The old man invites me into the basement to play pool.  Surprisingly, at only eleven I can shoot, but that’s what happens when you have your own table. 

The lights hum and flicker as they illuminate the smooth green felt. 

“Rack em.”

In all the years I’ve played with him he’s never let me break.  I rack the balls, and organize them as he taught me.  When they’re just right I pull the rack off, and they’re left waiting for destruction.

Blue chalk.  Squeak.  Aim.  Smack!

Colours jump across the table.  Universes were created like this.  No balls drop.

As I line up the best shot, my father walks around to the small wood panel bar at the other end of the table.  I miss, and when I look up my father is handing me a sweating can of beers.  If this isn’t a father son moment I don’t know what is.

“Don’t tell your mother.”

“Yessir.”

I crack the beer and take my first frothy sip.  At least that’s what my dad thinks, Mike Ditka and myself have been sneaking beers from there since we were ten.

My father works methodically, and mechanically.  His shots don’t miss.  With each tap he drops a ball, and before I know it the table is nearly bare.

“Don’t scratch,” I joke.

He doesn’t scratch.  He’s never scratched.

I start to grab the rack but he beats me to it.

“This time, you break.”

“Yessir.”

The pressure weighs down on my shoulders.  I’m old enough and strong enough to hold it up.  Excitement fills my belly, and my father starts to talk.

“You know, you’re at an age now where things are changing.”

I never expected this.  Television and my friends have ruined this moment.  My father is such a stern soft spoken man; I never imagined we’d have the old father-son talk.  I’m growing embarrassed for him.

“You’re going to start running on hormones and chasing after girls.  That’s fine, but you gotta be smart about it.”

Hearing the words trickle off of his lips makes my face hot.  I stand leaning on my cue.

“The first thing to make sure is that you always have a condom.  Believe me, I’ve been caught without one and spent a few sleepless nights over it.  There’s a lot of sluts out there so you want to make sure you’re protected, and lotsa girls are against abortion now since that Juno movie, so you don’t want a baby on the way.  It’s best to start with foreplay.  You know, necking or kissing, and then you start with the breasts.  Always start with the breasts.  Pass me that ball.  Now when you start rubbing them…”

On the table my father has his hands groping and massaging two pool balls.  I don’t want to hear this from him.  Why won’t he just stop?

“… just make sure not to pinch the nipple too hard.  Now when you start heading a little lower on a girl make sure to be gentle, it’s not a playground…”

I try to block out what he’s saying, but can’t because of the detailed visuals he’s miming.  He sticks his finger out and pulls it towards himself as he acts out his description.

“… they just love that.  So if she’s ready for sex go for it.  If she isn’t ready don’t push it, and take it from me you don’t want a virgin, what a mess that makes.  So, don’t start with anything fancy, just missionary.  Get that down first, and then you can start changing it up, maybe doggy, or reverse-cowboy.  Don’t let her make you do all the work.”

My stomach feels lodged in my neck, and I’m nauseous from the vulgarity coming out of my hero’s mouth.  He’s transformed into a horny monster.  My vision of him is quickly turning into the half goat satyr we believe to be the devil.  I’m disgusted because I can only think of my mother as he speaks.

“Now you probably won’t last long your first time, depending on how much you masturbate, but it’s no big deal.  During my first time, I was done before I even took my pants off.”

He snickers as he reminisces perverted nostalgia.

“Dinner’s ready boys,” my mom calls down the stairs.

I chug the rest of my beer, and some of it gets stuck in my throat.  I run up the stairs.

My mother serves her homemade sausages.  They’re steaming and ready to be eaten.  My appetite has vanished.  My father reaches across the table and pincers a plump sausage into his bun.

“These look delicious.”

He grins at my mother, and with the same twisted grin he looks me in the eye and winks. 

Beer foams up from my guts and pours out of my mouth.