FATHER, I HAVE A QUESTION.
A STORY ABOUT CHILDHOOD MASTURBATION
FATHER, I HAVE A QUESTION I.
ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER ROUTINE TUESDAY, 2ND MARCH 2025
LITTLE BOYS
WHEN IT COMES TO CHILDREN,
THERE ARE TWO TYPES KNOWN TO MANKIND:
THERE ARE LITTLE GIRLS AND LITTLE BOYS.
THIS STORY BELONGS TO A FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD BOY NAMED ARLO JNR.
JUNIOR IN NAME AND RESEMBLANCE,
ARLO JNR LOOKS UP TO HIS ROLE MODEL — HIS FATHER.
A NATURAL THING TO DO FOR A KID HIS AGE,
BECAUSE HOW CAN YOU KNOW ANY BETTER THAN WHAT YOU’VE BEEN SHOWN?
ARLO’S UPBRINGING WAS FAR FROM PERFECT —
NOT BECAUSE OF MONEY, BUT SOMETHING DEEPER.
STILL HE HAD A CHOICE:
TO BE A FATHER HE NEVER HAD
OR TO LET HIS TRAUMA DECIDE FOR HIM.
TO BE THE BEST FATHER HE COULD EVER BE OR TO LET HIS TRAUMA’S TAKE OVER WHAT HE COULD CONTROL.
THIS IS IN10MACY,
THE TEN-STAR STORYTELLING PLATFORM
CULTIVATING SHORT SOCIAL STORIES
THAT CHALLENGE ‘SOCIETAL NORMS’
IN THE MOST LUXURIOUSLY INTIMATE FASHION.
WE INVITE ALL READERS, HUSTLERS, AND THE ASPIRING
TO TAKE A LEAP INTO A BETTER WAY OF LIFE.
BUT FIRST—THE NARRATIVE BEGINS.
AFTER SCHOOL ROUTINE
TUESDAY. LONG-ASS DAY.
JUNIOR SLIDES THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR, SCHOOL STILL ON HIS MIND,
BUT HE READY TO LET SH*T GO.
TWO-BEDROOM SPOT IN THE PROJECTS, SAME OLD SCENE—
HIS POPS CHILLIN’ IN THE LIVING ROOM.
BUT HE AIN’T ALONE. ANOTHER WOMAN. AGAIN.
JUNIOR DON’T EVEN FLINCH.
A HEAD NOD, A HALF-ASSED “WASSUP,”
THEN STRAIGHT UP THE STAIRS TO HIS BOY CAVE,
DROPPIN’ HIS BACKPACK ON THAT SAME TOY CAR BED
HE TOO GROWN FOR BUT AIN’T GOT NO CHOICE.
BLADDER SCREAMIN’.
HE HITS THE TIGHT-ASS HALLWAY, FOUR STEPS MAX,
PUSHES INTO THE BATHROOM—
STALE AIR, PISS STAINS, SOMEBODY LEFT THE SEAT UP.
NASTY.
BUT HE AIN’T GOT TIME TO CARE.
PRE — MEDITATED SKIN
HE PISSES ALL OVER THE RIM OF THAT ALREADY-BROWN TOILET—LIKE A DAMN STRAY DOG—AND SIGHS, FEELING THAT BLADDER GO EMPTY.
HE FLUSHES, BUT CURIOSITY STAYS.
“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH ALL THIS STRESS?”
THE LITTLE BOY IN THE BOXED-UP BATHROOM THINKS.
HE REACHES FOR HIS SCHOOL TROUSERS. STOPS.
INSTEAD, HE DIGS IN HIS POCKET, PULLS OUT HIS IPHONE X,
AND SITS BACK ON THAT ROACHED-OUT TOILET SEAT.
A FEW SWIPES. A FEW SEARCHES. "ACCIDENTAL," BUT NOT REALLY.
SAFARI OPENS UP A WHOLE CATALOGUE OF FILTH.
THE KIND THEY DON’T TALK ABOUT IN SCHOOL.
THE KIND THAT MAKES HIS HEART BEAT DIFFERENT.
A CATEGORY STANDS OUT.
"STEP MOTHER."
HE PAUSES. THINKS. THEN KEEPS SCROLLING.
HIS BODY FEELS DIFFERENT NOW.
EXCITEMENT, THRILL—
LIKE HE'S SOMEWHERE HE SHOULDN’T BE,
BUT CAN’T TURN AWAY.
HE WONDERS—
WHEN I’M MY FATHER’S AGE… WILL THIS SH*T BE REAL?
AND THEN—HE CHOOSES A VIDEO.
QUESTIONS I NEVER ASKED
JUNIOR DROWNS IN CURIOSITY AND CONFUSION.
SOMETHING STRANGE STARTS TO CREEP UP INSIDE HIM—
A FEELING HE DON’T RECOGNIZE.
AND BEFORE HE CAN EVEN PROCESS IT—HIS FINGER SLIPS.
BOOM.
HIS PHONE CONNECTS TO THE LIVING ROOM TV.
IN A PLACE THIS SMALL, SIGNALS AIN’T GOT NOWHERE TO HIDE.
HIS ALREADY LICKED FATHER AND COMPANION—
JAW DROPPED, FROZEN —
WATCH AS THEIR HEATED LOVE & HIP-HOP MARATHON
GETS REPLACED…
BY A VERY DIFFERENT KIND OF SHOW.
FOR A SPLIT SECOND, THE ROOM IS SILENT.
THEN—
BIG ARLO LEAPS UP.
HE DON’T EVEN NEED TO LOOK AT THE SCREEN TWICE.
HE ALREADY KNOWS.
HE MOVES FAST, LIKE A DAMN STORM,
STOMPING UP THE RIPPED-UP STAIRS,
FURY IN HIS FISTS, TEETH CLENCHED SO HARD THEY MIGHT CRACK.
HE REACHES THE LOCKED BATHROOM DOOR—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
HIS KNUCKLES SLAM AGAINST THE WOOD,
HIS ANGER SETTING THE BEAT.
“OPEN THIS F*CKING DOOR!”
JUNIOR’S HEART DAMN NEAR STOPS.
HIS EYES FLICK TO THE RUST-SHUT WINDOW.
HE THINKS, "IS THIS IT? IS MY LIFE OVER?"
TO HIM, HIS FATHER'S HAND AND DEATH ARE THE SAME THING.\
“DAD! GIVE ME—GIVE ME ONE SECOND! I’M JUST—
I’M JUST FINISHING UP MY BATH!”
HIS VOICE STUTTERS, DESPERATE.
HE GRABS THE BLUE BUCKET, SHAKES IT LOUD,
TURNS THE BATH TAP ON AND OFF, TRYNA MAKE IT SOUND REAL.
BUT BIG ARLO DON’T CARE.
THE AFRICAN MENTALITY HAS ALREADY TAKEN OVER.
THE DOOR FLIES OPEN.
AND ONCE AGAIN,
HIS FATHER PERFORMS THE ART OF AFRICAN PHYSICALITY.
A COUPLE YEARS LATER…
ALPO JNR IS 30.
NO PARTY. NO CELEBRATION.
JUST ANOTHER DAY IN REHAB,
SITTING ACROSS FROM A THERAPIST WHO’S HEARD IT ALL.
"ALL THOSE YEARS, AND I STILL DON’T RECOGNIZE MYSELF,"
HE MURMURS, STARING AT HIS OWN REFLECTION IN THE WINDOW.
"ALL THOSE YEARS NOT KNOWING WHAT LOVE LOOKS LIKE…
OR WHAT IT EVEN FEELS LIKE.
ALL I EVER DID WAS LOOK UP TO MY FATHER,
EVEN THOUGH HE LOOKED DOWN ON ME.
AND LOOK AT ME NOW…"
HE CHUCKLES, BUT THERE’S NO HUMOR IN IT.
"I’VE BECOME JUST LIKE HIM.
I AM MY FATHER."
THE WORDS DON’T TRAP HIM ANYMORE.
THE GUILT DON’T CHOKE HIM LIKE IT USED TO.
BUT THE IDENTITY CRISIS SWALLOWS HIM WHOLE.
ACROSS THE ROOM, THE THERAPIST SAYS NOTHING.
SHE’S NEVER BEEN LOST FOR WORDS BEFORE,
BUT SOMETHING ABOUT THIS CASE FEELS… DIFFERENT.
SHE’S SEEN ADDICTION, ANGER, BROKEN HOMES.
BUT THIS?
THIS WAS A LIFE WITHOUT INTIMACY.
A LIFE WHERE NO ONE TAUGHT HIM HOW TO LOVE.
WHERE TOUCH NEVER MEANT WARMTH, ONLY ESCAPE.
WHERE THE ONLY CONVERSATION HE NEEDED NEVER HAPPENED.
HIS FATHER WASN’T HERE TO HAVE THAT TALK.
BUT THEY NEVER WOULD HAVE ANYWAY.
ALPO JNR ONLY EVER KNEW A LIFE OF BLACK AND WHITE.
PART I COMPLETED.
PART II COMING SOON.
#10OUT
#IN10MACY
keeping up with ten.
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