Radley's Home for Horny Monsters, Annabelle Hawthorne [howl and other poems TXT] 📗

door as she thanked him, then closed it as soon as her back was turned. Placing the pizza on the coffee table, he took a few deep breaths. The sensation of her breast against the back of his hand, the sheer firmness of it, accompanied by the scent of her perfume had given him a surprisingly hard erection.

He ran through the house, flipping on all of the lights. His mother’s voice attempted to rise up in the back of his mind, but he shut it out. Years of sharing a bed with her had inevitably led to an incident, shortly before his eleventh birthday, when he had awakened suddenly to a slap in the face. In his sleep, he had managed to roll into his own mother while sprouting wood.

The physical abuse was immediate, but the verbal abuse continued. Whenever he got aroused in his sleep, his mother would slap him awake, or call others in to make fun of him. Often, this led to a sudden change in address, as most normal people recognized her behavior as appalling. Her constant teasing in front of anyone who would listen had led him to a largely celibate lifestyle. The few women he had been with had been unsympathetic to his sexual panic attacks, or his mommy issues, as one had called them. Now, in an unfamiliar setting, he found those old emotions resurfacing, attempting to claw away at the protective shell he had put around himself.

His imagination was his own worst enemy. Picturing her specter hiding in the shadows, waiting to pass judgment, had simply clinched the deal. Now, though, with all of the lights on, she couldn’t afford to surface. His panic attack subsiding, he picked up his food and made his way to the kitchen.

Mike consumed his meal while streaming a movie on his computer, leaving the last five slices for tomorrow. The fridge looked painfully bare, occupied only by a sole pizza box and a soda bottle. Mike returned to the table, watching for another half an hour as the generic action star did something to confound the villain. His mind kept flipping back and forth to the feel of the pizza girl’s breast and his mother’s demonic memory.

He pulled out his phone and flipped down to Dr. Gorman in his contacts. He hadn’t sat with his therapist in over three years, but the urge to reach out had surfaced. Hands shaking, his thumb hovered over the call button.

“Fuck it.” He closed his contact list. His mother was dead, the past was the past, and he needed to get over it. Years of being told in therapy that arousal was natural, that everybody did it, that it was okay to fantasize. He closed his eyes, recalling the cute appearance of Dana the pizza girl. He unleashed the memory of her scent, the feel of her breast, the surprised expression she had made when he had tipped her eight bucks extra. It was probably the same face she made during her first orgasm, or perhaps when her lover’s lips first touched the nipples of her firm breast...

That did it. His body was back in full swing, he was back in control. Well, almost. The urge to watch porn to help get off was strong, but Dr. Gorman had reminded him that porn could be too much of an escapist fantasy. It was better for him to visualize on his own; he was less likely to panic in bed with a real woman. However, porn wasn’t so much the issue, but rather location.

He was in a stranger’s house with a major hard on. Technically, he could jerk off in the hallway for all anybody cared, but just because the house was now his didn’t mean it was home. It definitely didn’t feel safe.

Mike closed his computer and proceeded up to the bedroom. He could take care of his needs in there. That wasn’t much different than a hotel room, or new apartment, really. The more he told himself these things, the more he was ready to get off.

Stepping into the room, he took one look at the bed and shuddered. Beds were sometimes just as bad, and today was no different.

“Why am I so fucking damaged?” he shouted to the walls. They had no answer for him. Instead, he stormed into the bathroom and turned on the faucet, then splashed cool water on his face. Staring in the mirror, he watched the cool drops fall down his cheeks, his eyes suddenly on the giant bathtub.

The bathroom’s contoured walls prevented anyone in the tub from seeing anything but the bathroom. Remembering how well he fit in it earlier, and seeing how isolated it was, he knew it would work.

Turning on the water, he watched as the basin filled quite quickly. Obviously, his great aunt had found a way to trick out the water pressure. Beth had told him that they paid a cleaning service to turn everything over, which meant that dry towels were already hanging near the tub. He stripped down in the bedroom, then threw his clothes on the nearby dresser.

Walking into the bathroom, he caught sight of his own naked figure in the mirror. He was lean (he really didn’t eat too much), and marred with massive scars on the right. They went all the way from his thigh to under his armpit, crossing chaotically. They were a reminder of the fatal accident that had taken his mother, one final mark for her to leave behind. One girlfriend had told him they made him look like a badass, but he couldn’t be certain she wasn’t just saying that to make him feel better.

Mike thumbed through the playlist on his phone and found one he liked. The water was just right, and he carefully slid into the tub. The whole inner surface had a texture that helped prevent him from slipping. He soaked a nearby washrag in hot water then placed it across his eyes and forehead. Drowning out