I'm staring at myself in the bathroom mirror for the second time today, like I'm about to have a fucking intervention with my reflection. "You are not going to fuck this up, Gabriel King," I tell myself, pointing an accusatory finger at my mirror self. "This is your one shot at being a normal college dude who doesn't jerk off thinking about his Mom's massive milkers."
Jesus Christ, I can't believe I just said that out loud, even to myself. The bathroom fan hums overhead, drowning out my self-loathing, thank God. Mom's still not home, one of her mysterious late work nights, which means I've got the house to myself while I get ready for Brad's party.
A party. With actual people.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock some sense into my system. The guy staring back at me from the mirror looks exactly like what I am. A nervous wreck pretending to be a functional human being. My brown hair is doing that weird flippy thing it does when I'm stressed. I try smoothing it down, but it's like trying to tame a fucking rebellion.
"It's just a party," I mutter, gripping the edge of the sink. "People go to parties all the time. Normal people. Which is what you're trying to be, remember?"
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It's Brad.
Yo dude! Party's starting to heat up. You coming?
Attached is a photo of him with two girls I don't recognize, all holding red cups and grinning like they're having the time of their lives. My stomach does a weird flip-flop of anxiety and excitement.
I text back: On my way. Need me to bring anything?
Brad replies almost instantly: Just your A game, bro!!!! 🔥🔥🔥
I grab my keys, a six-pack of beer I stole from the fridge, and head out the door before I can talk myself out of it. The whole drive over, my knuckles are white on the steering wheel as I follow Google Maps to Brad's address. It's in one of those off-campus houses that looks like it's held together by beer stains and broken dreams.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
The "kickback party" Brad described is actually a full-blown rager. Cars line both sides of the street for what looks like half a mile. The bass from whatever EDM track they're blasting is so heavy I can feel it in my chest before I even get out of the car.
"Some brothers and cool people, my ass," I mutter, counting at least thirty people just hanging out on the front lawn. There's a guy doing a keg stand while a circle chants around him. Two girls are making out against a tree. Someone's throwing up in the bushes.
My fight-or-flight response is screaming at me to floor it, go home, and pretend I never agreed to this. But then I think about spending another night alone in my room. I take a deep breath and grab my pathetic six-pack.
The moment I step through the front door, I'm hit by a wall of heat, noise, and the unmistakable smell of weed mixed with spilled beer. The place is absolutely packed, bodies pressed together, dancing, shouting over the music, playing drinking games. This isn't a party, it's a fucking fire hazard.
"THE AIR CONDITIONING GUY IS HERE!"
Brad's voice booms across the room as he spots me from where he's perched on what looks like a kitchen counter. He's shirtless now, with something that looks like a crude drawing of a dick on his chest in what I hope is marker.
"THE LEGEND!" Two guys I've never seen before raise their cups in my direction, spilling beer on the floor, and a nearby girl doesn't even seem to notice.
Before I can process what's happening, Brad is bulldozing through the crowd, wrapping me in a bear hug that lifts me clean off the ground, my six-pack crushed between us.
"Dude! You actually came!" He sets me down, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "I was telling everyone about you. You're gonna love these guys!"
"Yeah, um, you said this was gonna be small…" I start, but Brad's already dragging me by the arm through the sea of people.
"Fuck that noise! College is about going big, baby!" He yells over the music. "Come on, you gotta try the jungle juice. It's fucking legendary!"
Brad hauls me through the crowd like I'm a rag doll, my shoes sticking to the beer-soaked floor with every step. We weave through a maze of sweaty bodies until we reach the kitchen, where a plastic kiddie pool sits on the counter. It's filled with what looks like liquid radioactive waste, a murky purple-red concoction with floating fruit chunks and gummy worms.
"Behold!" Brad announces, spreading his arms like he's unveiling the Holy Grail. "The nectar of the fucking gods!"
He grabs a red Solo cup and dips it into the ominous mixture, liquid sloshing over the sides as he thrusts it into my hand. Some of it splashes onto my shirt, and I swear I can almost feel it burning through the fabric.
"What the hell is in this?" I ask, staring down at the cup like it might grow teeth and bite me.
Brad throws his head back and laughs, the sound booming over the music. "No Idea, bro! That's the beauty of jungle juice, it's a goddamn mystery!" He claps me on the shoulder again. "All I know is it tastes like fruit punch and hits like a fucking freight train!"
My stomach clenches as Brad dips another cup for himself, raising it in a toast. "To new friends and bad decisions!"
Every survival instinct I have is screaming at me to run, but Brad's eyes are locked on mine, waiting.
"Fuck it," I mutter, clinking my cup against his.
We tip our heads back simultaneously. The juice hits my tongue with a sickly sweet punch that barely masks the burn of what must be at least three different kinds of alcohol. It's like someone dissolved a bag of Skittles in gasoline. I force myself to keep swallowing until the cup is empty, my eyes watering and throat on fire.
"WOOOO!" Brad howls when we finish, grabbing my empty cup and immediately refilling both. "Another round for my man Gabe! This dude's a natural!"
My head is already starting to swim, a warm buzz spreading through my limbs. "I don't think that's a good idea," I try to say, but the second cup is already at my lips.
The rest of the night becomes a blur of moments, each hazier than the last. Brad's arm around my shoulder as he introduces me to people whose names immediately evaporate from my brain. "This is my boy Gabe! Magic player! Funny as fuck!"
Somehow, I'm in the living room, red cup number four? Five? in my hand, watching Brad demonstrate what he calls his "signature move." He climbs onto the coffee table, flexes his arms like he's Hercules and screams out offensive things about 9/11.
Later, we're in the backyard. Brad's teaching me how to throw axes at a homemade target strapped to a tree. "It's all in the wrist, bro!" he yells, launching one that flips beautifully before embedding itself in the wood with a satisfying thunk.
My throw goes wildly off-course, nearly decapitating a plastic flamingo lawn ornament.
"Holy shit!" Brad doubles over laughing. "That flamingo had a family, man!"
I'm laughing too, harder than I've laughed in years, maybe ever.
We eventually end up on the roof sharing a bottle of something that tastes like cinnamon fire. The stars move above us as Brad points out constellations that definitely don't exist.
"That one's the Great Beer Bong," he says, tracing patterns in the sky with his finger. "And over there, that's Ursa Casey Anthony."
"What about that one?" I ask, pointing randomly.
"Ursa Caylee…"
A rhythmic thumping sound cuts him off, followed by what sounds like multiple people moaning.
"Wait... do you hear that?" I ask, sitting up too quickly, making the whole roof tilt under me.
Brad's head snaps toward the open window below us, his eyes widening before a devious grin spreads across his face.
"Oh shit, dude!" He scrambles to his feet, swaying dangerously on the slanted roof. "You're in for a treat! Come on!"
He grabs my arm, pulling me toward the window with surprising strength for someone who can barely stand.
"What is it?" I ask as he helps me climb back through the window, both of us stumbling into what looks like someone's bedroom.
"One more surprise, bro." Brad's eyes are lit with mischievous excitement. "This is gonna be fucking epic, man! A true bonding experience."
The sounds are louder now, multiple voices, grunting, laughing, the unmistakable slapping of skin on skin. My alcohol-soaked brain is struggling to process what I'm hearing.
"Seriously, what are we…"
"You'll see," Brad cuts me off. "Just be cool."
We creep toward a partially open door at the end of the hall, the sounds growing more intense with each step. Brad's practically vibrating with anticipation, his hand still gripping my arm like he's afraid I'll bolt.
"Dude, I don't think we should." I start to protest, but Brad's already pushing the door open wider.
The door swings open wider, and my drunken brain struggles to make sense of what I'm seeing in the dim light. There's a bed in the center of the room with a woman sprawled across it, her face obscured in the shadows. My eyes haven't fully adjusted yet, but there's no mistaking what's happening.
"Holy shit," I whisper, the jungle juice churning in my stomach.
"Pretty sweet, right?" Brad's voice is thick with excitement. "We all pitched in. Thousand bucks split between fifteen guys. Fucking steal."
I blink rapidly, trying to process his words. "You... hired someone?"
"Hell yeah, we did! Professional entertainment, baby!" Brad's grinning like he just showed me the eighth wonder of the world.
The scene before me is something straight out of a porn video. A guy I vaguely recognize from earlier is behind her, thrusting wildly while she's servicing two other dudes at once. The sounds she's making, those moans, they echo around the small room, mixing with the grunts and murmured encouragements from the guys.
Something about her seems oddly familiar, but my brain is too alcohol-soaked to connect the dots. There's just this unsettling feeling in my gut that I can't shake.
"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," groans the guy behind her, his movements becoming erratic. He shudders, pulls out, and peels off a condom, tossing it into a nearby trash bin that's already disturbingly full.
As he moves away, he notices Brad in the doorway and grins sloppily. "Oh shit, Thompson! You want next, bro?"
Brad chuckles and slaps my shoulder hard enough to make me stumble forward. "Nah, man. My boy Gabe here's up next."
The room spins around me as all eyes turn my way. My throat constricts, panic rising like a tidal wave. This can't be happening. I mean, I'm still a virgin, for God's sake.
"I... I don't think..." I stammer, backing up until I hit the door frame.
Brad's arm wraps around my shoulder, his voice dropping to what he probably thinks is a reassuring whisper but is actually loud enough for everyone to hear. "Dude, you gotta. I already told you. This is, like, a bonding thing. Everyone's doing it."
"I can't," I protest, my voice sounding weak even to my own ears.
"Look at her, man," Brad insists, turning me toward the bed. "She's a fucking pro. Literally. Don't pussy out now."
I can barely stand up straight. Brad's voice fades to background noise as my eyes focus on her legs. Something about them seems so familiar, the curve of her calves, the way they taper to delicate ankles.
"Fuck, they look just like..." I swallow hard, heat rushing to my dick despite my brain screaming this is wrong. Those legs. They're so much like Mom's.
"Alright," I hear myself say, the word slurring. "I'll do it."
The guys cheer. My feet move forward without my permission. The lighting is shit, just some dim lamp in the corner casting everything in shadows and silhouettes.
She flips onto her back as I approach, a new dick in her mouth before I can even get a good look at her.
Her body is incredible. Full breasts glistening with evidence of what's been happening here. But even despite all the cum, they're perfect. Better than anything I've seen in the videos I watch late at night with my headphones on. The curve of her waist, the flare of her hips. It's like looking at a goddess.
Like looking at Mom.
The thought should disgust me, should make me turn and run. Instead, my hands are fumbling with my belt buckle. The other guys have moved away, distracted by something else in the room. It's just her pussy and me in this bubble of drunken haze.
My jeans and boxers slide down just enough. I'm already embarrassingly hard. She reaches for me, but I push her hand away. I need to do this myself. Need to feel in control of something tonight.
I position myself between her legs, heart hammering in my chest. I've never done this before. Never been with anyone. But I've watched enough porn to know the mechanics.
I rub my head against her entrance, feeling the wetness there, the heat. My brain is shorting out, thoughts fragmenting into static as I push forward.
"Oh, fuck," I gasp as I slide in. She's impossibly tight, gripping me like a vice despite everything she's done tonight. My hips jerk forward involuntarily, burying me deeper.
The world spins in a kaleidoscope of booze and lust as I grip her thighs, her skin so soft under my trembling fingers. My mind's swimming through jungle juice and cheap beer, painting her face with Mom's features in the shadows.
"Fuck," I whimper under my breath, thrusting forward with clumsy, virgin eagerness.
It's pathetic how quickly it happens. One, two, three pumps, and I'm already teetering on the edge. Four, five, and I'm done for. My entire body convulses as the most intense orgasm of my life rips through me, making my knees buckle and my vision blur at the edges.
"I'm cumming," I gasp, the words barely audible as wave after wave crashes through me, emptying everything I have into her.
Brad's meaty hand slaps my back hard enough to knock the wind out of me. "HELL YEAH, DUDE! FIRST ROUND KNOCKOUT!" he bellows, his voice echoing in my ears like I'm underwater.
Reality crashes back as I pull out, watching a thin trail of cum connect us for one horrifying moment before breaking. The fog in my brain parts just enough for one terrible realization to form. I didn't use a condom. I just lost my virginity raw-dogging a prostitute at a frat party.
The woman pushes the guy away from her face, sitting up with an angry scowl. "Hey, asshole," she snaps, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I specifically said condoms are mandatory. What the fuck do you think…"
Our eyes meet in the dim light, and the world stops spinning.
Those piercing blue eyes. That white hair now matted with sweat and... other things.
"M-Mom?" The word falls from my lips like a stone into still water.
The room freezes for a half-second before one of the frat guys, Jake, I think, doubles over laughing.
"Dude, did this fucking savage just call her 'Mom'?" he wheezes, pointing at me like I'm the punchline to the world's funniest joke. "Holy shit, that's classic! It's okay, bro, I get it. I used to call escorts Mommy, too, when I first started!"
Everyone's howling now, but I barely hear them. All I can see is Mom's face, those blue eyes I've known my entire life now, looking at me with an expression I've never witnessed before. Her initial shock melts away, replaced by something else entirely.
"Gabriel," she whispers, and the sound of my name on her lips makes my stomach drop through the floor. Her eyes never leave mine as she reaches out, her fingers, the same fingers that used to check my forehead for fever, that wiped away my tears when I was little, now caressing my cheek with terrifying tenderness.
"Don't panic, honey," she says softly, her voice cutting through the laughter around us. "It's okay."
But it's not okay. Nothing about this is okay. Her smile is warm, motherly even, but there's something else flickering behind her eyes, something hungry, possessive, almost predatory. It's like watching a mask slip just enough to glimpse what's underneath, and what I see makes my blood run cold and hot at the same time.
Brad's voice breaks through my horror. "Oh shit, dude!" he yelps, staring at where I'm still connected to her. "You can't cum in them raw! They get so fucking mad about that!"
I look down and see my cum leaking out of her, out of my mother, and something inside me snaps. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely pull up my boxers and jeans, fumbling with the zipper like I've never operated one before.
"I gotta go," I mumble, the words tumbling out in a panicked rush. "I gotta… I need to…"
I don't finish the sentence. Can't. My feet are already moving, carrying me backward out of the room, away from those blue eyes that follow me with that terrifying new hunger. I trip over someone's leg, catch myself on the doorframe, and then I'm running.
"Wait!"
I don't listen to her voice. I keep going. Down the hallway. Past confused partygoers. Through the living room where someone calls my name. Out the front door. Into the cool night air that does nothing to clear my head.
I'm sprinting now, my lungs burning and vision blurring as I put distance between myself and that house. Between myself and what just happened. Between myself and her.
I gotta go home. Go to bed. That wasn't real. My Mom can't be prostitute. Theres no way.