The Experimental Method

by Biff Spork

Chapter 1

What is the point of peas?

I have probs sitting down at a table lately. It's like there's a button on my arse — 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. It's struggling to get out, and my mom is saying, "Here, have 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 something green, maybe spinach, and later barfing my guts out.

Time for the The Mid-Life Crisis to chime in: "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, "Dad, I have a problem!" Sitting down at the supper table always does it to me these days. Why can't we 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 some real food delivered, 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," she says, like she's some kind of sophisticated person who knows all about France or Spain or whatever. It's like eating rubber, and it sticks to my teeth. Gawd! I like food I 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.

He swells up, then grinds out, "Jee-zuz!"

I swear he takes in about two cubic yards of air and pumps it out to his neck and shoulders. It's like he's 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 concession to family peace, I swallow the peas and chase them down with a few fork-loads of mashed potatoes and a last mouthful of steak — pretty tasty, actually. I figure I'm now good to go, but no such luck.

"Ty, before you rush off," he says, as he pushes his chair back and points to his plate. "The table? The dishes?"

Man, I'm busy. Like, I don't mind clearing the table and doing the dishes, but they're just dishes. He gets so hyper about everything. Time for the ritual complaint.

"Why don't we get a dishwasher? Everybody has a dishwasher. Even poor people have dishwashers. Criminals and insane people have dishwashers. People who live in trailers have dishwashers, and hot-tubs, and robot vacuums. We're living in the dark ages!"

"We have a dishwasher," he smirks. "It's the Tyler 2012 model. It's slow and cranky but it will do the dishes for a few more years."

"At least we should take turns. I mean, why is it always me? What about equal rights? Democracy? The UN Declaration of the Rights of the Child? Just empty words? My parents should protect me from dangerous work, not make me do it."

"What? You might drown in the sink? Remind me to sue your swim-lesson guy."

"Sharp knives! Jagged, broken glassware!"

"Tyler, your Mom and I are both out there working all day," he says, while oozing patience with a psychotic undertone. "You're big enough now to kick in a little help around the house." Now he's switched to a wheedly let's be pals voice, with an edge of fatherly wiseness and overtones of seriousness.

"I'm supposed to be on holiday," I protest, but it's like talking to a two-year-old. I mean, it should be enough that I finished the year with an "A" average. "I worked hard all year, too," I remind him. "And besides, I feel sick," I add, seeing him winding 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 he has no reason to be pissed. What a dim-bulb. I know he's standing there searching around in his little brain for something to be pissed about.

As I stroll down the hall, I hear him ask my mom, "How long does the pain-in-the-ass phase last?"

"Maybe he really is sick," she says. "Those peas have been in the freezer for a long time. Did they taste alright to you? And you know, he's got some issues...."

His reply is muffled.

…pain-in-the-ass phase? …some issues…? WTF? What is with these people?

I close the bathroom door and liberate the eleven centimeter monster. It's four and a half inches, but it sounds longer in metric. Anyway, as the Dork-Meister says, it's not how long 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 and bounce my boner on the edge of the sink's cool porcelain, 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 pillowing my head and my T-shirt 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. Mom might 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 state where the sweetness spreads out. I love it when my cum starts in my legs. As it chugs up towards my dick like a slow train, I wish I had a steam whistle to blow — Whoooeee!

"Are you in there?" barks The Mid-Life Crisis, 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 lose control, and I'm cumming, but it's soooooo good — like the entire universe is exploding from the end of my knob. A big goober of jizz 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 check if it's 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 toilet paper I earlier placed nearby. I keep making vomit noises to satisfy the fiends. El Dorko is still at attention, but he'll limpify in a few minutes and get bendable enough to be tucked away. He goes soft quickly after the third tug of the day.

I feel much better now, and close my eyes. While stretching my tongue to 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.

The Dickwad grunts, "Oh shit!" pulls Mom out into the hall, and slams the door. I hear them stumbling and muttering back towards the kitchen.

WTF? He's the one who told me it's natural, it's okay, it's something all boys do, etc etc etc, blah blah blah, so what's with, 'Oh shit?'

They should get a divorce. I'd be from a broken home then. Mom and I would scrimp and save. We'd struggle to make ends meet but become closer and stronger after getting rid of the cretin. I see myself putting my arm around her shoulder and saying, 'We can do this, Mom!' I'd get a part-time job at Mickey-D's and enter their Junior Management Program.

It's a nice fantasy, but it's not gonna happen. They're always kissing and pawing each other in public — gawd only knows what they get up to in private. I don't like to think about it. Anyway, saying, 'Would you like fries with that?' a thousand times a day would drive me totally insane. I snap myself back to reality to deal with the problem at hand.

Sometimes I am so cool. I just finish cleaning up and wipe the cum dribble off my nose. My tongue's not quite long enough to lick it off. I re-cap the Vaseline jar, and I'm fine, really, A-OK.

I roll onto my side and try to recapture the calmness I had achieved before those people interrupted me, but there are crotch hairs in a crack where the bathtub meets the floor. They're Dickwad's crotch hairs, and now I really feel like up-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?

The telephone rings.

"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 — o ne landline for the entire house! Anyway, it's Nevada. "Hang up!" I shout and wait to hear the click. I know the MLC would love to listen and record it and play it back later until he found something to irritate him. He's such a dipstick.

"Hey, DM," I say. I call Nevada Dork-Meister because he's the expert when it comes to jacking off. I gave him the name when he showed me how, last year. It's our private joke so in public I call him DM.

"Hey, X," he says. That's his name for me, short for Explosive Squirter. Nevada says he's tired of his room. He wants a sleepover. 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. and they like him, despite their low tolerance for young people. It's possible they like him better than they like me. He says his parents are not really there, because they're often away, and even when they're home they're kinda distant. I've offered to trade parents — I'd really like more distance. 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 soon."

I can probably handle downstairs if I don't look at either of them. I'll go straight to the sink and start washing dishes, kinda slumped over, like I'm sorry 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 soapy 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'm washing her cup like it's 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 that signal I'm getting red in the face. WTF!

"What?"

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

Sheesh!

"Mom?"

"Uhuh?"

"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 aren't. You know if there's any ruckus, your dad'll just send him home."

"Okay. No loud music after ten."

"Sleeeeerrrrrrkkkkkk," wails the saw.

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