My name is Lenny Kosnowski. I've been sitting on this exact same stool in this exact same bar almost every evening since I turned twenty-one last April. Sitting next to me is Andy Squiggman. He's been sitting there longer than I've been sitting here. He turned twenty-one last March and reserved this stool for a month for me before my birthday so I could join him.
The bartender, Darlene, an attractive, fifties something, brunette with overlarge boobs stuffed into an undersized push-up bra, calls Andy "Squiggy" for some reason. Andy tells me she started calling him that when she first learned of his last name. I think it has something to do with the condition of his cock during intercourse. Squiggy denies both the condition and ever being in the situation where Darlene could know about the condition of his cock during intercourse or any other time.
Sitting on bar stools most evenings is what we do. It's what most of the men, and some of the women, in our neighborhood do, at least until they get married or find meaningful employment. It's a large neighborhood and there are lots of bars so finding a stool isn't a problem.
So we sit here most evenings, watching the game, shooting the shit and drinking some cheap, lite beer until its time to go home to our moms. That's right, Andy and I both still live with our mothers and that's the story I'm about to tell you.
Andy and I have known each other since kindergarten, over sixteen years. It seems impossible that we would learn something new about each other after all that time, but Andy surprised me about six months ago.
We were in our usual places just having meaningless conversation. The crowd was light that evening since there was only replays of NFL games on the tube. Darlene was hanging around with us adding her two cents to the dialogue when she could. I mean she was hanging out. More than usual.
Andy seemed mesmerized. While Darlene was attending to another customer, he dropped a comment on her condition. "God, I'd love to nuzzle between those monsters," he said.
I must have been focusing more on Darlene than Andy as I processed his comment. She noticed and, as soon as she could, she came back in front of us. "Okay," she said, "you guys are up to something. Spit it out."
Andy hesitated for a moment so I spoke up. "Andy, here, was just admiring your most prominent attributes," I said.
"You mean these babies?" Darlene asked as she lifted her breasts, one in each hand, and placed them on the bar in front of us.
Andy choked, or coughed, or something. "Those are not 'babies'," I responded.
"True. They have many stories to tell." She focused on Andy as she said, "You have something to say to them?" she asked.
Andy turned a mild shade of pink. His coughing must have made him speechless and his breathing seemed a little unusual. I looked at him. Darlene looked at him. Andy looked down at the floor in front of his bar stool.
"Until he can tell me himself, these babies stay right where they are," Darlene said as she backed up, slid her breasts off the bar and departed to attend to another patron.
After Andy recovered his voice, the conversation, of course, turned to sex. I was bemoaning the virtual absence of it while Andy was unusually quiet. We both had encounters with the occasional, slightly lit, slightly hooker, female bar patron, but neither of us considered them meaningful. About four beers later, Andy got philosophical. "I believe that frequent sex is essential for health."
"Go on," I said.
"That's it," he said. "Good sex, good health."
Later he postulated, "You know, we're surrounded by beautiful women. I don't see why having frequent sex is so difficult."
"You don't?" I asked. "Give me one example."
"Sure. Have looked closely at your mother lately?"
"What the hell are you talking about and you better be careful when you talk about my mother?"
"Whoa. I'm not saying anything bad about your mother. In fact, I've only great things to say about her and nothing you haven't already thought about."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Your mother. You can't tell me you've never noticed how hot she is."
"She's my mother."
"She is and she's also a beautiful woman."
"You're very close to the edge here."
"If she wasn't your mother how would you rate her?"
"She IS my mother."
"For a minute, pretend she isn't. Look at her as if she was sitting next to you at the bar and tell me what you think."
I sat very still for several minutes and closed my eyes. I was trying to pretend that my mother was sitting next to me and look at her as just another beautiful woman. "I see your point. She is attractive for an older woman."
"She's not that old and she's more than attractive. Look at how her hair flows over her shoulders and down to her breasts. Wouldn't you love to run your fingers through her hair and squeeze those breasts? I would."
That broke my fantasy. "Andy," I said. "That's my mother you're talking about."
"Close your eyes again and imagine her as someone else."
"Like your mother?" I asked.
"Whoa again. You've been looking at my mother?"
"I have. You haven't? She's drop dead gorgeous."
"I have," he admitted. "I noticed her right after we graduated."
"So, imagining your mother as a woman isn't new to you?"
"No, it isn't," he admitted. "But we're talking about your mother and you imagining her as a woman."
"Can I rightly assume that you've also imagined my mother as a woman?"
Andy looked a little hesitant when he responded, "I admit it. I have."
"Tell me more."
"You sure you want to hear this?" he asked.