Father And Son Sit Down For ‘That’ Conversation By Marc Nash

“Oedipussy. Come on then Oediwuss! Show me what you got. We all know when Oedipus comes to shove, you haven’t got the bollocks to take me on. You don’t dare tackle me, cos you know I’ll crush you like a bug. Little Oedipussyhole, not that you’ll ever get near any hole. Let alone that of your Ma’s. You non-motherfucker. Cos first you’d have to get past me. You and whose army? With your pop gun there. Firing capped blanks. How’s any woman gonna stand for that? They won’t even know you’re inside ‘em with a prick that tiny. Maybe that’s it. Maybe they’ll be senseless all round. Rohypnol the only way you’ll get them horizontal. And if by some chance, some unlikely conjunction of fate, an improbable alignment of planetary bodies that allows you to flop your body on that of some unresponsive, blitzed out female, then I’d take her off you. I’d break her in first, though being a gent I’d wait until she woke up from the mickey finn you’d slipped her. I’d slip her some skin, all natural. I might even let you have your fifteen seconds of immaterial poking and prodding first, until you’d roll off all played out. Since let’s face it, wouldn’t make one scrap of difference, rend not one ripple in the fabric of the earth, let alone hers. Nought point none on the Richter Scale of tectonic movement. Then I’d move in and displace you. Show her a real man. Split her in two and snap off your cock with my free hand and stuff it in your mouth for good measure. Make a woman of you. Bind you and make you watch. Like the voyeur you are. Don’t think I haven’t caught you peeking- that’s double ‘e’ by the way, same as in Peeping Tom. Who knows, watching me you might pick up some tips. The advantage of age and experience. Not that you’d ever be able to act on them. You credit you could cut mine off first? There isn’t a blade big enough. Certainly nothing you could wield within the span of your weak little hands. Miniscule, scaled to cup your miserable organ. I’ll shear it off, with my incisors, but what I’d also need is a microscope to bleedin’ find it in the first place. Maybe you could build up the strength by rubbing yourself all day and every day. Only action your pecker’s likely to see.

Come on then, let’s go at it one on one. Man to man. Only you’re a boy. A mere sapling who bends in the lightest of breezes. A zephyr where I am a barnstorming tempest. I see you shrinking before my very eyes. You want a piece of me? A little slither about the size of your cock? A dribble. Maybe a scrape to adorn your voodoo doll for your black magic. A shaving for your fanciful witchy-poo power over me. In your dreams buster. Or your nightmares to come, since I shall infect and inhabit them. No, you’ll need to go up against all of me. To beat all of me down. This is not some dominance obtained by spinning a whole new tractable being from a fragment of rib. To weave yourself a poppet. A ragged arse moppet and his slutty mopsey. This is flesh and bone and sinew and muscle you have to get across and overcome. Strength against strength. Puissance against puissance. And I back mine over yours any day. And for an eternity. Since yours is laughable. A single drip of pre-cum. You little squirt!

Maybe in your fantasies you imagined I’d be all sweetness and light. The archetypical family man and provider. That we could maybe go on a double date. Like father like son. Me and your Ma, you and your unlikely girlie. Double bubble. There’s two chances of that, slim and none. Cos I’d do both of them of course. Double bubble burst. I’d be forced to after your unimpressive fumbling. So she didn’t have her nose put out of joint, looking over your humping shoulder while I deliver a consummate seeing to your mother. It would only be the polite thing. One can’t have a guest leave feeling dissatisfied. Of course you couldn’t have your Ma in return. Flip her over after I’d run her ragged and stick your woodwormy maggot inside her? You wouldn’t have the spunk, you with perennial wormwoody lack of wood. Oh I’ve clocked your sly glances at her. When you think neither she nor I can see you. But you can barely disguise it, you haven’t got the wit. Led by your recessed cock and shrunken balls, your poor panting body betrays you every time.

And what do you credit that does to your mother? Your worn out, dried up Ma. The poor old stick. You ruined her when you emerged from inside her, you know that don’t you? How she could have no more offspring after you. Her fruitful, burgeoning womb all cankered. Her efflorescence degraded, the petals wilted and withered on the stamen. All through contact with you. Your germ-laden germination. With your overweening jealousy. Your corrupt desire to possess her even then. She’s not been not been the same woman since you emerged and stretched her out down there, sucked her dry and shrivelled her tits. You’ve wanted to keep her all to yourself since day one. You the selfish little homunculus who saw to it that no-one could follow goblin you from her racked body. Perish the thought you might have to share her with a sibling. I bet you even did for your older sister didn’t you? Reached out from the womb to snatch her back and into death. You little terrorist cell you. Blastocyster bye-bye. Prevented her from ever seeing the light of day. From gazing lovingly on her mother’s visage and lighting up each other’s hearts even once. Sent one into kingdom come and the other into kingdom gone. I bet she wishes you had been forever incarcerated in kingcondom. Is that a smirk on your face? I’ll wipe it clean off you. I’ll knock your bleedin’ block off from your chippy shoulders. I’ll rip your head off your neck and spit in the hole. No, it’s gone again. No trace of it. Once again I confront the frightened eyes of a child only.

Do you feel guilty for the blood on your hands? Those digits blooded while they were still unformed buds? Well the stakes are a bit different now you’re up against me. I won’t submit quite so easily. Look at your so-called manhood there, shrivelling up in fear. Even a Greek sculptor couldn’t render you any flattering favours. No your guilt headed south straight for your nether regions and colonised them in prostrated tyranny. You conceive you can throw off their repressive yoke? Think again Sonny Jism. What makes you believe she ever wanted you, let alone now? She was desperate for progeny, something, anything, after she lost her first stillborn. It looked for so long that she wouldn’t be able to conceive again. Oh no, don’t go aggrandising yourself into some sort of miracle. You are here through her willpower not yours. You filled her need superficially. As a tot. A helpless babe to lavish her maternal love on. But you have grown ugly to her now. And she knows there is nothing she can do about it from here on in. She can’t replenish and renew through having another child. That you are her one and only and a blight at that. A huge bitter pill for her to swallow. You tore out her heart, left her with a bloodied cicatrix that wouldn’t heal. The scar tissue of her scion entering the world. So I ask myself which of those two gashes do you indeed hanker after? The natural one, nub of her sex, or that of your own imprimatur, where you reckon you indelibly marked her as yours? Some perverse sadistic desire to savour afresh the pain you impressed upon her. Newsflash, you stand to inherit neither”.

Father, dear father, so now we have it.

“What’s that look in your eye? A fleeting flash, a glimmer? Was it anger? Have I finally moved you to an adult emotion? Provoked you enough to make you a man?”

You’d like to think so wouldn’t you? But out of this farrago of bluster, your maiden speech to me, delivered with the shrillness of a virago it has to be said, the truth comes leaching out from the ill-fitting tampon of your mouth. Way I heard it told, reading between the wrinkles in your forehead, the ‘try your strength’ indicator of your Adam’s Apple bobbing furiously up and down, the pulsing vein in your neck lighting up your red face like an electrical circuit, Mother found it so hard to conceive after your tryst with a clap dancer. That’s the sole infection you have brought home to roost. The dirty little secret at the heart and hearth of our family. Of this generation of it at least. When I am of the next generation.

“Not a smirk this time, but a timid little smile of acknowledgement. So you do recognise you want to take after me? To be strong and powerful and to stand up for yourself in the face of others? Good. Now you can identify with me as a father, an elder and a man? Then my work is done here. I’ve fittingly tempered you. I’m glad we had this little chat. Remember, I’m always here. Guarding the entrance to the family hearth”.


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