Sample: Secret Parole
My dad grounded me for life for drinking a beer when I graduated high school. Yeah, it was only three months until I moved out and headed to college, but it felt like the rest of my life, you know?
And it was only one beer. It wasn’t like I got wasted or anything. And I was eighteen. Is it my fault the drinking age is twenty-one? That never made sense. Old enough to die in a war, not old enough to drink.
But maybe I shouldn’t have thrown Jesus in his face when he got so mad at catching me and my girlfriend Christine out on the back porch. Jesus drank wine, I’d argued. Did it all the time! I told him Jesus wouldn’t give a damn, which was the wrong thing to say. He ordered Christine to leave on the spot and I’m sure he would’ve taken his belt to me if I wasn’t already bigger and stronger than him.
So he did something worse. He made me a prisoner in the house.
Not that he barred the door. He didn’t need to. We lived in a refurbished 1800’s farmhouse in Kansas so far out of town that it was a half hour walk simply to the county road. Instead, he took my car keys, my computer, and my phone, and told me I could have them back the day I left for college. In fact he’d give them to me at my dorm, and not a moment earlier.
I knew he was deadly serious.
After Christine left, my mother Jeannie tried to get him to change his mind. She said it wasn’t fair and I was a nice kid and a good boy. Did the punishment fit the crime?
He told her to shut up and mind her place. God had made him the head of the family, and she had better obey him. She gave him a steely glare that promised they’d continue the argument in private, but nothing came of it. The next morning, I learned I was still all but locked up for three whole months.
So the first few days, I mostly just stretched my lanky body out on my bed and stared at the ceiling. My room was small—just enough space for the twin bed with its quilted duvet, my old beat up wooden desk, and a tall oak bookcase that my dad and I’d built together when I was a kid, back before he discovered Jesus. Well, back before he became a hardcore Jesus freak.
Sometimes I missed that guy, the man my dad had been. But not as bad as I despised the man that now spent his days downstairs in the den writing tracts for that evangelical megachurch in Alabama. My dad had died the day he stepped into that baptismal pool to be “born again.” The man downstairs was a monster—dedicated to stamping out fun, no matter how innocent it was, anywhere it was.
I loathed him.
But I didn’t dare defy him if I wanted the college tuition money I’d been promised since I was ten. That college tuition money had been set aside for me by the ‘good dad’ and ‘monster dad’ would steal and give to the church in a heartbeat, if my mother hadn’t made it clear she’d divorce him if he did.
It was the only time I ever saw her stand up to him in front of me. It was also the only time I saw him back down from a fight.
That first week of summer, Mom stayed out of his way as much as I did. Except for the tense and silent meals at the dining room table, we didn’t spend any time together. Dad wrote in the den or watched TV on the portable set in the kitchen. Mom worked in her little vegetable garden or kept to her room. I moped in mine.
When I got tired of being pissed and staring at the ceiling, I read a little—old science fiction novels I’d loved as a kid and never thrown out, a few Hercule Poirot mysteries that had somehow ended up in a box in the garage, or whatever I found. I tried playing my guitar, but I was rusty. I’d quit practicing when Christine and I’d started dating. It was a lot more fun to spend time with her.
A lot more fun.
And thinking of her was a lot more fun than fumbling my way through Stairway to Heaven. A hot blue eyed blonde with a tight slim body, she was every guy’s wet dream. Even better, she had the nastiest, horniest mind of any girl I knew.
So that Thursday, I slid my old wooden desk chair in front of my closed bedroom door. It wouldn’t provide more than a temporary blockade to anyone coming in, but I figured it’d be good enough.
Then I stretched out on the bed and pushed my cut-off shorts and underwear to my knees. As I slowly stroked myself, I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift back to the last time Christine and I’d had sex…
Want more of Secret Parole?
Would his mom help him out?
Imprisoned at home for drinking a beer after graduation, Jeff missed his girlfriend. It wasn’t fair that he had to be celibate for such a small rules infraction? Bu perhaps his mom might have different ideas…
If you like hot taboo short stories you’ll like Secret Parole. Based on a true story.