipple, pretending it was Mom’s. Or he slipped the heel of his hand into his ass crack, grasping one cheek from the inner side as he clenched and thrusted. But mentally it was Dad’s ass he squeezed, urging him to fuck Mom harder.

Finished and cleaned up, he would fall asleep smiling and content. Roberto loved that unspoken connection, knowing his parents still loved each other passionately, even after so many years together.

It was silly, but sometimes when he picked up that bottle of lube, he felt loved too.

(Nine Years Earlier.)

Roberto’s family of four was only vaguely Roman Catholic, attending Mass only a few times each year. One day among the fourth graders the subject of church came up, so he inquired at dinner.

“A couple of my friends asked me today, why we don’t go to Mass on every Sunday?”

His mother, Alondra, steeled herself to answer the question. Everyone except Roberto had tensed up.