Rebound

Your first rebound after a nine year relationship is never easy. It’s even worse when the rebound is your cousin. I know. How the fuck could anyone do that? Like really, how could anyone do that? I mean, it’s your fucking cousin. Your family. Your blood. Well, I’m here to tell you, it’s easy for you to say that. Because your cousin isn’t as hot as mine. I mean, she’s a dime. A ten. A perfect score. Like, if she were your cousin, you’d fuck her. I know you would. You’d know it if you saw her.

The breakup fucked me up. Like really fucked me up. I don’t think I ate a real meal for a week. Lost 10 pounds. Didn’t sleep. It’s even worse when you’re promoted to manager at a car dealership a week before that. And now you’re supposed to manage. Fucking manage. Like you can manage people when you’re not even able to manage yourself. That shit makes no sense. Maybe that’s why it was so easy to do it, you know? When your sense of self worth has deteriorated beyond what you thought possible, you do some fucked up shit.

It’s different for everyone though. Some people can turn that into something good. Something positive. Like art or music or some shit. Other people paint the walls with their fucking brains. You know what I found out recently? People make pretty lucrative careers out of cleaning that shit up. Like, is their job to come in and mop up after someone made abstract splatter painted art on the walls with their brains. I suppose it makes sense. I mean, it’s not like they’re going to leave you there to rot. Fucking God bless them.

Can you imagine if people weren’t willing to do that? Any time you move into a new place there would be a chance you’d have organ matter sprawled across your living room, and your newly wed ass would have to decide whether to paint over it or live with it in your lives. I bet some people would keep it. The same people who collect shrunken heads or have a spider for a pet or something. They’d place a frame around it and parade it in front of their equally fucked up friends like some twisted museum expose.

I probably would too.

I don’t think they knew I was going to fuck my cousin when I got promoted. I don’t think they knew I was that busted when I got the job. And thank God, too. Nobody needs to see a man like that. People say you’re a shell. A shell. I never understood that. Like, what kind of shell? A sea shell? A turtle shell? No. Not a turtle shell. A turtle shell is a home. It’s a safe little cave for those green little fuckers to protect themselves from birds and predators and shit. Maybe they mean a skin. Like a skin that a snake leaves behind when they grow. But you have to grow first though. Not fuck your cousin.

Or maybe it’s like a Shell shell. Like the gas station. You turn into some lifeless white walled version of yourself who’s piloted by some college dropout you who’s given up on life. So you peddle twinkies and cigarettes to fat fucks from Jersey because your minimum wage ass doesn’t have the balls to tie a belt around your neck.

Neither do I.

A friend of mine told me recently that when you die, you have a few seconds to actually process it before your gone. You’ve still got some juice left coming from your brain, telling your body that it’s dead. It’s like that last bit of piss that you haven’t managed to squeeze out yet, the one that drips warmly down your leg as soon as your fly is zipped. Once it’s gone though, you’re done. He said that his last thoughts in that moment would be that he won’t get the chance to tell anyone he was dying. And then he laughed like crazy.

Back to the cousin thing, I didn’t plan it. I mean really, I didn’t. I mean who plans that shit? Well, I guess people really do plan that shit. Otherwise we wouldn’t have incest porn. And God knows we have a lot of that. The funny thing is, when my friends and I talk about porn, we all talk about how weird it is that there’s so much incest porn. Where the fuck is the demand for all the incest porn coming from all of a sudden? Of course, I have to act as surprised as they are. Frankly, I think it’s always been there. For everyone.

You’ve got to hand it to the guy who figured that out. Some lucky bastard took the plunge, and realized that he couldn’t be the only one who wanted to bang his blood, so he got off his ass, filmed some incest smut, and people watched it. And people loved it. And he made fucking bank. I mean, who hasn’t had that fantasy? It was pretty much a sure fire thing. But nobody admits it. Not even to themselves. And maybe that’s how it started. Or maybe not. Who the fuck knows.

In all seriousness, I didn’t always want to fuck her. Ah, who the fuck am I kidding? I totally did. I mean, I’m only admitting it to you, and who the fuck are you? You don’t matter.

I think it all came to a head when I was like, twelve or thirteen. We were at some family barbecue thing, and they had a trampoline there. That’s where it all started. She was just starting to develop tits. Now, twelve year old tits bounce a little different than a grown woman’s. They’re still new. Tight. Perky and firm. They don’t flop. They jiggle with a new found animation. It’s almost like seeing a platinum selling artist in some dusty coffee shop before they hit it big, and you can sit back and tell your friends that you remember them when.

Years later she became a knockout. A true blue ten boner inducing bombshell. My friends would always talk about how badly they wanted to bed her. How often they got their rocks off thinking about her mammoth tits, or her apple of an ass that you could take a bite out of. I’d have to sit there and act disgusted. Like I had never stooped to the same depravity in my own mind over and over.

It became a lie I had to tell myself over and over. I mean, hot is not subjective. I know people say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but that’s all bullshit. Put a hundred honeys in a room, and ask as many guys to spot the dimes. I bet my left nut they’d single out the same dozen divas.

You’re probably wondering by now how it all happened. Truth be told, I’m still not sure. It’s strangely comforting when you find out someone is just as fucked up as you, you know? It’s almost transcendental. Finding out that someone is just as deranged as you are is one of life’s greatest moments. I bet it’s the same feeling people get when they meet someone online who has the same sexualy transmitted infection they do, and now they can finally fuck again instead of living like a leper.

I think that’s why people get lonely. They sit and soak in their own filthy fucked up-ness and convince themselves that they’re the only one who’s ever thought about putting their baby in a blender. Or cutting off their wife’s tits and wearing them as a hat. Or stabbing their husband in the face with the kitchen knife. We all have these thoughts. We all think the same twisted and demented shit every day, and we have to find a way to shove that aside and exist among the same people we had all these fucked up thoughts about. Think about that the next time you order a sandwich from someone.

But the point is you’re not supposed to act on it. You’re not supposed to take that leap. You’re supposed to just let it sit there. Let it fester. Hide it from the public like your bare asshole. It’s happening right now, and nobody else can see it. It’s that little bubble of fart that slides up your gooch and brushes the back of your ballsack. Nobody sees it, but it’s happening, and you have to smile and nod your way through whatever small talk you’re trapped in while it passes.

But I did. I acted on it. I took the plunge. I jumped in with both feet, balls swinging, and fucked her. I’m not even sure why she let me. I wonder what sort of fucked up shit she had going on in her life that allowed her to reach such a low? I mean, I’m a sick fuck by nature anyway, and the breakup certainly didn’t do me any favors. But what about her? Maybe she found out she was dying. Breast cancer. Maybe a few months down the road one of her tits rots and drops off like a bad apple from a tree, and she just couldn’t handle it. Who the hell knows?

It had to have been something. Beautiful women like that don’t fuck guys like me. They certainly don’t fuck their cousins. Something was tearing that girl apart at the seams. The bedrock of her sanity was beaten down by waves of - something. That’s the only explanation. But thank fucking Christ, because otherwise I wouldn’t have had a shot. And it was so. Fucking. Good.

Not for her though. There’s no way it could’ve been. I mean, I nutted in like, 2 minutes. I couldn’t really help it. She was by far the hottest girl I’ve ever seen naked, and her pussy looked brand new. Freshly waxed. That’s the problem with punching above your weight class with women. You’re only ever going to get one shot. Because as soon as you land one that’s way out of your league, you’re done before it begins.

I still remember every detail. Her legs spread wide, feet arched and toes pointed at the ceiling. Her tits helicoptering in rhythm with the fleshy packing sound of my ball sack slapping her asshole. And the smell. I’m sure, like everyone, you know that sex has a smell. That dense and sweet musky sex smell that hangs in the air for hours. I bet you anything that if Yankee Candles made a sex smell candle, it would sell like hell. You know how dogs smell each other’s nether-regions to get to know each other? I think it works for people too.

Whether it was out of shame, or because I’m a solid five on a good day, she kept her face covered the entire time. I know what you’re thinking, and no. She wasn’t crying. What kind of degenerate would I have to be to have sex with a crying girl? I know it may be hard for you to believe, but even I have standards. It’s a strange feeling being the worst thing that’s ever happened in someone’s life. Being that clear, defining moment that people can point to and be like, “That shit there? Yeah, that was the worst moment of my entire life.” It’s the weirdest mixture of guilt and empowerment that you could ever achieve in your entire life.

You don’t cuddle after something like that. You don’t even look at each other. You grab your clothes and get the fuck out of there. There’s no morning after worrying of will she text me back or won’t she, or will she want to see me again? You don’t wake up in the morning and do breakfast. You don’t brag to your friends. You don’t do none of that shit. You keep it hidden. You keep it very, very hidden.

I wonder what her recovery from this will look like. Her rebound. I told you before that when your sense of self worth is down the drain, you do some weird shit. I mean, I don’t need a recovery. I’m feeling great. But I’m not absolutely stunning. I’m not a ten. She didn’t fuck a dime. She fucked me. But whatever she’s feeling, whatever post-incest depression she’s dealing with, she can only go up from here. There’s no going down when you hit the bottom. It’s not like anything can be worse than fucking your cousin.

Then again, she did just get a dog...