Being Kalli(5)

I feel his hands on either side of my head, and before I start I look up at him through my hair, with him still occupying my mouth. I do it because I know it looks slutty and that it’s exactly what Nate is turned on by.

I’ve known Nate for too many years, and I know many things about how he thinks, but he sums this up pretty well. “Fuck, Kalli.”

He sits there with his trembling thighs touching the sides of my arms and his hands trying to push through his drunken state to find my head and pat me lovingly or push me down, or something that will show how excited he is.

And then I plunge down. I deep throat his length. There’s enough quiet to hear a soft sound, so I take him as far as I can go and make a gagging noise. I know my gag reflex won’t actually work, so I gag myself again, both times receiving the prize of Nate shuddering in a breath and moaning.

“Don’t,” he warns.

“It’s okay,” I say, “I can’t stop fucking you with my mouth, not even to breathe properly.”

To that he shuts up. I get off even more when I hear the track change and people cheer, knowing we’re doing this so close to getting caught.

When I first feel him pulsing beneath my tongue, I pull away. His frantic hands grab to find my head and push down to save the climax.

But I say, “Say it.”

He looks confused for a moment since this isn’t at all what’s on his mind, but then he remembers and replies, “You can. You can get me up drunk.”

At that I start again, and even in this state I make him pulsate, then blow in my mouth with a few sucks and tugs taking his length.





2




He knows I’m ten, so why is he looking at me like that?

He’s been looking at me over the table. Mummy is weird again and her breath and clothes smell weird, so she doesn’t notice.

She never notices.

But I do. He’s been looking that way ever since he started coming here and I don’t like it.

I look that way at a pretty dress behind a shop window. I want it so bad, and I’d do anything to buy it, but the most my mummy can afford is for me to twirl with it in the change rooms. But I always have to put it back and walk past it.

He looks at me like I’m that dress.





3




Scout stumbles over the threshold and drags me in through my front door after the party.

I latch onto her arm and pull her into me with a bear hug. I know what she tripped over. It’s that damn nail that’s sticking out of the floorboards that Mum keeps promising she’ll get fixed. At times like this I wish I lived on uni campus but it’s not required and I don’t have the money for that. Luckily, Scout and I are sloshed from grog, and her toe will only start throbbing tomorrow.

Afternoon.

“It didn’t even hurt!” she cries out.

“It will,” I say, but I don’t think Scout notices as she reaches for a non-existent bottle then settles for her mobile phone. She starts tapping away.

“You know that’ll only be garble, Scout,” I tell her, holding my wobbly body up using the walls. “I’m just gonna check on the twins.” I navigate to the end of the house to check on my four-year-old brothers, Seth and Tristan.

She mumbles something that I don’t hear, but it might have been, “What?”

Something feels off. I can hear noises from their joint bedroom. Mum can be up late if she’s out with Betsy or on a bender, but by this time of the night/morning, she’d be sleeping.

I walk down the hall, able to make out the wooden letters spelling “Seth” and “Tristan” on the farthest door. I focus my gaze, and now I’m alert, everything seems clear. They’ve either turned up the volume or I’m realising how noisy Woody from Toy Story really is.

I make out the photograph of the only family portrait on our walls. It’s the one I paid to print and frame out of my student savings. I’d bought it out of jealousy because it hurt going to Scout and Nate’s homes and always seeing family portraits everywhere—walls, side tables, key chains. In our house, Mum prefers more fun stuff. Like whacky Picasso drawings I don’t get. And mid-nineteenth century poses of women baring their asses. I don’t know. It’s all about fun for Mum and I suppose we three kids aren’t that.

At the twins’ door, I’m suddenly so sober I can feel my heart pounding in my ears. I put my weight into sliding the knob down carefully, sidestepping into their room. Before I have time to contemplate sneaking up to their bed, I see they’re on their tummies, legs swaying above and hands cupped in their palms, enamoured with the movie on the screen.

“Hey boys,” I say. I flop on the end of the bed. I think relief has sapped my energy.