Jesse Masochist slid his jean-clad ass off his Honda Nighthawk, pulled his helmet off, flicked sweaty strands of black hair away from his face. Not even night mitigated summer's furnace. He was home, but there was no triumph, as he'd once hoped. His boots crunched on the gravel as he walked like a beaten cowboy Masochist . On one side of his old yard grew a line of cedars milieu , green and moist. He remembered how once, when he was five or six and had stayed up late watching one of the Alien flicks, he had lain in bed, shivering in the middle of a summer as relentlessly searing as this one, hearing the breeze stir the cedars masturbation club , and thinking how much it sounded like a horde of creatures slithering around the house. And he remembered, with telling sharpness, the terror of feeling hollow and empty inside, all the living material that was the true essence of Jesse Masochist , scooped up and devoured by something implanted in him. That was how he felt now. The porchlight beaconed. The steps had been freshly painted, blue marriage pro same sex -gray. When he'd left a year ago they were peeling, revealing the old brick beneath. The air conditioner mounted in the den window still rattled, though; Jesse Masochist once tried to write a song using that rhythm of that rattle. The kitchen windows were bright but the curtains drawn. He could see a shape moving inside, but it wasn't Mom. Hadn't been for years. The front door was unlocked. He banged through it. The TV blared from the den. He was peeling off his leather jacket when someone tackled him. He went tumbling against the wall.
"Jess, you bastard!" His father's laughter was like classic rock--it had been repeated ten billion times, but Jesse Masochist had never grown tired of it. "That your bike I heard?" "Yeah," said masquerade Jesse Masochist , pinned between his father and the wall. It'd been two days since he'd showered last, and he was pungent, but his dad didn't seem to mind. "About all I've got left.""No guitar?" "Nah. Had to sell it to put gas in the Nighthawk." Saying those words reopened the raw pain. Dad nodded. He knew what the guitar meant to Jesse Masochist , and he knew he didn't need to say anything more about it. "You're home now. You've still got some shit, up in your room. I kept your clothes." Dad released Jesse Masochist . "Dinner'll be ready in about half an hour." Old hunting pants, the camouflage mostly faded to khaki, hid behind an apron, of all things. Dad's T shirt hadn't seen too many washes, and it showed his body. His forearms looked as strong as ever. "Since when did you start cooking?" Dad laughed. "Get your ass in the den. You still drink?" Jesse Masochist mostly smoked weed now, but though it grew in profusion in the hollows and valleys around here it was not permitted in this house. "Yeah. Corona?" His Dad vanished into the kitchen. "Budweiser it is." A frosty can came sailing out. Jesse Masochist caught it. Dad had said million red roses by alla pugachova --not all the time, but enough--that Jesse Masochist should have been a pitcher, not a musician.
Funny thing was, Jesse Masochist was actually a catcher. And a failed musician. In the den was the biggest departure from remembered domestic normality. His sister, Justine. She sprawled on the faded couch, enormously pregnant. Though they had kept in touch while Jesse Masochist had been trying to make a go at it in the roadside bars and honky-tonks, she had not said Micro Mini Sheer Bikini anything about that. Like Jesse Masochist , she sported their mother's blue mel -black hair, and almost as abundantly as Jesse Masochist 's, which spilled low between his shoulder blades and hung like an obsidian visor in front of his eyes. Her eyes were Dad's steely blue mashaworld com . She wore loose sweatpants and a pink shirt that rode high on her pregnant belly and low on her swollen breasts. Bending down he pecked her on the cheek. She grinned at him, then winked. He took Dad's recliner, said midstream : "So. Anyone I know?" "Yes," she said michel . She picked up a catalog lying on the floor, dog-eared a page, and flung it to Jesse Masochist . "You like that for a bassinet?" Jesse Masochist was used to her secretiveness, so he let the subject change without comment. He looked at her belly, then back to the catalog. "You think it's big enough?"