“Jesus Christ,” Mandi muttered, wrapping the pillow around her ears. The bedframe banged rhythmically on the other side, accompanied by muffled moans and laughter.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the phosphorescent stars peeling off her ceiling. This was the third time this week. The bedrooms shared the same thin wall that barely muffled anything. She knew the routine: the groans would increase, followed by a sharp gasp from her mom, then silence except for the occasional pillow talk she couldn’t quite make out.
Mandi felt shock through her body at her mom’s next scream, “GIVE ME THAT BIG DICK!”
That was new, Mandi mused, blinking at the ceiling. Her heart quickened with embarrassment. It wasn’t as if they weren’t happy; she’d walked in on her dad bending her mom over the kitchen counter last summer, but lately… The images flickered in her mind unbidden, memories she’d rather forget. It seemed like they didn’t care who heard them. Another moan and her cheeks flushed hot, a vivid reminder of the walls that could not protect her from the sex life of her parents. The headboard slammed again.
She reached for her headphones, but the cord caught on her nightstand, sending the phone crashing to the floor. The noise next door stopped. Mandi froze, holding the snarled cords. She heard footsteps, bare feet on the polished wood, and she watched the knob turn slowly in the soft glow of the galaxy light on the dresser.
The door opened barely enough to reveal her mom’s flushed face and wild hair. “Sweetheart, did you—”
“I dropped my phone,” Mandi interrupted. She pointed at the floor, where the screen now showed a cracked screen. “Go back to… whatever.” Her cheeks reddened.
The door opened wider. The odor of sweat and sex drifted in. Mandi saw her dad behind her mom, a sheet around his waist.
“We didn’t wake you, did we?” her mom asked.
Mandi’s jaw tensed, her breath catching in her throat. She balled her hands, feeling the sheet strain against her grip. “I’ve been awake since the first headboard slam.” The words came out sharper than she intended, but she didn’t care. Let them squirm.
Her mom’s eyes shifted—guilt or amusement, Mandi couldn’t tell.
“Honey, we’re married,” she said, as if that explained everything.
“At least tell me when you’re going to fuck so I can sleep in Anne’s room,” Mandi hissed. The lamp spun on, lighting her mom’s sweaty face. Mandi glanced down, noticing the wet inner thighs. Her mom let out a sigh, resting on the doorframe. She whispered, “Language,” her words hanging in the air with the weight of unspoken disappointment, as if Mandi had missed the joke. Her parents said goodnight, and just before the door closed, Mandi called out, “Just how big IS your dick, Daddy?”
Mandi didn’t fully understand what drove her to taunt them with that question. Part of her wanted to break the tension with humor, to make them as awkward as she felt. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t deny the fire it sparked within her, a mix of protest and something else. The door paused mid-motion. The door closed with a click, muffling her dad’s laugh. Mandi dropped onto her back, elated and sick at the same time. Fuck, I need to get laid, she thought. She stared at the lamp, a fixture of her room from when she was five, one of the last symbols of her childhood. She looked around her room. Everything had changed from when she was a kid; the room had changed to the home of a young woman now, except for the lamp and Mr. Bear.
She tossed, sleep eluding her. When it finally came, her dreams were obscene: her teacher, Mr. Kowalski, with a comically oversized ruler labeled “BIG DICK,” and an equally large bulge in his pants; a fat spaghetti strand rising from a pot like a semi-hard cock. She woke around 3 AM to moans. She buried her face in the pillow until sleep claimed her.
The next dream felt real. Jake, whom she wanted as her boyfriend, stood in her bedroom holding a Subway sandwich, except it wasn’t a sandwich. “Eat fresh,” he offered, holding his 10-inch cock. When she touched it, he covered her with a spray of sperm. She jerked awake with a gasp, the nightlight throwing accusing shadows. Her sheets were damp around her thighs, her pajama top sticky. She raised her hand, gasping as it brushed her hard, extra-sensitive nipples.
Through the wall, her dad snored; idly she wondered how Mom could stand it. Mandi squeezed her eyes shut. She knew why her brain kept serving up these nightmares: that damned question she’d lobbed at them earlier.
The next dream came. She was naked, sitting in a classroom. Every desk had a dick-shaped pencil sharpener, and her mom was at the chalkboard, diagraming female anatomy with a ruler.
“Measure twice, cut once,” her mom chirped, winking as the ruler smacked the board, making Mandi jump. Next to her, Amy fellated a banana, taking it down her throat without gagging.
She woke with a start at 3:47 AM, her skin crawling. Kicking off the damp sheets, the galaxy light shifted on its axis, making it look like her dresser was breathing. She tried to sleep again.
The dreams stuck to her, Jake’s hands sliding up her thighs in the backseat of his car, his mouth hot against her neck while the radio played some song she couldn’t place. It wasn’t the first time she’d dreamed it; in fact, she liked it, hoping it was a vision of what her destiny was. This was the first time her brain had supplied the details so vividly: the way his fingers had wavered at the waistband of her underwear and the sharp intake of breath when she’d humped against him. The electricity of his touch, the pleasure/pain as he took her virginity. She squeezed her thighs together, equal parts ashamed and frustrated. Was this what happened when your only sex-ed came through thin walls and lessons taught in school by the only virgin on the staff?
In her dream, she moved under Jake, naked and wanton, his lips on her nipples. Suddenly, his voice deepened and roughened. “You like that, princess?” Jake murmured, she blinked, it wasn’t Jake anymore. Her father’s face wasn’t as clear, but his wedding ring glinted sharply as he grabbed hold of her waist. Then, the nightmare bled through. Mandi tried to scream, but her voice failed, her limbs leaden. The car turned into her bedroom, the night light glowing red, casting her dad’s shadow across the ceiling. His hands, too familiar—pushed her knees apart.
“Ready for my BIG DICK?”
Mandi jackknifed upright, gasping, tangled in the sheets. Her room was silent, apart from her heart hammering in her chest. She placed her fingers on her throat, breathing hard. She kicked free, her skin crawling with the memory of hands that should never touch her that way. At that moment, the galaxy light shifted. It offered comfort, a light against the shadows lurking in her mind.
A tear rolled down her face. She swiped it away, her stomach churning. Despite the dream’s violation, the dampness between her legs served as a sign that she was ready to become a woman.
Mandi searched for her hoodie, pulling it over her head like a shield. The fabric carried a subtle masculine scent; her father had snuggled with her while watching TV. The memory should’ve been innocent. Instead, it made her hands tremble.
Fuck. I need to get laid. Why am I saving myself? Jake’s not going to wait forever.
Mandi knew she had it going on. She was pretty and smart, but she was also shy. This was the first year of school where she would not be ‘Anne’s little sister’. Anne. They loved each other, sure, and were best friends, but God, it sucked being her sister. Anne, a tall and thin woman with model-worthy beauty, her natural red hair reaching her ass and firm tits. She was part of the IT crowd, the clique Mandi avoided like the plague. Thank God she graduated last year.
It wasn’t just their looks that set them apart. Mandi and Anne differed at their core—Mandi was all about keeping a low profile and working hard, while Anne thrived on attention and spontaneity. Mandi remembered a day at the beach when they were younger: a sudden storm had rolled in, Mandi insisted on getting inside, Anne laughed, dancing in the rain and pulling Mandi along with her. It was moments when Mandi envied Anne’s fearless embrace of life.
Jake’s going to choose someone else.
Mandi closed her eyes, but the image wouldn’t dissolve: Jake’s sun-bleached hair darkening into her dad’s salt-and-pepper curls, his lean teenage frame broadening into the solid weight of a man who’d spent twenty-three years in the military. Worst of all, the pressure between her thighs, the dream-sensation of something thick and insistent pushing into her. She sighed. She knew what she needed to do. Her hand slipped into her panties, fingers skimming the curls beneath. She held back. This was wrong. Wasn’t it? Her body ached for release. She’d masturbated before but still felt guilty after every climax.
You know you’re hot. Why aren’t you out there? Why haven’t you made Jake yours? Would it be so wrong not to wait until marriage? Why am I not in love? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?
She pressed two fingers against herself experimentally. A tremor raced down her back, great, but mixed with guilt. She thought of Jake’s hands on her body, then winced as her brain unhelpfully supplied the image of her dad’s wedding ring. Mandi bit down on her lip, focusing on masturbating, on the way her hips twitched forward of their own accord when she traced around her clit just right. Her breath became uneven. The hoodie sleeve muffled the sound as she covered her mouth. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—a conflict of guilt and lust, her body needing release as her mind screamed. She shut her eyes firmly, but the darkness only intensified the images: Jake, then her dad. Dad opens her legs. HOW BIG IS YOUR COCK, DADDY? Cock this time, not Dick. Cock sounded dirtier. Mandi’s fingers quickened, chasing relief, guts snapping tighter until — a board creaked outside her door.
Mandi froze, fingers slick and trembling. There were footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Her dad. Her heart beat wildly in her breast as the footsteps paused outside her bedroom. She could feel him there, hovering in the dark, listening to her. Had he heard her in the quiet?
Her hand stayed between her thighs, trapped between the need to yank them away and the throb of needing more. She was wet; her bedding, soaked. The door didn’t open. Mandi’s muscles locked, her thighs shaking around her hand. STOP, her thoughts screamed, but her body rebelled. Her fingers rubbed slowly, her modesty losing the battle with the slick heat in her belly.
She reached the peak, hips jerking up and down, her back arching off the bed as the orgasm ripped through, unstoppable. “Give me that big—” The words muffled by her pullover sleeve, but the last word stuck in her throat. She bit down until her jaw ached, thighs clamping around her hand as pleasure crested into something hot and shameful.
Morning arrived like a bucket of cold water. Mandi sat at the breakfast table in silence, ignoring her cereal, now a soggy mess. Her mom chirped about airports and conference calls. Anne, her older sister, kicked her under the table.
“You look like you got hit by a bus,” Anne whispered. Mandi flipped the middle finger at her.
“I leave for Singapore for three months tomorrow,” their mom announced, stirring honey into her tea. “They need me for the new treaty draft.” She beamed as if this were good news.
“Short notice, Mom.” Mandi felt sick. Three months alone with Dad, with whatever it was last night, heavy on her mind.
Anne snorted into her orange juice. “So that’s why you’re going at it like rabbits?” She threw a grape at her mother, and it fell into her blouse. “Pre-mission baby-making fuckfest?”
Their dad coughed on his coffee, spraying droplets across the sports section. Mandi stared at her sister like she’d grown a second head.
Their mom didn’t even blush—she just winked. “You girls are old enough to understand,” she said, with a sweet voice. “We’re married. We fuck.” The word landed like a grenade in the sunny kitchen. Mandi’s spoon dropped into the bowl.
“Language!” the siblings said in unison, mimicking their mother’s usual scolding tone. Their dad buried his face deeper in the newspaper. Mandi could see his shoulders shake, laughing or cringing; she couldn’t tell. Anne lobbed another grape, this time hitting him square on the forehead. The paper rustled as he lowered it only enough to reveal one raised eyebrow—his patented Don’t Make Me Come Over There look.
“Anyway,” Anne announced, pulling her hair over one shoulder like she was starring in a teen drama, “Don’t forget I’m dipping out of this sex dungeon too. Me and the girls are crashing at Jess’s aunt’s place in Manhattan, starting tomorrow.” She grinned at Mandi, all teeth. “Which means you get Daddy Dearest all to yourself.” Their dad’s coffee cup hit the table.
Their mom dabbed her lips with a napkin, unfazed. “Perfect timing—I’ll be in Singapore; you’ll be getting blackout drunk in SoHo…” She ticked the points off. “And Mandi can finally learn how to do laundry without turning everything pink.”
Mandi flushed. “One damn time…”
Mom reached across the table to pinch Mandi’s cheek as if she were five. Anne scraped her chair back. “Speaking of pink,” she sing-songed, waggling her freshly manicured nails—bubblegum with glitter tips—in Mandi’s face, “I’ll leave my vibrator under my pillow if you get desperate.” Their dad laughed. Mandi’s face felt hotter than the sun. The rest of the day, Mandi barricaded herself in her room and tried to lose herself in studying. She envied Anne. She wanted to go to New York to party, sightsee, and maybe even get laid.
The next day was Monday. Mandi dragged herself through another restless night, haunted by her father’s presence intruding into every dream. Her mind couldn’t escape that question: How big is your dick, Daddy?
Mandi ate breakfast alone, Anne in her room, singing along with Siouxsie and the Banshees as she finished packing. Dad was already out the door. School was a reprieve—until it wasn’t. Trigonometry blurred into gibberish as Mandi gnawed on her pencil, staring at Mr. Kowalski. She found herself almost able to see the dick-shaped pencil sharpeners on every desk, like in her dream.
The bell screeched. Mandi bolted like the room were on fire, dodging locker collisions until she hit the girls’ bathroom. Splashing cold water on her face did nothing. Neither did counting tiles. Everywhere she looked—the soap dispenser nozzle, the wonky faucet handle—her brain supplied comparisons. GIVE ME THAT BIG DICK.
She sat on the toilet; the stress crushing her chest.
Spanish was worse. Señora Alvarez brandished a ruler to show verb conjugations, and suddenly, Mandi was back in her dream classroom with dick-shaped pencil sharpeners. “El verbo ‘tener,’” Alvarez intoned, smacking the ruler against the whiteboard. SMACK. Mandi flinched. She saw her mother pointing at an anatomy chart. Two rows over, Jake smirked like he knew—like he’d felt her staring at his hands, the same ones that had ghosted up her thighs in last night’s dream. Her pencil snapped.
Walking down the hall, Mandi clutched her bookbag to her chest, hunched down as if she could be invisible. It was as if she had superhearing. Here, two girls talked about the finer points of cocksucking. There, boys rating the asses of the women walking by. Low voices caught her attention.
“Ms. Davis… I think I’m in love with her.”
Another voice said, “Eww, she’s way older.”
A third girl added, “Well, according to a book I read, most girls’ first love is someone older.” The voice dropped conspiratorially, “Many girls fall for their mom or dad.”
Mandi frowned, That can’t be right… can it?
Something inside Mandi flipped. She hurried back to the restroom, her chest tightening with each step, just before the tears flowed. She was late to class, eyes red and emotionally drained.
Lunch brought no relief. The cafeteria’s pizza made her stomach lurch. Amy plopped down across from her, brandishing a banana like a baton. “So,” Amy said, peeling it slowly, “your sister tells me your parents are, like, super into each other.”
Mandi stared at the cheerleader. The same age, but a senior, not a junior like Mandi. Getting no response, Amy stared. “Mandi, what’s wrong? Have you been crying?”
The bell pealed like a mercy. Mandi made her way into the hallway and froze. Someone had drawn a cock on the locker next to hers in thick black Sharpie, its artistry unmistakable. The grotesque image featured fine detail, with veins and hair curling at the base with disturbing realism. Mandi thought it could have been a contender for the ‘Locker Room Art of the Year’ award if it weren’t so disturbing. As the hallway noise dimmed, Mandi’s heart slammed in her ears, and a strong whiff of fresh ink mingled with the scent of body spray lingering from passing freshmen. Just above the image, faint initials ‘J.T.’ could be seen, partially obscured by the drawing. Mandi barely made it to the bathroom before she heaved up her lunch.
A teacher walking by heard her. Her parents were called, and Dad showed up to take the sick girl home. The drive home was torture. Her dad drummed his fingers on the wheel in time with the radio’s bassline. Mandi rested her forehead against the window, counting mailboxes to avoid stealing a glance at his hands. The gentle summer breeze outside contrasted with the knot in her stomach, a clashing mix of emotions. They passed the motel with the flashing VACANCY sign, pink like Anne’s stupid vibrator. Mandi gulped nervously.
For a moment, Mandi’s mind flashed back to when she was younger, her dad’s firm hands steadying her bike as she wobbled down…
