Life in the Morning Wood Zone

by Biff Spork

Chapter 1

I have probs sitting down at a table lately. It's like I got some button on my arse so sitting down on it makes my pecker stand up. It KNOWS it's under the table and can't be seen so it's down there boinging and sproinging and trying to get loose and my mom is saying, "You want some peas?"

"I hate peas."

"Awww, c'mon, you used to like peas. They're green. You gotta eat some green stuff."

"I hate green stuff. It makes me feel like puking." Which is actually true sometimes. I remember once forcing down some spinach or something and barfing it all up later.

Time for the old crock to chime in now: "Ty," he says in that 'I'm getting wound up' voice.

Meanwhile I'm sporting wood fit to bust my Calvin Kleins. I feel like pulling it out and explaining to him, "Dad, I have a problem!" Sitting down at the supper table always does it to me these days. Why can't we just eat in front of the TV like normal people?

I have to admit I'm a little edgy but WTF!!! We should just eat out or get something good in – real food like pizza or subs instead of this mashed potatoes and peas crap my mom dishes out. Talk about abuse – she should go to jail for her lasagne. She just makes it because she likes saying it, 'La-Zan-Ya', like she's some kind of sophisticated person who knows all about Italy or Spain or whatever. It's like eating rubber and it sticks to your teeth. Gawd! I like food you can eat standing up. "Why don't we ever eat anything good?" I say, trying to bring the conversation around to the real problem. Then I wait for the explosion and here it comes.

"Jee-zuz!" he grinds out and swells up – I swear he takes in about two cubic yards of air and pumps it out to his neck and shoulders, like he is sneezing and holding his breath at the same time. What a dork!

"C'mon you guys," says Mom. "Ty, just eat a few of those peas."

"Those peas are great, honey," he says, "whatever the gourmet infant may think."

As my contribution to family peace I choke the peas down followed by a chaser of mashed potatoes and a last mouthful of steak – pretty good actually. I figure I'm now good to go, but no such luck.

"Ty, before you rush off please clear the table and do the dishes," he says.

Man, I am busy. Like, I don't mind doing the dishes but they're just dishes. He gets so spaz about everything. Time for the ritual complaint. "Why do I always have to do that?"

"Your Mom and I are both out there working all day and you're big enough now to kick in a little help." This is offered in the wheedly 'let's be pals' voice with an edge of fatherly wiseness and overtones of seriousity.

"I'm supposed to be on holiday." I mean, it should be enough that I finished the year with an A average. "I worked hard all year, and besides," I add, seeing him wind up for a reply, "I have to go to the bathroom."

Mom looks devout and bored.

"Okay," he says and walks over to the kitchen window with his hands in his pockets, pretending he's not pissed.

But this is what I mean – like, he is pissed and he pretends he's not pissed because he knows that he has no reason to be pissed. What a dimbulb. I know he's standing there searching around in his little brain for something to be pissed about.

I make it to the bathroom, close the door and let the eleven centimeter monster loose. It's four and a half inches but it sounds bigger in metric. Anyway, as DM says, it's not how big it is, it's what you do with it. And what I'm going to do with it requires some lubrication. I already did one dry jerk today and more than one gets the dong all red and sore. I drop my shorts while I check out what's in the medicine cabinet – only Vaseline. It's a bit sticky but after a little friction it slicks up okay. I lie down on the bathmat beside the bathtub with my shorts rolled up under my head and my T hoicked up under my arms. Sometimes I hate clothes. Everything would be so much easier if we didn't bother with them.

I decide to go for a long, slow one. Maybe Mom'll do the dishes if I can make it last long enough. I'd go crazy if we didn't have a bathroom. I wrap my fingers around the master switch and begin the process.

Uunnng! After ten minutes my brain is in neutral and I am getting into that thing where it spreads out – when you start cumming in your legs and it's all chugging up towards your dick like a slow train.

"Are you in there?" barks the DickWad, hammering on the door. This is his favorite thing since one day when I jumped out the bathroom window.

"Yeah!" I shout. Thanks to DickFace I've lost control and I'm cumming. But it's soooooo good! Like the entire universe is concentrated in the end of my knob and exploding. A big goober of cum hits me on the nose. Nevada says it smells fishy. It's one of our arguments – I say it smells like bleach. As I squeeze out the last few dribbles I close my eyes and sniff to see if it is even a little fishy.

"Are you okay Honey?" Now SHE's shouting through the door.

I make barf noises and gargle, "It's those peas!"

So I'm lying on the bathmat and wiping up with a roll of TP I had earlier placed beside myself. I keep making vomit noises to satisfy the fiends. El Dorko is still at attention but he'll probably limpify in a few minutes and get bendable enough to be tucked away. He usually goes soft quickly after the third jerk of the day. I feel much better now and close my eyes while stretching my tongue to its maximum to see if I can possibly lick that last goober of jizz off the end of my nose. I hear a horrible sound.

I forgot to lock the door.

"Ty, honey?" says Mom and at the same instant I look up into their faces.

DickWad grunts, "Oh shit," pulls Mom out and slams the door shut. I hear them stumbling and muttering themselves down the hall.

WTF? He's the one who told me it was natural, it was okay, it was something all boys do ect ect ect blah blah blah, so what's with "Oh shit"? I wish he'd just die and get it over with.

Sometimes I am so cool. I just finish cleaning up, wipe the cum dribble off my nose and re-cap the Vaseline jar. And I'm fine, really. I roll on my side, trying to recapture the calmness I had achieved before I was so thoughtlessly interrupted and I see that stuff along the bottom of where the bathtub meets the floor. There's some crotch hairs there in a crack, DickWad's crotch hairs, and now I really feel like chucking. Peas and crotch hairs. What is the point of peas? What is the point? Life is such a shit-heap. What is wrong with these people? I mean, what is WRONG with them?

I get up and lock the door. Yeah, brilliant! I sit down on the toilet. WTF! I don't ever want to see them again. They are soooo lame! Every time I see them they just screw me over. I can't imagine what's in their brains. Why would you have a kid just to screw him over?

I hear the telephone. "Tyler, telephone!"

"Okay," I shout and race upstairs to my bedroom, lock the door and pick up the extension. That's another thing. No privacy here. Anyway, it's Nevada. "Hang up!" I shout and wait to hear the click. I know the DickWad would love to listen and record it and play it back later until he found something to irritate him. He's so lame.

"Hey, DM," I say. I call Nevada the DorkMeister because he's the expert when it comes to jacking off. It's our private joke so in public I call him DM.

"Hey, X," he says. That's my name, short for Explosive Squirter.

Nevada wants to sleep over. He's the best bud. I'd go nutsy for sure if he wasn't around. It's always fun when we have a sleepover – sometimes at his place, more often at mine. He says he feels comfortable at my place – he likes my parents. That's weird, but what's even weirder is that my parents like him – sometimes I think they like him better than they like me. He says his parents are not really there because they are often not home and even when they are at home they are kind of distant. I've offered to trade parents – I'd like a little more distance sometimes. He says he doesn't think his parents would notice if we switched houses. Not right away, anyway.

"Let me fix it," I say. "Call you back in half an hour."

I can probably handle downstairs if I don't look at either of them, just go straight to the sink and start washing dishes, like I'm sorry or something, like I need to apologize for jerking off. Why am I living with apes?

I hear the whine of the table saw from the DickWad's workshop in the basement. Ha! As if anything ever comes out of there except a lot of sawdust and noise. But that's good since I only have Mom to impress. She's sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading a furniture catalog. I slide past her to the sink and begin washing the dishes.

After a few minutes she brings her cup over and puts it in the water. "Thanks Ty Honey. Try not to get on your Dad's nerves. He worries a lot."

"Yeah, I know Mom, but I worry a lot too. Sometimes it's not easy being a kid." I've got my best wistful voice on here and I am washing her cup like it was some kind of family heirloom instead of a stupid Starbucks mug. She gives me a hug and I actually feel a little bit okay. She always smells good.

"Wheeeeennnnngggg" screams the table saw. Then she giggles. I feel those prickles in my skin and I know I'm getting red in the face. WTF!


"Nothing," she says and snorts another snicker on her way out of the kitchen.

Sheesh! "Mom?"


"Can Nevada sleep over? He says it's okay with his Mom."

"Okay, but no loud music after ten. Okay? Your Dad and I have to work tomorrow. You guys are on holiday but the rest of us are n't."

"Okay. No loud music after ten."

"Sleeeeerrrrrrkkkkkk," wails the saw.

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