Whisky And Cartoons - Sex Stories

Whisky And Cartoons

... exist. I crawl back to the couch and lie down with my head toward the television, near her leg. “Wile E. Coyote is my favorite,” I say, edging close enough to rest my head on her thigh. She slaps my head a glancing blow, “You suck–up. Mind your own business from now on.” “Dad said your parents would ground you if you saw Danny, and you wouldn’t get to drive anymore.” “Wouldn’t be the first time.” She pauses, then, “But I’ve been plenty nice to you, so keep your mouth shut.” Margie isn’t exactly nice. Dad says she is as mean as a snake, and as quick to strike. Dad thinks all the guys on his crew are snakes, too, and he yells at them when they don’t do their job right. He yells at me because I ‘don’t care enough to do a good job’ on my chores. But Margie doesn’t care about chores. Margie cares about cartoons. She’s nice when she teaches me how to draw the characters. The heat from her thigh seeps into my ear and fills my head. Thinking about Margie and Danny on this couch last night makes me feel weird, itchy. My tongue is dry. “Will you to teach me something,” I ask. Her voice is sharp again, “What?” “That thing you and Danny were doing last night.” Her leg kicks out propelling me upward, and three more hard slaps catch my head and ear. “You are fucking crazy.” I fall to the floor clutching her ankles, “I’m sorry.” Margie kicks me away from her, “You’re only eleven years old, for crissakes.” Her face is red and her eyes wide, the kind of face that in a cartoon would steam ...

... until her head and body shook, and the top of her head blew off. Margie doesn’t stay mad very long, though, not like Dad. I retreat to the opposite end of the couch and wait. Margie says the animation is better, smoother, and you can see how the characters feel. She says Chuck Jones was a genius because even though there are no words, you know exactly what each character is feeling. Wile E. watches a falling bolder, his eyes getting bigger until it lands on him; thrump! I laugh because I know just what Wile E. was feeling. I wonder why Margie doesn’t laugh. “You’d better not tell on me,” she says to the television. I can’t tell if she is worried or angry. “I’ve never told on you.” When she turns, she looks at me differently, as if she doesn’t recognize me, as if she hasn’t babysat me a dozen times. In the middle of another chase, she gets up, returns a minute later with a pack of cigarettes, and sits at the same end, the screen flickering on her face. The smell of phosphorous comes with the flame and she exhales smoke toward the television. Her face softens as she folds one arm under the other to prop up the cigarette, and then she turns to me. “Wile E. is my favorite, too,” she says. I like that she trusts me, that she is not worried I will tell on her smoking. I slide into the smoke around her, laying my head in her lap and turning to look up at her. She draws and blows toward my face, and I close my eyes against the sting. She wants to see if I can take it, or if I will act ...