Page 58 of The Trailer Park Twink
“You’re not my Daddy. Shut up,” Ezra says, scoffing. He glares at me. “Knew? She orchestrated the entire thing. I onlywent along with it because it kind of made sense, and I didn’t want you to have to spend the rest of your life without your daddy. If you want to be mad about it, be mad at the problematic prick to my right.”
“If you ever try to throw me under the bus again, I’ll drive that bus over your skull until it pops like a balloon.”
“Funny you should mention balloons,” Ezra says, reaching into his pocket. Son of a stupid skunk. If he’s brought more of those goddamn semen-filled water balloons into a maximum security prison—I mean, maybe? I’m not really sure, I didn’t read the sign out front—I’m going to pop it on his fucking face. How the hell does he hope to explain why he has cum on his person during the pat down? What’s he going to say; that he has a protein deficiency, so he hoards semen the way diabetics keep hard candy in their purses and pockets in case their sugar drops? Actually, that would probably work.
“If you even think about splattering me with your disgusting cum-stuffed balloons, it’ll be the last thought that crosses your mind. Do you want to meet your maker, Ezra? Because I can make that happen.”
“Can I have one?” Bubba asks.
Ezra arches an eyebrow. “Why?”
Bubba shrugs. “I’m just feeling a little peckish. I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind if I snacked on you.”
Ezra blushes. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Don’t ever eat my semen. Not under any circumstance.” Clearing his throat, he looks away as he pulls a small balloon out of his pocket and hands it to Bubba.
“Aussie?” Daddy’s calm voice whispers, and when I turn my attention back to him, he’s giving me this goofy love-drunk look. He pulls me even closer to his chest.
I love him, but he’s got me fucked up if he thinks he’s exempt from my wrath. “I’m threatening his life. Please don’t interrupt me mid-terroristic threat.” I poke Ezra in the chest. “Maybe I’ll cum in a couple of balloons too. How would you like that? How would you like me to burst my cum-bubble on your head?”
He shrugs. “Your cum tastes pretty good. I wouldn’t mind.”
“When have you ever tasted my load?” I ask, because clearly, he’s lying.
“I found one of your condoms in the bathroom at the cabin. And before you get mad and try to make it into something it isn’t, I was thirsty, Austin. Positively parched!”
“You just said the thought of someone eating your cum recreationally was the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard of,” Bubba says, popping the bottom of the balloon with his fingernail and pressing it to his mouth. As he squeezes my best friend’s load into his mouth like it’s Go-Gurt, I have to lookaway. I think I might be sick, but not because of Bubba or the balloon.
My best friend ate my cum. Dear God, why? “You found a condom? And you drank my cum?” A horrible mental image pops into my head, and in a rage, I aim a finger right at his shoulder and jab him as hard as I can without hurting him. “That could have been my Daddy’s cum!”
He quickly shakes his head. “It wasn’t! I promise. I knew it was yours because the condom was so small. Dallas uses the big neon-green ones. He comes a lot, but I’d never eat his load. Not unless it was a life-or-death situation, like if we were stranded on a frozen mountain, and even then, I’d feel really bad about it.”
“I appreciate that,” I say as my cheeks blush ten-thousand shades of red, but then I realize he’s just insulted my size. “Hey! Not nice. It is not small! Take that back.”
“I’m not going to lie to make you feel better.” He rolls his eyes. “So, you have a mediocre penis. So what? Who cares? You should take pride in your penis, Aussie. It’s a very lovely little cock.”
Unable to stop myself, I reach forward and pinch his nipple, twisting it tightly. “Stop talking about my penis.”
He hisses in pain and slaps my hand away. “I’ll do what I want, when I want, and you don’t get to stop me. I don’t know why the hell you’re so mad. I eat Brian’s cum all the time, andyou don’t hear him complaining.” I cock an eyebrow at Brian, who is simply nodding like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“It makes him feel closer to me,” Brian confirms. “I don’t mind. He has abandonment issues, Aussie. We can’t fault him for it.”
“Exactly. It’s like when I jack off to your videos, I’m not doing it for sexual release, as far as I know.”
“As far as you know?”
“Well, I’m not a licensed psychiatrist. Maybe there’s some underlying issue making me act out in depraved ways, or maybe not. Maybe I do it to compensate for the love my father never gave me as a child. Or maybe I’m just a sexual deviant. It’s anyone’s guess. I don’t have the proper training to make that diagnosis.”
“Oh, it’s absolutely the latter.”
“He’s a grown man,” Brian says, giving me a half-hearted shrug. “If he wants to eat our cum or masturbate to the shirtless selfies we post on Instagram, what’s the harm? All we can do is be the best friend group we can possibly be and support our sis.”
He has a point. Ezra is grown, and I believe in freedom of speech, but he basically called me an inch-long loser. Does his free speech have to be so hateful? And in front of Deirdre, no less. Now she’s staring at me like I’m deformed, and it makesme curl tighter around Daddy, burying my face in his chest, and I tighten my legs around his waist. “Make him stop.”
Dallas chuckles and kisses my forehead. Trying to change the subject, probably, he asks, “Are you gonna sing Daddy a real pretty song?” but I don’t have time to answer, because the bathroom door swings open, and a disgruntled man with bad hair and what seems to be a bad attitude marches out, eyeing everyone in the lobby. “Who the hell was just in the bathroom? Who shamed me for shitting in the stall?”
I gag, almost puking all over Daddy, because there’s been far too much talk of poo for my liking. I bury my face in his neck, breathing him, because the foul bathroom stench clings to the other man, permeating the room, stinking the whole goddamn place up. He has what appears to be a long-sleeve black uniform shirt draped over his arm, and he’s wearing this ugly golf Polo shirt with tropical hues and a couple of palm trees popping up in inconsistent patterns. It’s a goddamn mess. Even worse, he’s wearing these dark, black slacks with suspenders, and there’s a toolbelt with guns and gadgets and a huge walkie-talkie. I’m guessing he’s a guard. Shit.
“He went that way,” Ezra blurts, pointing at a wall without a door. The man just stares at him like he’s stupid, which... yeah. Valid.
