Hank woke up with his woman; she wasn't much to look it her pleasure garden path was overgrown and Hank's love would serve as the gravedigger to her matronly mausoleum. Rubbing sand from his shit-eyes and getting his ass dressed, Hank managed to get his longhair dick all caught up in the zipper his bluejeans.
Peggy, stirring: "You fucker, you'd better not wake Bobby up he's sensitive after all he came out of that appendage pale with his innards soft and blue and so close to the surface just like your penis which is now tangled like so much molasses in the VCR."
"I tell you what," Hank narrowed his eyes like his urethra until he looked like that chinaman next door. "Woman, you don't look at me. Now fix me my breakfast and breakfast accessories."
Peg's countenance softened at the beholdance of her man, and she got up out the bed and into the kitchen.
Bobby, in his own room, heard his parents through the drywall and was shamefully aroused. Bobby felt the landscape of his broad face, the rolling hills and the sandpebbles of his eyes, imagining himself with the faggy glasses his parents wore and then he was all pissed off about that shit for a while before his engorged boycock demanded his attention.
He focused his gaze on the flat glass of red Faygo on the nightstand as his free hand traveled down his body. Bobby gripped himself in that moist palm, for the Faygo was a forbidden fruit in the Hill household. His father had been discreetly uncomfortable yesterday, crossing and uncrossing his daddylegs upon his first encounter with the soft drink in question, harmlessly bottled and carbonated, Mega-Lo Mart bag unraveling around it like a yonic flower. He had watched as Bobby opened that shit up and took his first sip looking like blood going down that windhole. Hank swallowed violent revulsion as Bobby swallowed.
"Dang, Dad. This is real good. I bought this with Joseph because this is what the clowns like to drink and you know how I want to make people laugh and whatnot.
"Fuck you, Bobby!" Hank yelled, slamming his fist down on the table and rattling the beef-laden dinnerware. "You look like an Afro-American with them lips so red, I can't bear to see my own son like this," His expression had crumbled into wrinkled grief and Bobby just stood by, guzzling the sodypop, unawares of the dye's effect on his lips and/or teeth.
Bobby was only slightly detered from his task by the memory of his father's holy intolerance. Instead the boy tried to jerk off to the sounds of the morning. Fry siss bubble of eggs frying, Hank suckling the gooseflesh of Peggy's firth, Cousin Luanne up to no good in her room. Snap Crackle Pop.
Bobby'd better hurry if he wants to get off, Peggy would be at the door with his mealtray any minute. The sensuality of breakfast could only take Bobby so far to the threshold and he thought instead about Connie who had the same sort of flat but bumped face that he wore and stuff. Her hair is all black and sometimes she lets Bobby squeeze the constellation of Asian pimples on her delicate geisha nape.
Somehow the mental image of her middle school nudity animorphed into the athletic grace of Joseph Gribble. Bobby quaked and flushed with unfathomable desire for his BFF and it was with that brown skin on his mind that Bobby seized up and reached his klimaxx. Trembling and alone in the aftermath, Bobby tried in vain to clean up the Hamburger Helper-type substance up from between his legs with his bedclothes.
Peggy could deal with the mess later, ever proud of the spermcount of her only son.