Duck You - part 2

Dad had joined in, adding that puberty was a time for reflection; it was hardship of the character building type. This was his cue for a walk down Dad’s teenage lane, featuring masturbation and wet dreams, doubts about sexuality and facial hair. Donald remarked that Dad’s facial hair had still not grown, and that his palms were still sweaty. But she paused and listened intently to his rendition of his first encounter with homosexuality. There are many things that children don’t need to know about their parents, such as genital warts and flatulence, but this admission of oddness struck a chord with Donald. She’d always tried to understand her parents’ peculiarity – and perhaps this would elucidate matters.

By this point in the conversation, Donald’s initial malaise had developed into full-on nausea, and her throat, Dad’s point of mire, was tightening which each convulsion of her gut. Dad never held eye contact during his talks. This had always been a sour point between Mum and Dad, where Mum accused Dad of mental infidelity – if there ever was such a thing.

Duck You - part 1

‘There will come a time when blood will gush out from between your legs, fresh and fragrant like Sunday roast gravy’. This was how Mum had chosen to start that all important talk with her eldest daughter Donald. Dad – who had taken time off work for the occasion –sat, nodding, his hands folded annoyingly over his crossed legs.
Today was the eve of Donald’s thirteenth birthday, and Mum and Dad had thought it appropriate to talk to their pubescent daughter about the changes she should expect in her body.

Mum’s bosom was heaving. Not in an attractive way. But rather like her famous orange and Madeira soufflé, slowly rising, golden and promising, then breathing out (or flopping) with a bubble and splatter. She did that when she felt purposeful, pacing herself to unravel juicy bits and practicality. She’d followed her initial statement with:

‘expect your boobs to grow like melons. That’s if you take after me of course. If you’ve inherited your father’s sisters excuse for tits, then the progress will be slow and the results dissatisfying.’