Sadly, trying to masturbate in my parents’ home is just as exciting as trying to have sex in it was when Sam and I first started dating and I lived there. Right when I got a good fantasy going in my head, my father burst into my room, staring in a daze at nothing. He has a bad habit of sleep-walking, and seeing him standing in my doorway in a pair of baggy boxer shorts, no shirt, black dress socks and one of my mother’s pink, frilly robes draped over his shoulders, immediately killed any desire I had to diddle myself and secretly lord it over Sam.
Sam, who looks so damn good in those shorts and that tight t-shirt, that I want to rip them off his body and climb him like a mountain, thumbs up emoji be damned. He can take that thumb and stick it up my-
“HOLY SHIT, GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME!”
Sam’s shout from the middle of the yard pulls me out of my day dream. I blink a few times to clear my head and I see him jumping around in circles, kicking his leg out to try and remove Turd Ferguson, who has once again latched his claws and teeth to Sam’s thigh. I quickly bend down and grab the hose, running across the yard until I’m jerked to a stop a few feet from him when the hose runs out of length. Pulling it up in front of me, I press the button on the nozzle as Aunt Bobbie comes racing up behind me, screaming at the top of her lungs.
“NOOOOOOOO, DON’T SPRAY HIM! HASN’T HE BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH?”
The water erupts from the nozzle, drenching Sam and the zombie cat. The cat immediately unlatches himself from Sam’s leg, flopping to the grass in a puddle of wet fur and pissed-off yowling, scurrying away to the opposite side of the yard where he disappears around the corner of the house.
“I’ve never seen a pussy that wet before,” Alex laughs. “Good thing you chased it away with the hose or Sam might have started humping it.”
I’m oblivious to the punch Sam gives to Alex’s arm or the retching and dry-heaving my brother is doing next to both of them, as I slowly lower my arms and the hose slips out of my hands. I’ve become obsessed with the way the water drips down Sam’s body and how his t-shirt clings to his abs and I’m wondering why I’ve never entered him in a wet t-shirt contest before. I start squirming while I stand here staring at him, rubbing my thighs together to stop the ache between my legs, not even caring that I’m currently in the middle of having a real-life wet dream in front of my family.
“I recognize that glazed look in Noel’s eyes. Quick, someone say something not hot before she catches what Sam has and starts mounting inanimate objects!” Alex suddenly shouts.
“You stay away from my fireworks, Sam! I don’t care if they have a phallic shape, there will be no humping of the explosives!” my father pipes up, his voice quickly dousing the flames growing in my vagina and snapping me back to attention.
My father and Sam start shouting back and forth, my mother and Aunt Bobbie argue about which one of them will go after Turd Ferguson and remove him from the property before tomorrow and he starts attacking random guests, Alex points and laughs at a still dry-heaving Nicholas, and I suddenly take a minute to look around the yard.
After letting go of the wedding planning and trusting my family to take care of everything, it’s been a struggle not to ask a thousand questions whenever they’d start whispering or leave the room to take a phone call. Looking around the yard and what they’ve done, restores my faith in them, even if they’re all currently acting like idiots and the neighbors have started to come outside to see what all the commotion is about.
I silently turn in a circle to take everything in, trying not to cry as I do so. My mother has somehow managed to remove almost every bit of Fourth of July decorations from the yard, or at least all the ones with the color blue in them, leaving nothing behind but red and white twinkling lights and red and white lighted stars hanging from all the trees.
We chose red and white as our wedding colors, mostly because having our wedding on the Fourth of July meant it would be easy to find things in those colors this time of year. In reality, Sam said the only decision he really cared about was picking the colors, because he wanted the color red for Ohio State, our favorite college football team.
After our whirlwind Christmas romance and the craziness of Valentine’s Day when I worried the proposal he gave me at Christmas wasn’t real, thinking I lost the family heirloom ring he gave me somewhere inside a stripper, and that we didn’t know each other well enough to be engaged, we spent the week following Valentine’s Day really getting to know each other. We asked every question known to man, and when I asked who his favorite college football team is and we both shouted “Ohio State Buckeyes” at the same time, it solidified the fact that we were meant to be together. That fact was proven even further when I moved in with him and the two of us had so many Ohio State t-shirts and sweatshirts, that we made the spare bedroom a Buckeye room. We painted the walls scarlet and grey and the closet held nothing but our OSU gear.
When I mentioned the color choice reason to my mother, she flipped out and started yelling and crying about a football themed wedding and how appalling it would be to have “Shabby Cat” Ohio State decorations.
The tears fall from my eyes, realizing my mother doesn’t just live to drive me crazy. Every once in a while, she actually listens and does something to make me happy. Still ignoring the shouts from behind me, I slowly take in everything around me: The rows of white folding chairs with red, satin ribbons tied around the back with the small, Ohio State “O” symbol nestled in the middle of each bow. The red aisle runner lining the grass in between the seating and leading up to a giant, wooden, block letter “O”, painted red and lined in white. It’s the focal point of the yard and acts as the canopy for us to stand under to say our vows, the bottom cut off so Sam and I can easily walk under it. I gently swipe away more tears when I see a huge, stop and repeat banner off to the side with a life-sized photo of the Horseshoe stadium printed on it, so guests can have their photos taken in front of it.
I feel Sam come up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me back against his wet chest as the two of us quietly look around at what my mother’s done.
A short distance away from where the ceremony will take place, white tents have been set up with round tables underneath, each one covered in red linen with red and white roses nestled in square silver containers in the center of each one. A wooden dance floor has been installed in the middle of the all the tables with a giant letter “S” next to a giant letter “N” painted in the center of the floor, the letters in Ohio State block shape, in scarlet red lined with white.
“I know you said no ice sculpture, but that’s one decision I had to veto,” my mother says, coming to stand next to us as she points at a table with a red cloth draped over the top under one of the tents.
Sam and I turn our heads in that direction, neither of us saying a word.
“That’s going to be the dessert table and since I ordered two hundred homemade buckeyes from those nice ladies at Seduction and Snacks, we needed something to keep them from melting,” she explains. “Your father tried to make an O out of the ice blocks I ordered, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get it to not look like an oddly-shaped boob.”
“They were NOT oddly shaped; they were spectacular ice boobs!” my father argues.
My mother sighs before continuing.
“Anyway, I found a local company who could do an exact replica of the O and they’re going to drop it off tomorrow morning. We’ll spread the buckeyes all around the base and they’ll keep cool all day. I’ve also made a sign letting people know they will be removed from the premise if they pee and or try to stick their tongue to the ice.”
My mother barely finishes her explanation when I pull out of Sam’s arms and launch myself against her, giving her a tight hug.
“It’s perfect, Mom. I love everything,” I whisper as she runs her hand down the back of my head.
“I love it too, Bev. You did such an amazing job,” Sam agrees, moving in to join the hug when my mother lets
go of me with one of her arms to hold it out to the side, inviting him in.
“Good, I’m glad the two of you like it and you’re happy. Please remember this feeling when I tell you what I’m about to tell you,” my mother says, dropping her arms from around us and taking a few steps back.
“I thought you were going to wait until tomorrow for this?” Aunt Bobbie asks, walking over to us with her hands linked through Nicholas and Alex’s elbows.
“I was, but I just got a text and circumstances have changed,” Bev tells her, giving Sam and me a worried look.
“Mom, what did you do?” I ask softly, trying very hard not to ruin the euphoria I’m feeling about how great the yard looks and knowing how perfect tomorrow will be.
“Remember when you explained to me why I couldn’t invite so many people because Sam doesn’t have anyone, and you didn’t want him to be sad when we had a bunch of people sitting on our side of the aisle and he didn’t have anyone?” she asks.
Sam leans down and kisses the top of my head as I try to think back to that night I drank my weight in vodka and what I may or may not have drunkenly slurred to my mother.
“I love you so much,” he whispers into my ear, making me momentarily forget that my mother is about to drop a bomb on us.
I turn my head to look up at him, taking in his full lips, the dimples in his cheeks, and his blue eyes as they stare down at me, knowing without a doubt that no matter what my mother says next, I’m putting an end to this no-sex interval. As soon as Scheva gets here later for the rehearsal practice, her number one duty as my maid of honor is going to be figuring out a way to sneak Sam into my old bedroom window tonight so I can bang the hell out of him. It’s the least she can do now that I can no longer stomach the sight of butter. My morning coffee and slice of toast has been sad, plain and pathetic since Buttergate 2016.
“Well, what you said about Sam not having anyone got me thinking and you’ll be happy to know I fixed the problem and now no one will be sad,” my mother continues, forcing my gaze away from Sam’s mouth to look at her.
“HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY, MOTHER FUCKERS! ‘MURICA!”
The shout from the side of the house has all of us turning in that direction to see a man walk into the backyard.
“Surprise,” my mother announces weakly.
Sam drops his arm from around me and curses under his breath as I try not to stare at the guy. He’s wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts, much shorter than the ones I’m wearing and so miniscule that the pockets of the things hang down below the frayed edges. His knee-high socks have American flags on them, partially hidden behind the tall, tan unlaced work boots on his feet that clunk all around as he waltzes toward us.
“I brought the good stuff, Sam! Who’s ready to drink some Natty Light?!” he asks with a smile, lifting the case of beer above his head when he stops a few feet from us.
Unfortunately, this motion causes the tight t-shirt he’s wearing with a bald eagle printed on it, that was already showing off his bulging gut due to it being hacked off unevenly across the middle, to rise up above his unnaturally large nipples and abundantly hairy chest.
“Sammy, you crazy-ass mother fucker! I can’t believe you’re getting hitched,” the guy says with a smile and a shake of his head, tearing open the case of beer and taking out a can of Natural Light before setting the box down in the grass by his feet.
He looks over at Aunt Bobbie and gives her a wink.
“Is this the old ball-and-chain? Look at you, Sammy, all grown up and snatching yourself a hot one. How you doin’, purty lady?” he asks, pulling back the beer tab on his can and quickly bringing it to his mouth, loudly slurping the liquid that sprayed out and collected around the rim.
“’MURICA!” he shouts again, holding his can up in a toast before tossing it back, chugging the entire thing, then crumpling the empty can in his fist and tossing it into the grass.
“Holy shit, is that Ralph?” Alex mutters.
I turn my head to see him staring at the guy in front of us with his mouth dropped open and his eyes wide, my head swiveling back to this Ralph guy that Alex seems to recognize, when I hear him crack open another beer.
“I take it you guys know each other?” I ask softly, as Ralph adjusts the American flag bandana tied around his head, lets out a loud belch and pats his protruding stomach.
“The name’s Ralph, but all my friends call me Fat Ralph,” he informs me, holding his hand out to me.
I tentatively slide my hand into his, wondering why Sam is still remaining silent and not introducing us. Ralph’s sweaty, meaty hand engulfs mine and I try not to cringe as he shakes it, giving me a squeeze and yanking me toward him when I try to let go.
“We’re so glad you could come to the wedding on such short notice,” my mother announces happily, moving to Ralph’s side and patting him on the back to try and get his attention away from me as I shoot her a panicked look when he still won’t let go of my hand.
“You’re a purty one too. Not as hot as the redhead with the big hands over there, but you’ll do in a pinch. You got a date for this shindig tomorrow?” Ralph asks me.
Sam finally wakes up, taking a step forward to grab my shoulders and pull me back away from Ralph, tucking me protectively under his arm. Sadly, he still hasn’t remembered how to speak.
“How…why…when…HOW?” he mutters, the last word going up a few octaves, signaling that he’s pretty close to losing his shit.
“Aunt Bobbie and I snuck into your house when you and Noel were at work a few weeks ago,” my mother starts to explain nervously as Ralph turns his head in her direction and gives her a wink. “We went through your address book to find the addresses of some of your fellow Marines so we could send them wedding invitations, when we came across Ralph’s name.”
Ralph leans in and sniffs my mother’s hair.
“I told you, my friends call me Fat Ralph. You smell like a purty bouquet of flowers, hot stuff. What say we get this celebration started early, grab us a bucket of fried chicken from the KFC and make our own fireworks?”
My mother laughs uneasily, shooting my father her own panicked look, but he just casually slides his hands into his front pockets.
“I could go for some fried chicken. And if we’re being honest, I’m still exhausted from trying to get that coat rack of a hard-on to go down after last week. I could use some help,” he tells her with a shrug.
Ralph wags his eyebrows at her and she quickly moves a few feet away from him visibly shuddering when he never takes his eyes off of her as he bends down and grabs another beer from the case at his feet, shouting another “’MURICA!” in toast when he snaps open the tab.
“I’m beginning to see the error of my ways,” my mother whispers.
“What Bev is trying to explain, is that we saw Ralph’s name-” Aunt Bobbie pipes up, stopping mid-sentence when Ralph points at her.
“Sorry, we saw Fat Ralph’s name,” she corrects.
“Thank you kindly, sweet tits,” he says with a wink as Aunt Bobbie continues.
“And next to his name and address was the word FAM. So we assumed it stood for family and, of course, we had to send him an invitation,” she finishes.
“Is that true? Is this one of your relatives?” I ask, my head whipping around to look at a still shocked and tongue-tied Sam.
I’ve always felt badly that Sam never knew what it was like to have a family since he was an only child and his parents were killed in a car accident when he was a baby. He grew up moving around between foster homes, and even though he’s told me on more than one occasion that he didn’t have a bad childhood, I still couldn’t stop feeling sad about it. Especially when it came time to plan our wedding and make our guest list, and Sam had nothing to contribute. Even if Fat Ralph is the trashiest hillbilly on the face of the earth, I’m still going to be happy for Sam that he has one person here tomorrow to support him, and try not to be upset that he never told me about this guy. As Fat Ralph lets out another
loud burp, I can kind of see why he chose to keep this part of his family tree a secret and I immediately forgive him.
“Shit, I’m not just a relative, I’m his brother!” Fat Ralph announces with a smile, showcasing a gap in the front where one of his teeth is missing.
“No, no, no, not my real brother,” Sam quickly ads, seeing the way my body suddenly tenses with this news. “Foster brother, I guess. Sort of. I mean, I lived with his family for one summer right before I turned eighteen.”
“That was a damn good summer, Shit Sock Sammy,” Fat Ralph laughs. “Did you tell them about the shit sock story? You probably did and left out all the good parts. How about we go inside so I can see what you got in your fridge and tell you how Sam got his nickname.”
My mother, Aunt Bobbie, Nicholas, and my father quickly move to lead the way as Fat Ralph grabs his case of beer and heads toward the house, most likely wanting to make sure they get there before him and he doesn’t start inhaling the food that started to be delivered today for the wedding.
“I can’t believe everything you said about him was true,” Alex whispers, still staring wide-eyed at Fat Ralph’s retreating back.
“And you didn’t believe me when I told you he was just like Cousin Eddie from the movie Christmas Vacation, but a thousand times worse,” Sam adds with a deep sigh.
Sam, Alex, and I watch Fat Ralph reach behind Aunt Bobbie and pinch her ass right before they make it to the kitchen door. In the blink of an eye, she turns, grabs his arm and yanks his entire body up and over her as she bends forward, the three of us wincing when his back slams into the ground.