I won't go into why I deleted my sin kids stories last December because it really doesn't matter. What matters is that I lost sight of something, that a lot of people liked those stories. I got a lot of messages regarding those stories and still get them to this day, and even though there are things (in this story in particular) that I've come to disavow, I do have kind of a soft spot for them. For better or worse, these stories are mine. No amount of deleting them will change that. For those reasons, I'm reuploading them. And this time, they'll stay.

Lyrics to Ballroom Blitz by Krokus (1984 - original by The Sweet, 1973)

When you got nine sisters, man, sometimes you just need to get away, go for a walk or a bike ride or something. It wasn't so much the noise that bothered Lemy Loud, it was the constant Daddy, daddy, daddy bullshit. His sisters, from Loan right on down to Leia, had this weird fucking obsession with their father, like, man, the guy couldn't even come through the door without them mobbing him. Hi, Daddy; Welcome home, Daddy; Wanna wrestle, Daddy? Aw, man, it gave him such a case of the willies or something, watching them all cluster around him, pawing at his crotch, running their hands over his chest; planting delicate and not-so-daughterly kisses on his cheek; nibbling his ear; leading him by the hand upstairs and throwing seductive looks over their shoulders…

Where was he? Oh, yeah, that shit got old, so when feeding time at the zoo rolled around, he made himself scarce. And by that, he meant he left the fucking house entirely, because even in his room with loud music on he could sometimes hear them grunting and gasping and I'm cumming, Daddy, I'm cumming. It made him feel really strange, like...his chest was tight and his stomach was real heavy. If he listened to that shit too long, he started getting...I dunno, weird or something. It really pissed him off, though, the way they acted around him. And the way he acted with them. You think Dad ever wanted to hang with him? Nope. You gotta suck some dick if you wanna get his attention, and the last thing in the world Lemy was going to do was put his old man's cock in his mouth. Fuck that. Keep your precious little girls. Pervert.

Presently, Lemy was walking down Pine Street with his hands shoved into the pockets of his tattered jeans. It was a hot early August day, and her wore an olive drab sleeveless vest over a black T-shirt and a red bandanna tied around his forehead. Dog tags with some dead grunt's name on them hung from his neck; he picked them and the vest up at the army surplus store in town a few weeks ago: Five bucks for both. Can you believe that? They're practically giving this shit away. He was going back on Friday when Dad coughed up his allowance...there was this sick T-shirt that had a picture of Lee Harvy Oswald being shot on it, only some asshole gave Oswald a mic, Jack Ruby a guitar, and wrote LEE HARVEY OSWALD BAND 1963 WORLD TOUR on it. Hahahaha.

He stopped at an intersection and waited for the pedwalk sign to change from red to green. A squeal sounded off to his left, and he turned to see a group of girls about his age (maybe a little younger) coming up the sidewalk all horsing around and shit. His eyes were instantly drawn to their bare legs. It was summer, right, so they were wearng shorts and skirts and shit. He started feeling funny again, and stabbed the button insistently. Come on, come on, I got shit to do. They drew closer, and he got that dry-throat-tight-chest sensation that he sometimes had when his sisters were walkign around in the morning with their night shit on, you know, see through gowns and stuff.

He didn't like it.

The light change and he hurried across, cutting off a big blue Dodge. It honked its horn and he almost flipped it off, but didn't, because guys who drive massive trucks have little dicks or something and would have no problem kicking the shit out of a twelve-year-old. Lemy wasn't a bitch, but he wasn't dumb, either: He wouldn't stand a fucking chance against some good old boy all pissed off because he's packing two inches.

He wondered, not for the first time, how he stacked up to other guys his age. All his friends said they had ten or eleven inches, Lemy was lucky if he had six. Sometihing told him they were full of shit, but every time he'd seen one (when he caught Dad and one of his sisters watching porn together) it was fucking huge, man, like...he didn't know, bigger than him. Daddy had a good nine inches, Lemy knew that firsthand: He saw that fucking thing more than he saw his own: He'd be sitting on the couch with Lupa, then next thing you know she and Dad are going at it like fucking animals and he was just sitting there blushing and trying not to look..hating himself because he really kind of -

His right foot struck something and he started to lose his balance. Crying out, he hopped on his left and spun around, nearly falling. His temper flared and he started to kick whatever-the-hell-almost-killed-him, but stopped when he saw it. "Oh, shit," he grinned.

Here's what it was: A sweet vintage record player from, like, the seventies or something. It was sleek and gray with a crazy fuck ton of buttons, knobs, and levers, the turntable on top protected by a see through plastic lid.

Lemy loved shit like this: He had a couple old school radios at home he picked up at garage sales and stuff. His favorite was the Patrolman-9 he found at the thrift store in Elk Park where his Mom took him to shop for school clothes. It was chrome and portable and, man, it got everything: AM, FM, VHF, fucking SW. He could turn that bad boy on, kick back, and listen to cops, HAM radio operators, and truckers talking shit to each other. Hahahaha. Those dudes are dirty. Like really, seriously, truckers are crazy.

He dropped to one knee and examined his find. Check it: Not only was it an AM/FM radio and a record player, it also played 8-Tracks and cassette tapes. He looked for the manufacturer's name and found it across the front: Zenith, the Z stylizied like a lightning bolt. Zenith is the man when it comes to making badass stereo systems.

Was someone seriously throwing this out? It was sitting next to a trashcan at the end of a flagstone walk, so...yeah, had to be.

Pffft. Is the cord still attached? He checked it over. Yep, there it was. In that case, he could have this beauty up and running in no time...if it didn't already work. Oh, Dad's dead, let's toss out his perfectly good Zenith dur-de-dur.

Dumbasses.

He got up, threw a suspicious glance around, then snatched it up and hurried off at a crouch. See ya.

By the time he reached the house on Franklin Avenue twenty minutes later, his arms were quivering and sweat ran down his face in rivulets. Ten blocks ago this thing weighed five pounds, now it weighed five hundred and he could barely lift his feet off the ground. He wasn't about to let his sisters see that, though; they'd start in teasing his masculinity and shit, and there's nothing worse than girls making fun of your masculinity, especially when you kind of wanted to impress them.

At the door, he rested and caught his breath. "Man, you better be worth it," he told his new radio. The radio didn't reply. Good; there'd be a problem if it did.

When he was sure he didn't look too beaten up, he kicked the door and waited for someone to open it. He could hear the TV, so someone had to be in the living room: Leaving the TV on and going out of the room was a big fucking no-no here. So was leaving lights on. Power doesn't, like, grow on trees, Auntie Leni said. No, no it doesn't, good job for noticing.

He kicked the door again. "Hey!" he called.

Approaching footsteps sounded. His back was clenching and his legs were shaking. Can you be any slower?

The door opened, and Liena appeared, dressed in her favorite green overalls. She smiled warmly at him, then her eyes flicked to the stero in his arms and she frowned in confusion. "Uh...that's a big radio."

"Yeah," Lemy grunted, "it's heavy, too."

She nodded as understanding dawed on her. "Cool. Where'd you get it?"

Lemy shook his head slowly and flicked his eyes up toward the sky. "Internet," he said, "now can I come in?"

"Sure," she chirped and stepped aside.

"Thank you," he said shortly and struggled the stereo inside. Loan was sitting on the couch playing one of those RPG fucking shoot-em-up-what-the-fuck-ever video games she liked so much and Lizzy was watching in wonder as monsters and shit appeared on the screen. Lemy got a better grip on the stereo and started up the stairs, leaning heavily forward so he didn't topple back like that dude in Psycho. You know, the one who got stabbed in his face? Ah, you don't know what I'm talking about, but that's fine, no one ever does.

At the top, he paused for a moment and caught his breath again. Goddamn. This is the last time I pick a radio up off the sidewalk. In his room - a closet, can you believe that? - he dropped it onto his bed and sank wearily to his knees with a sigh of relief. Yeah, he wasn't gonna do that again.

Pushing himself up, he bent over and lifted the lid. Let's see what -

"Hey."

Lemy tensed slightly at the sound of his older sister's dull monotone; she caught him off guard. Didn't happen very often; he usually knew she was coming because the smell of stale cigarette smoke clung to her the way Leia clung to Daddy when she got home from school. You could smell this girl a mile away. Aw man, what's that? He called her Joe Camel sometimes, you know, after the Camel cigarettes mascot. She didn't like it, and one time she stuck out her foot and tripped him as he passed. It was all good, though: Guess who got a lighter that shocked the fuck out of them for their birthday.

"Hi," Lemy said shortly and glanced over his shoulder. She was leaning against the doorframe, her hands shoved into the oversized pockets of her black hoodie. Her white hair barely touched her shoulders, and her freckled face bore an early crop of pimples. She was thirteen, a year older than him, and had this fucking punk/goth/fucking he didn't know what thing going on. He teased her about it, but deep down he really liked her, ya know? Outside of Lyra, she was the only one of his sisters he felt like he had anything in common with. They liked a few of the same bands, some of the same music styles, and...oh, she liked horror movies. He did too. Some of them. The good ones, not those gay ass B-grade fucking I can see the monster's zipper and the strings holding up the bats ones that Lizy loved so much.

He also thought she was kind of...you know…

He was starting to feel funny again. Fuck.

"What's that?" she asked and nodded toward the stereo.

"That's my new Zenith," he said with a crooked grin, "I found it on the road." He laid his hand on the plastic lid and looked down at it with paternal pride. "Can you believe someone was gonna throw this out?" He chuckled and shook his head.

Lupa looked it up and down: It was covered in dust, the plastic covering the dial was cracked, and there were dents all across the face. "Yes."

Lemy's smile faded and his brow knitted. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

She considered for a minute "Yeah, actually. Dad's just - "

Lemy winced.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," he said and turned to the radio. "Go play with Daddy," he said and waved her off.

"Uh, play with Daddy?"

"Yeah, go on, wouldn't wanna miss any Daddy time."

Lupa's brow furrowed. "Whatever," she said and turned. Lemy watched her go, his eyes traveling down her back to her legs. She didn't walk like a girly-girl, but her butt still wiggled, and he felt even more weird than he already did. You know what'll solve that?

He went over and shut the door. There we go. All better. Now he could focus on what was really important: This radio. He picked it up and hefted it over to his desk. He pushed aside a confusion of papers, wires, and tools, and sat it down. He dropped into the chair, turned the lamp on, and pointed it at the stereo. Lupa wasn't wrong, this thing was kind of beat up. That added character, though. It wasn't some bland, shiny, right out the box piece of modern art or some shit, it was a stero that people actually used and enjoyed.

A long time ago, if the thick ass layer of dust was any indication. He ran his finger along the needle arm, and it came back fucking coated. Yeah, he thought and blotted it on his shirt, step numero uno is gonna be a bath. The tape heads are gonna have to be cleaned, the fucking...hold on. He reached into his top drawer, grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil, and jotted down a to do list. Next, he took out a Philips head screwdriver. With these things, you gotta take 'em apart to clean 'em. Of course. Duh, right?

He unfastened the screws holding the top in place, lifted it, and set it asidie. When he looked into the guts, he jerked.

There was something in there.

A foregin object, if you will.

Frowning, he reached in and held it up to the sunlight falling through the window. For a second he was completely lost...then it hit him. "Holy shit," he drew.

It was a Zip-Loc baggie.

A Zip-Loc baggie full of weed.

A sly grin crept across his face. "Oh wow."

Someone at some point in the past hid their stash in here and must have forgotten all about it. He didn't know much about weed (he smoked it twice at a friend's house), but he did know this: There was enough of that shit in there to feed a family of hippies for a month.

He tossed a nervous glance over his shoulder (sisters, right, they don't respect your fucking privacy, and at least one of them coughLeiacough would probably snitch). He was alone...for now. Setting the bag in his lap, he opened it, then leaned over and took a big whiff: Again, he wasn't an expert, but it smelled kiler to him.

He threw his head back and laughed. Oh, man, who said Lemy Loud didn't have good luck? He got a sweet stereo and a fat pound of grass all on the same day.

Yeah, he had great luck.

Or not.

It was dinner, the only time of day when the whole family was in the same room. Check it: Nine sisters, one old man, one moms, and nine aunts. That's twetny-one motherfuckers. You know what it takes to feed that many people? He didn't, and, brother, he didn't wanna find out; he hated the beans and franks and shit his old man made, but he could respect them, you know? When you're playing Gordon Ramsey for almost two dozen people every single nght you gotta make things stretch.

Anyway, like I said, dinner was the only time you could get everyone in the same room, so Lemy always felt a little lost in the crowd. How could you not? Lately, it was worse than normal, because he was really noticing how his sisters looked at Dad. Every fucking one of them stared at him with those bedroom eyes of theirs (except Lulu and Lizy, but give it a couple years). They laughed at his dumb fucking jokes, they jockeyed for his attention, they all talked over one another...and they watched him with those eyes. Man, that was the worst, because when he looked at them, he felt like a fucking piece of shit or something, you know? Why didn't they look at him that way?

I mean, hey, it's nice to be noticed by the opposite sex, right? To at least know Hey, there're chicks out there who think I'm halfway attractive, nice. He didn't get that: Pops did, and as he sat there watching them watching Dad, he couldn't pretend he didn't know what he was feeling. Jealousy, it was jealousy pure and simple.

Night wasn't a cakewalk either, but don't worry, we'll get there - we always fucking do.

But yeah, it made him jealous that Dad got all the attention. What, am I ugly or something? Do I not matter? Can't you at least compliment my fuckng shoes or something? Anything? Ha. Nope. There's none leftover because Daddy. Pfft. Just one...he wanted just one to look at him like she was hungry and he was on he menu. Man, if Leia turned her big blue eyes on him and bushed her teeth across her bottom lip like she did to Dad...man, oh, man, he didn't know, but he didn't want to think about it because it was making him feel funny...in ways he could explain, and in ways that he couldn't. It was like a...an ache, you know, in his chest. He ached for it.

Kind of fucking weird when you get right down to it, but whateve, his old man did his daughters left and right, it was normal at this point. Yeah, normal. Totally normal.

It made him feel like a bitch to articulate his feelings, though...even to himself. You know what, here: He was interested in girls, he was fucking surrounded by them, all long hair, cute smiles, and tight fucking bodies...and none of them would give him the time of day. Pathetic, I know, alright, whiny little bitch, but still it really fucking bothered him if he thought too much about because...man...he wanted a girl in his bed at night, he wanted to kiss Lyra or Liena or who the fuck ever, and not being able to do it but hearing his old man doing it...it drove him crazy. It really did. Made him feel all shaky and knotted.

Man, Leia was his favorite. He loved the way she wore her blonde hair in pigtails, and that little schoolgirl outfit? Holy shit. Liby was kind of the same. When he was alone at night he imagined putting his hands on her legs and slowly trailing them up, brushing the hem of her skirt out of the way, her flesh smooth and warm and…

He was starting to get hard.

Alright, enough, I'm fine, I'm over it, just...just yeah. He stabbed a frank with his fork and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed slowly and tried his damnedest not to oogle any of his sisters - they didn't want him anyway, they wanted Daddy. Instead, he found himself staring at Auntie Lucy's breasts. She wore this tight black sweater that hugged them beautifully. They weren't very big, but he didn't mind, he liked them small. Flat chest, A cups, B cups...Lacy was all upset once because her boobs weren't growing and he told her they were fine. You know, all casually. Inside? Hmmm. Fuck. He thought they were fucking perfect, man; he wanted to play with them so fucking bad it hurt: Rub her nipples with his thumbs, make her breathing quicken, her eyes hazy…

"Lemy?"

Lemy jumped. I wasn't looking at shit. His father watched him with lifted brows like he was a cop waiting for a criminal to spill the beans. "Anything interesting happen today?"

Yeah, I found a fuck ton of bud in this old radio. I'm thinking of smoking some later...and maybe selling some. "I found this awesome stereo on the sidewalk," he said out loud.

"Really?" Dad asked, his head tilting ever so slightly like he was genuinely interested. He wasn't, though; now if it had a pussy...

"Yeah," Lemy said, wanting the conversation over as quickly as possible, "it's really cool."

"Does it work?"

Come on, man, leave me alone. "The radio does but I gotta fix everything else." He scooped up a forkful of beans and shoved them into his mouth. Dad nodded appreciatively and tuned to Lyra. Lemy didn't hear what he said because he really didn't care to. When he was done, he took his plate to the sink, dropped it in, and went back upstairs. In his room, he closed the door, went over to the desk, and sat down. Oh, shit I forgot. Sighing, he got back up and went to the bathroom, which was surprisingly free: With twenty-one other people in the house, getting into the john was harder than getting at the president….which is why he usually went outside unless he had to shit.

He rummaged around under the sink, pushing aside boxes of tampons and bottles of shampoo until he found what he was looking for: A stack of washclothes tucked away in a corner. He grabbed one, stood, and wetted it in the sink, then wrang it out as best he could.

Okay, is that everything?

He flicked his eyes up and to the side and thought. Yeah, should be. In his room again, he sat at the desk and started to wipe down the stereo, but stopped. Actually, some music would be nice. Music makes everything better. Really drowns out those thoughts you didn't wanna have. Like thoughts about tomorrow's math test. Hahaha.

Reaching blindly into his top drawer, he took out a CD case, opened it, and dropped the disc into his radio, then hit play. Loud, riff heavy rock drifted from the speakers, and he sat back with a sigh.

Oh it's been getting so hard

Livin' with the things you do to me, aha

Oh my dreams are getting so strange

I'd like to tell you everything I see

He leaned forward, snatched up the cloth, and started to wipe down the outside of the stereo, his head nodding back and forth.

Oh, I see a man at the back

As a matter of fact his eyes are red as the sun

And a girl in the corner let no one ignore her

'Cause she thinks she's the passionate one

Anything interesting happen today, Lemy? Do anything cool, Lemy? Yeah, sure, Dad, I did a lot of cool things today, I'd tell you all about them but, see, something tells me you don't really care. Which is fine. I don't really give a fuck if you do or not; I don't hang off you and stick my ass in the air for your approval like your little , I get it, pussy is king. Tell you the truth, if I had them after me…

I'm reaching out for something

Touching nothing's all I ever do

Oh, I softly call you over

When you appear there's nothing left of you, aha

...but no, I get to sit here and watch your ass and…

...he was getting really fucking sick of thinking about this. He sounded like a whiney ass fuckboi even to himself. Boo-hoo, wah-wah, cry, bitch, cry. He threw the cloth on the table and sat heavily back. An idea struck him then, and he brightened. That's right, I got sunshine in a bag, what the fuck am I doing? He reached into the drawer, snatched his weed, and slapped it on the table. What am I gonna smoke this with?

And the man at the back said

Everyone attack and it turned into a ballroom blitz

And the girl in the corner said

Boy, I wanna warn ya, it'll turn into a ballroom blitz

And what the fuck am I gonna light it with? Was that big ass gril lighter still in the pantry? He glanced over his shoulder as though he'd be able to tell without getting up.

Lupa has a lighter.

Yeah. And maybe she'd wanna smoke with him. Weed's always better with friends. He absolutely did not in any way, shape, or form think back to what one of his buddies said about weed making girls horny, and he did not feel a twinge in his chest like dread anticipation. Well...he did, but only because he didn't have a bong or whatever. Kinda hard to smoke pot without a bong.

He did have an empty soda can over there by a stack of mechanical manuals, though. He reached over, snatched it up, and pulled the tab off. He broke it, mashed the bottom, creating a little indent, then carefully poked six little holes into it in the shape of a pyramid. Next, he added a shotgun hole to the side, then brought it to his lips like he was going for a cold, refreshing drink, his thumb covering the shotgun. He gave it a test suck (Daddy, Daddy) and boom, we're off to the races.

Now to go get Lupa.

He got up and went out into the hall. At her door, he poked his head in and found her sitting on her bed with a notebook balanced on her knees and a pen in her hand. Her head was bowed and she worked with painstaking slowness. Everyone has their thing; Lupa's was drawing. She was good, too. Not great like 'oh my fucking god open a DeviantArt account' but give it a couple years. Practice makes blah blah blah.

"Hey," he said, and she looked up. His eyes darted to her thin lips and then to her soft brown eyes, tracing the curve of her jaw as they went. Suddenly he felt self-conscious. "Uh...you wanna...come here for a minute?" he asked and rubbed the back of his neck. Yeah, this wasn't one of his better ideas. "I-I need some help. Bring your lighter."

Lupa's brow lowered so slightly you wouldn't notice it if you didn't know her. "What do you need help with?"

Lyra passed behind him and playfully bopped him on the top of the head. He shot his arm out but only grazed her arm. "It involves, uh, you know…"

She watched him expectantly.

"Just come on."

With a "Whatever" she sat her notebook aside, got up, and allowed Lemy to lead her into his room.

He sat at the desk and turned the radio off, killing Krokus in the middle of Midnight Maniac. "Shut the door," he said, and she obliged, then leaned against it and crossed her arms.

"What's this about?" she asked.

He held the baggie up, and her eyes widened. "It's about tokin' up, that's what it's about." He opened it and reached inside, taking a bud between his thumb and forefinger.

"Where'd you get that?" she asked. Her tone wasn't so flat now.

"Found it in my Zenith," he said. "It's not so lame now, is it?" He zipped the bag, shoved it into the drawer, and closed it. He laid can on its side, dropped the bud on, and shifted to the edge of the bed. "Lighter?" he asked and held out his hand.

Lupa watched him for a moment, her expression inscrutable, then came forward and took her lighter from her hoodie. "I'm actually impressed," she said and sat next to him.

He plucked the lighter from her hand and held the can up to his lips. What was that supposed to mean? Actually impressed? Like he wasn't...being fucking sensitive. Shit. You got a tamp too, sis? My fucking vagina really needs it. Out loud: "Sometimes I rise to the occasion." He pressed the can to his mouth, flicked the wheel, and held the flame to the bud. The smoke rolled harshly into his lungs, and he started to choke. Goddamn. He held the can and lighter out to Lupa while he struggled to keep from hacking his lungs up; she took them, raised the can to her lips, and sparked the lighter. She inhaled, held the smoke for a moment, then let it out in a cough.

They did this three times before the bud was reduced to ash: Lemy was warm and tingly and couldn't feel his face. He laughed like a fucking dumbass. Lupa joined him, snickering at first then outright giggling. The sound of her laughter was really beautiful, and his heart started to race; suddenly he was hyper aware of her closeness, her leg ghosting against his, her right hand resting on her knee, so near and, uh, holdable, the warm, clean scent of her hair underneath the aroma of pot and cigarette smoke.

"Why are we laughing?" she asked.

"I don't fucking know," he snorted. "It's good shit, huh?"

She nodded deeply then laughed. "My face is numb."

Funny, so was his. Did she feel like kissing him the way he felt like kissing her? Did she feel the same desperate, clawing, hormonal need?

Probably not because she got laid on the reg. He didn't. She got released, meanwhile his pressure built and built and built and then he got to listen as his old man his sisters went at it, got to fucking watch. Yeah, maybe he was a jealous little bitch, but put yourself in his shoes; if you're not just a little bitter, you're either lying or gay.

What was it about Dad anyway? He wasn't this sexy fucking Casanova, he was a normal dude...a normal dude just like Lemy. Why did they all love Dad but not him? Why'd they kiss and touch Dad but not him? What was wrong with him?

He didn't know, but he was starting to feel like he was gonna melt or something. He sat the can on the desk and handed Lupa back her lighter; her fingers brushed his hand, and his heart skipped a beat. His eyes locked with hers, then went to her lips; they glistened in the overhead light.

"You're baked," she said.

What would her lips taste like? Candy? He knew they wouldn't, but there's only one way to find out, right? He started to lean in just as Lupa's phone buzzed. She whipped her head away in a sweet-smelling swish, her hair raking across his face. She pulled out her phone and swiped her thumb across the screen. "That's Dad. I gotta go." She got to her feet and Lemy watched her go with the strongest combination of lust and disappointment he'd ever felt in his life. "Thanks for the smoke."

Then she was gone.

Lemy sat back against the walls and drew his knees up, his face screwing up in a sour expression. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.

I hope your dick falls off.

Yeah, even being the only cock in the house he probably still wouldn't get any.

Fuck it. They can have their precious Daddy; I'm done being a cryboi. He got up, planning to finish cleaning the stereo, but swayed and nearly toppled over.

Nevermind, he thought and sat back down, that shit can wait. He stretched out and laced his hands over his chest; he wasn't going to sleep (come on, it was only seven), but he needed to rest and let, you know, the weed...kind of...wear off…a little or...like...

Snore.