Date: Fri, 26 Aug 2011 18:07:46 -0600 From: Ima Betch Subject: He Sired Me Note: This story is fictitious and contains things that society considers completely unacceptable. You have been warned. Part 1 "So how did Cronus rise to power?" Mrs. Clemens let the question hang over us. "Billy?" she asked after a while. My mouth curled and I turned to look back at Billy, raising my eyebrows at him. He flinched and looked at Mrs. Clemens. "Cronos was jealous of his father, Uranus, for being so powerful. He was enabled by his mother, Gaia, who was angry over Cronos's treatment of her other children. She crafted a sickle, Cronos's prototypical weapon, and she gave it to him, because he was the only titan with the guts to emasculate his own father. Titan means `straining one'. Probably because Cronos and his brethren were so difficult to keep bound, even after Cronos was avenged for cutting off his father's dick." Mrs. Clemens tightened her lips. "I think you will all find that children rebelling against their parents is a common theme in Greek and Roman mythology. Which should be something you can relate to, seeing as you basically a pack of rebellious teenagers." She laughed, but everyone else was silent. Unrattled, she cleared her throat and continued. "Zeus, who was Cronos's son, locked him and the other titans away, and in turn, took the power for himself. Just as Cronos had done to Uranus. There was so much drama, so much scandal in the pantheon of gods--again, basically your average high school class." "So would you say we are gods?" I whispered to Billy, flexing my arms. He was on the wrestling team with me. He was in fact the only guy in my weight class that could beat me, but you wouldn't know it, considering our personalities. He turned red. "Don't get a big head, Chris." "Or what?" I said, smirking. He bit his lip. "Or we'll have to wrestle--and remind you that you are only human." "And what happens the day that I win?" He shrugged. "I guess that would prove you are a god," he said, letting irony ooze into his voice. Sadly, I didn't beat Billy during practice. He's just too fucking good. Luckily he doesn't understand the concept of gloating very well. I pinned nearly everyone else, although Calvin wiggles so much that I couldn't really get a grip on him. Calvin is frustrating to wrestle because he isn't even really that good. He spends most of the match just trying not to lose without even going on offense; then if he notices you getting tired, he pounces. Which works on most of the guys, but not someone like me. He knows he's weaker than me! If he knows he can't win, then why the fuck doesn't he just give up? Billy beats Calvin, but Billy is more agile than me. I am a little shorter than the others in my weight class, but also the most muscular--but being muscle-bound doesn't help when it becomes a battle of flexibility or creativity. Great wrestlers can figure out what I am going to do next--I'm too mechanical, too predictable. My dad tells me to harness my passion, but whenever I try to do that, I lose. I even lost to Calvin once doing that. I was slumping on the couch when my dad came home. He looked a lot like me, which is to say, pretty damn good. I was 5'10 and he was 5'11. We both had light brown hair that looked golden in the right light and with sideways bangs that waved across our face. His eyes were my eyes--sky blue, also with a touch of gold. We both had slightly rectangular chins, but I had cuter dimples. My smile was better. His was sort of sad. Mine, according to Billy, oozes sex, which sounds good to me. My dad's lips curl like he has a secret. "How was your day?" he asked, sitting against me on the couch. "You know, same old same old," I said sighing. "I still lose to Billy. Calvin gave me trouble. Classes are boring. My girlfriend's a tease." He rubbed my hair. "Sounds like you need to wrestle your old man," he said. "Just one question," I said, getting to my feet and flexing. "Would you say that I am a god?" I flexed and smiled. "Of course you are a god," dad said, raising his eyebrows. "Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise. You are my little godboy." He tackled me onto the floor and we laughed for a while as we rolled around. Once we got to the actual wrestling though, things became less fun. My father is the most frustrating person to wrestle. He was the wrestling champion of Kentucky when he was growing up, which is probably why I went into wrestling in the first place. He always instilled this sense of purpose and worth in wrestling, like it was more than a game--like it was self-expression, like it was the key to finding who you are. But I was just no match for him. He could foresee everything I was going to do just before I did it and he shot me down with such elegant grace. Every time I tried to grab him, he deflected my hands so that I my attempt was reduced to awkward flailing. Trying to get him into any sort of hold was a laughable exploit. Throwing my weight at him had the appearance of effectiveness, because it took moments longer for him to counter it, but I fell that much harder as he used my force against me to make me off balance. Wrestling was always so sweaty and hot, straining muscles weaving against each other, shallow breathing, tight clothes, the smell of men. Some of the guys even got hard sometimes during the matches, like Calvin. It wasn't long before my dad had my arms pinned above my head, my shoulders on the floor, and me stuck on my back. I hated the way he looked down on me when he won. Always that glimmer of disappointment in those sad eyes, in the curve of his smile. Like he wanted me to win. Goddam it! I'm not a state-champion wrestler like him! Why can't I just be fucking good enough for him? I snarled and let my feelings subside. It was illogical; I knew it. I was good enough for him. He always told me to think the best of myself. I was good enough for him. Just not perfect. Dinner sucked, like usual. Ever since mom left we just microwaved up the stupidest TV dinners, which are extra lame because he doesn't even let me watch TV while we eat, so we just sit at the table across from each other, slipping our spoons through a black box of soggy vegetables and meat, trying to make conversation. I sighed as it was over, slumping into my room to attempt my homework. A few words into the passage about Gaia's love for dirt and I was fast asleep. ^^^^^ What do you think so far? I'm having an argument with my author friend. He wrote "Favor" and "My Wellbred Friend" under the high school tab. He thinks he is better than me. I don't think so. He might just be trying to get me to post my work because he is sort of manipulative, and a completely `great' editor, who I am using this space to `thank'. Anyways, send me a message at kingoftheuniverse69@hotmail.com. --The King