Paul, His Mom, And Bull by Luther Jackson

Honey’d tired of Paul asking, afterward, “Did you get off?” She explained Bull Frost fucked her in high school. Made her come multiple times. She couldn’t walk afterward. Paul not only agreed to let her sleep with Bull again, he begged to watch.

Paul called Bull white trash. Belittled him for being a cop. The nights Bull fucked Honey, however, Paul slurped Bull’s semen from her vagina. Sounded kinky first time he asked permission. But he made even that uninteresting. Bull would laugh as he dressed. He’d drape his holster across his shoulder, slap Paul on the back as Paul swallowed his sperm, and say, “Just like high school, eh?” Had Paul always feasted on Bull’s sloppy seconds? Maybe Bull orally raped Paul in gym class. Bull had played linebacker for Coastal High. Paul played clarinet for the school orchestra. Darwin arranged the rest.

The last time Bull fucked her, Paul said, as he wiped Bull’s jizz from his lips, a contact in L.A. was willing to pay ten grand for some “really steamy cuck porn.” He said his mother agreed to run the camera.

Honey spoke up—“Excuse me…Do I have a say in this?”

Paul knelt, donned the puppy dog face he’d worn the night he proposed to her. “Not only do we get ten thousand,” he said, “this guy promises residuals off every tube that carries the video.”

“I don’t want my tits and ass on the Internet!”

“Wear a wig,” said Paul.

Bull had been checking the clip on his Glock. “Give me the ten grand up front, I’ll do it.”

Paul protested.

“Ten grand. Up front.” Bull pointed the barrel of the gun at him. “Or find someone else to please your wife.”

“Okay,” said Paul. Like he had a choice.

The men shook hands and Bull Frost left.

Honey tossed and turned that night, wondering how she’d gotten trapped in her awful marriage. Paul’s mother Sandra, a lawyer specializing in ruining the lives of poor people, paid their bills, made it possible for Paul to run his record store and for Honey Marlin to stay home and watch Maury and Jerry Springer. Perhaps, she thought, I should roll with it. Dreams of leaving her husband and skipping across the border into Mexico, well, they’d have to be put on hold.

***

Sandra Sullivan arrived first. Her son placed work lamps in two corners of the room. The bed glowed. Sandra prepared the camera. She pointed at Honey’s leopard-print panties. “A little Walmart-y.”

“What do you think I should wear?” said Honey.

“Glad you asked.” Sandra rifled through Honey’s intimates drawer. “Did my son marry a hooker?” She settled on cream-colored boy shorts and a matching sports bra.

Honey snatched them from her. “You think these are sexy?” Wouldn’t matter once Bull Frost arrived. He’d rip her clothes off with his teeth. An animal ravaging a fresh carcass. Last time he fucked her, she’d been on the rag. Paul licked her crimson-stained panties while Bull lubed her ass and reamed her.

Bull showed fifteen minutes late. He winked at Honey. “’Sup, baby?”

She hated herself for smiling. Such an empty-headed man. And she couldn’t resist him. He could tell her he consumed human flesh and violated dead people and she’d still crave his cock.

He asked for the money. Sandra Sullivan forked it over and said, “You better earn this.”

Bull stuffed the ten grand in his pocket. He stripped to his boxers, folding his pants and shirt on a chair by the head of the bed. He set his holster with the Glock in it on top of his clothes.

Sandra switched on the camera. She waved at Honey’s legs. “Open wide, precious.”

Outside, ranchero blared from a passing car. Honey’s eyes ignored Sandra Sullivan’s flat, uninteresting face, ignored her chicken-chested husband, even Bull Frost, climbing onto the bed to conquer her. She saw only the holster on the chair. The snap on the strap holding the gun in place had come undone. Her mind followed the oompah music, disappearing into a horizon of ideas no one beyond herself could control.

 

Luther Jackson is a poet from the streets of El Yote. You can find previous work of his in Killer Tales and Magnolia Review.