Whisky And Cartoons - Sex Stories

Whisky And Cartoons

... she didn’t exist. She ignores me for a while, then says, “This one’s been edited,” pointing at the cartoon with a cigarette just pulled from the pack. “They took out the frames with Elmer firing the shotgun. They actually think seeing that would make us want to kill someone.” When I don’t answer or look she waves her cigarette, “You want a drag?” She gives up and returns to the cartoon. I want to be in her lap again more than anything, but I am afraid. I don’t know if she is going to make me feel good or bad. You can never tell what adults are going to do. “I don’t like smoking.” Margie’s head snaps around, and there is anger in her voice, “Sometimes, you do things you don’t like so the person you’re with won’t feel alone, because you know that being alone is the worst feeling in the world.” I’m surprised Margie feels bad about me not looking at her. It means she cares about me more than she lets on. This makes me feel good again. I get up to sit on the couch and her face stiffens as she watches me without turning. I turn and fall into her lap, looking to see if she is going to hit me. There is no movement, or warmth, and her legs are rigid against my neck. Her stomach barely moves, and her face is like a picture. Margie was always filled with something before: anger or laughter, ready to fight or swear or tease me. Now, she is empty. I reach for the cigarette loose in her fingers and she hesitates giving it to me, then lets me take it as she wiggles and softens underneath ...

... me. After my shallow puff, she takes its back. She blows smoke out her mouth and sniffs it back up her nose. I take easy puffs to keep from coughing. We share a few more times until the cigarette is too short to smoke, and she stubs it out. Her hands fall, one near my head, one resting on my stomach, her eyes captured by the television. Her emptiness is my fault. My dad feels bad after he hits me, too, and I hate when he tries to make me laugh afterward. One thing always works, though. I carefully undo one of the lower buttons on Margie’s pajamas, take a deep breath, and flubber my lips on her belly. After two more flubbers, she says slowly, “What–the–fuck–are–you–doing?” “Trying to make you laugh.” “You’re giving me a slobber bath.” Seeing the slight smile, I continue. After a few more times, I ask, “Would that feel good on your tits.” “I’m sure it would for you, you horny little turd.” I poke her breast with my finger, and she slaps my hand. Each time I poke faster, or a different breast, trying to avoid her hand. When she misses and slaps her tit, she says, “Ow,” and laughs. I sit up enough to reach her lips. Surprised at first, she hesitates, then lets me kiss her. I guess I did it wrong because she pushes me back and says, “You’re not much of a kisser.” She doesn’t look like she means it, though. Adults never say when you do things right. When I settle back down, she asks, “What happened to your hard on?” I shrug. “Looked like a pretty good one.” She slides her hand down ...