Whisky And Cartoons - Sex Stories

Whisky And Cartoons

Cartoon music lures me down the stairs, one padded step at a time. Margie is curled at the end of the couch facing the television with an empty bowl and a box of Cheerios next to her. The carton of milk sits on the end table. She has drawn the blinds behind her, darkening the room against the morning light. I push the bowl and cereal aside as I sit, and fall against her landing my head on her arm. Margie doesn’t allow me to interrupt her stare. My dad says any s*******n–year–old still watching cartoons is an idiot. He only uses her because the other sitters won’t do overnights. He always asks if she does things she isn’t supposed to. Dad thinks everyone is trying to get away with something. Annoyed at my restlessness, Margie asks, “What are you doing up so early?” I shrug against her broad arm covered in a flannel. The heat leaks through her pajamas, crossing into mine, warming like clothes from the dryer. We watch until she yawns and stretches, allowing me to ease in under her, forcing her arm to drop around my neck. “You’re such a puppy dog,” she says. Margie likes the old ones, the kind she used to watch with her b*****r: Bugs Bunny, Tweety Bird, and Road Runner. She says they are funny, not just stupid like the new ones. The new ones are crap. When the commercial comes on, we play a game: Who is more ticklish? I can’t make Margie laugh tickling the bare foot pointed toward me but, like the many times before, she sends me to the floor giggling with pokes in my ribs. We ...

... play who can go the longest watching a cartoon without cracking a smile. Margie always wins. She likes cartoons more than anybody, but she doesn’t laugh at them. When my laughing jiggles her too much, she pushes me away imitating Foghorn Leghorn, “Go… I say… go away boy, ya bother me.” She can do a lot of the voices. Her b*****r taught her. I pour cereal into the bowl, “Can I have the milk?” “That’s creepy,” she growls. “I wouldn’t use a spoon and bowl you ate out of.” After two bowlfuls I put everything back in the kitchen. I scoot up close and lean into her. She elbows me away, but lets me return, only not as close. Her breath and pajamas smell of cigarettes. “You’ve been smoking,” I say in a near whisper. If I say it quietly, maybe she won’t get mad. Without looking, she says, “Have not.” “I’ve seen you smoke lots of times. And drink Dad’s whiskey, and pour water into the bottle.” “You lie. When?” “Last night.” “You little punk.” She pushes me away with both hands, and yells, “Were you spying on me?” Covering my head with my arms, I fold away from her. Surprisingly, Margie doesn’t come any farther. “What else did you see?” Partially sitting up, I say, “Danny.” Margie leaps to her knees, leans over and begins slapping at my head. “You rotten piece of shit. You’d better not say anything.” Falling to the floor, I roll away, “I won’t tell. I won’t tell.” Margie pulls herself back into her place, refusing to look at me. Adults like to punish by pretending you are so bad you don’t ...