Why Isn't Anything Fun Anymore?

You slipped into home and marched directly into your room. You had been sent home early for fighting, again, and you rather not have that conversation. You weren’t even involved this time, but you were in the same place it happened, you got blamed, and you got punished. It’s not that your mother even gives you grief about it; it’s still embarrassing.

You throw your backpack on the bed, take your anger out on your heavybag for a few minutes, then throw yourself into your recliner when you feel sufficiently worn out. God, school fucking sucks. Can’t exist for five minutes without someone bitching you out about something. Doesn’t help that you know how to lay any one of them out, but you can’t because that only makes things worse. You just have to take it. You’re sure they singled you out, because you’re the loner who knows too much about inappropriate subjects with the weird single mom. Would certainly explain why your locker keeps getting picked in the “random” drug sweeps. Half-formed plans of how to deface some of the faculty’s vehicles or residences race through your head, plans you would never follow through on but provide some small comfort for existing.

After a few heaving breaths of resentment, you raid your hidden stash for a porn rag that you had acquired. You had actually met the model on the front cover, now naked except for a towel and her own hands, about a year ago. She had been one of the co-stars of your mother’s productions, where the “studio” is run out of the former hotel you two call “home.” She had called you a handsome lad and given you a hug that was just a bit too tight and a bit too long. You are well familiar with the business your mother runs and were no longer exceptionally impressed by the actresses or actors that would come into your home, or their antics, but that one had gotten to you. You had an active imagination ever since you could conceive of sex featuring a carousel of attractive people, real and imagined, but she had been a more frequent star then others recently. As you examine the image of her looking back at you with lurid desire, you imagine her on the bed on the other side of the room, and you on top of her. You’re certain that she actually wanted that too back then too; because of your mother’s vocation, you have become familiar with certain unintentional gestures and looks and what they mean. You’ve also noticed those looks are sometimes directed at you, more often than some other people would like to admit. You don’t particularly care because you’re used to freaks, but there are at least a couple teachers at the school you wouldn’t recommend being alone with. Thank god music is only an elective. You figure you could teach yourself better anywa--

Brain, where are you going? We’re trying to focus on a fantasy here.

You decide that you need something more intense to get yourself off. Instead of the bed, you have mentally suspended the model from the stand where your heavybag now hung. Like your mother, you have acquired a taste for the more violent flavor of erotica that she peddles for fun and profit. You imagine the feeling of your knuckles raking the model’s ribs and sinking into her stomach, treating her like you had treated the leather bag just moments before. It was good that you had that much exercise equipment at all; you want to do the weights too but that is one of the few things that makes your mother pull rank on you. “Will make you stay short,” she says. You’re pretty sure that’s actually a myth but it’s not like she ever listens to you. Whatever, you cheat anyway with the bad. It’s a good 80 lbs, but you’ve trained yourself to the point that you can easily lift it over your head. That should come in handy when you’re finally allowed in the--

Brain! Focus!

You sigh, eyes turning towards the afternoon sun out your window. Maybe, you need to replay a memory instead. It’s not as if you have no experience like some loser. Like Susie, who you share algebra with. She had offered to help you “study,” but you had known what that meant, and had accepted the offer, more than once. You recalled how she smelt, how she had felt, how she sounded as you had taken her virginity in her own bedroom, very quietly as not to alert her parents. That had been pretty good. Maybe you need to schedule another study session with her sometime; sure, they’re for fun, but you two also do some legit studying too, and statistics has been kicking your grade in the ass. Whose big idea was it to make a mean and a median different thi--?

Goddammit, brain, you’re trying to…oh, whatever. You give up.

…

Why isn’t anything fun anymore?

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