How I Kissed Your Father
Little Danny exploded into the Grumps’ studio, gleaming with his typical childlike sweetness. He breathed the sweat-stained air, visible lines of scrotal pheromone and over-ripened bungus drifting through the room. Drawn by the scent, he found Arin–his surrogate father and allegedly platonic friend–lounging on the couch, furiously masticating an oversized bowl of Cookie Crisp with expired almond milk. This was the only form of almond Arin would buy, as the only thing worse than almonds was wasted almonds.
Undeterred by the wild, frenzy-like splashes and predatory grunting, Little Danny threw himself to the floor at Arin’s tootsies, careful not to scratch them and damage his WikiFeet reputation. Peering over his ceramic slop bucket with both curiosity and affection, Arin raised a single eyebrow. Little Danny gazed back at him with reverence and innocence.
Lowering his bowl, Arin let the remnant of sour, creamy, nut milk filter through his lip tickler and down the curves of his smile. Nothing made him happier than seeing his sweet boy with such hope and energy. It reminded him of when he was a kid, and how those were the best 32 years of his life. He dreaded the day Little Danny would have to face the rite of manhood and play DDLC, forever tainting the grundle of his virgin soul with darkness. But for now, he would savor every moment with his bright-eyed and bushy-tailed ward. Maybe then he could share in the dreams behind those innocent eyes. Maybe he could find one of his own. Maybe Little Danny could even rub one off on him.
“Grumpa Arin?” said the beautiful soul.
“Yes, Kitten Dan?” answered the soft but authoritative Arin.
“Can you tell me a story? Pleeeease?”
Arin set his tub of soggy cardboard aside and ruffled Little Danny’s hair, giving it its signature bounce and volume. Little Danny giggled and blushed, a little embarrassed, but thankful.
“My sweet, Little Danny boy,” said Arin. “To you, whom I love like a son but not in a sexual way, I always have time for a story. What would you like to hear?”
Little Danny had to hold back his excitement as he shouted, “Tell me the story of us!”
Arin leaned back on the couch, setting free a cloud of stale ass gas that had been preserved in the fibers for some time. He drew a reminiscent look, thinking back happily on days long past. His eyes began to tear up, but that was just from the fart fog.
“Ah yes,” he recalled. “That is a fine story. Very well. I think you are old enough to hear it now.”
Arin smacked his juicy thighs.
“Come on my lap, boy.”
Ignoring the poor choice in wording, Little Danny gleefully scaled Arin’s leg and settled into a warm, sweaty spot along the crevice of his bent knee. Arin patted the boy’s head and began.
“It all started with a meeting of fate….”
***
I had just attended my first court-ordered Gooner’s Anonymous meeting. It was a small, intimate venue, which regulars liked to refer to as the "Goon Room." I was shy, being new to the group. Yet as we exchanged our stories and daily struggles, I couldn’t help but notice a charming older man on the opposite side of the circle. His mature aura hinted of wisdom and experience, while his kind ewes drew me in with their Hebraic magnetism. Several times, he caught me staring, but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed just as interested in me.
When the meeting ended, I hurried to the door, too nervous to approach the silver fox. And that’s not just an epithet, either. He had pointed ears, coated with a voluptuous fur, which only made him all the sexier.
In my rush, I dropped the loose pickle I kept in my pocket in case of emergencies. Just as I reached the door, I felt a firm but reassuring pressure on my shoulder. I turned back to see the gorgeous gentleman had stopped me. He held the oozing, green vegetable in his other hand, the salty juices flowing freely between his fingers, and offered it to me with a smile.
“Ehhh, excuse me,” he said. “You dropped your puggle.”
His English was B-tier, like a red velvet cake or a green M&M, but I could tell his heart was an all-around S. That, coupled with his “Did I mpreg you with my swag?” t-shirt, meant I knew right then I had fallen in love.
“T-Thank you,” I said, briefly grazing his hand with mine as we exchanged pickle. “I was saving that all day.”
“Saving for what?” he replied, out of genuine interest.
I was a little embarrassed to say, but somehow I felt so safe in his presence.
“M…My ass.”
The gentleman nodded, like he understood.
“Ah yes, I remember those years of my youth fondlingly.”
I slipped the pickle back into my pocket, hand lightly trembling. I could feel beads of sweat starting to form on top of the beads of sweat that already usually covered me. I never expected him to come right up and talk to me. I had to make it count.
“I…I’m Arin,” I said, cutely pressing the tips of my index fingers together. “But you can call me Arin.”
“Hallo Arnold,” said the gentleman, with a gentlemanly bow. “You can call me Dan’s Dad.”
My heart badummed. I’d never heard a name that fit its owner so well. Something came over me and I couldn’t help myself.
“This might be too forward,” I nervously asked. “But would you like to…maybe…go on a butthole sniffing adventure with me?”
Dan’s Dad laughed, but not at me.
“The buss-hole sniffing, yes. I hear the kids love it these days. Unforeign-ately, it is not–how you say–up my back alley.”
My head sank. I knew it was too good to be true. But Dan’s Dad raised my chin back up like an elevator of hope.
“But if you wish, I would still like to go out somewhere.”
My ewes widened and glistened like a watermelon that just came out of the fridge and had a bunch of condensation on it. I nodded, unable to speak.
“Come,” he said, in his suave, Jewish way, “let me take you to my flavorite place.”
We joined hands, both still slick from pickle discharge. The sweat around my hair and armpits and bellybutton started turning to steam as my face went red like my poop after eating a bunch of beets. He led me out into the city, which bustled with nightlife despite the decades-long decline in brick-and-mortar retail and exponential increase in public displays of being a asshole. Out there, we were two in a million, but even so I felt like there was no one else around. I kept quiet as we walked side-by-side, not wanting to ruin the mood with unnecessary questions like “What do you do?” or “Where are we going?” or “Why is there a tail sticking out of your pants?’ For all I cared, he could be a fulltime anthro cosplayer. We could rendezvous at the ends of the Earth or anywhere between. As long as these butterflies in my rumbly tums remained, I was happy.
We walked for a good, few blocks before I noticed my surroundings. I thought I must’ve been mistaken, as the part of town we’d worked our way towards was members only. Every corner was packed to the seam with the hottest technoparties and exclusivist clubs. Obviously Dan’s Dad was a super fly guy, but I couldn’t imagine he was in with that crowd. So imagine my surprise when we hung a slight right onto Fudge Chunnel Boulevard and there it stood: the crown family jewels, the cream of the cock, the mushroom top of the Los Angeles “it” scene. Before us was the highly coveted and ever-tantalizing D Club.
I figured we would walk right by. But Dan’s Dad stopped at the door with all the confidence of a gun-toting madman in a stick fight.
I swallowed my nervousness and asked him as he reached for the door.
“Wait,” I said. “Are you…a member of the D Club?”
Dan’s Dad looked back. His expression was not one of smugness, but pride in having successfully impressed me.
“Member?” he knowingly replied. “I own this establishipment.”
I couldn’t believe it.
“But,” I said. “But I’m the night club boy. I’m the one who gets in.”
Dan’s Dad winked, and I felt a flash of titillating heat wrap my body as my manhood quivered.
“That makes two of us.”
I gasped. How could I not have realized it before? “The D Club” was just a nickname, short for “The Dan’s Dad Club.” But who could have imagined this was the same Dan’s Dad?!
Starstruck and with a newly formed stain on my crotch, I followed him in. Being that I shared a presence with royalty, I worried all ewes in the club would be upon us. But the mood was different. As the ladies and lads–the eggs and androgynites–bopped to the DJ’s hopping beat, only fleeting nods of acknowledgement came our way. I sensed there was an air of understanding, an unspoken code that recognized the D Club as being about the experience, not the individual. Even when someone as special as Dan’s Dad entered the D, he became one of the collective. That was the D Club’s guiding principle, and a testament to Dan’s Dad’s modesty.
We sat at the bar, and Dan’s Dad ordered us a J-O crystal to share. Gooner’s Anonymous was more of an in-person social networking club than a rehab program, so a little J-O between friends was actually encouraged. Once our crystal was fully charged, the bartender took it back and used it to power his cocktail maker. Dan’s Dad and I had a couple drinks made with our own righteous J-O energy and sat back to shoot the breeze, which in my case meant dropping a thermonuclear flatulence bomb. The blast radius: ten meters. The payload: a stink so bad it peeled the laminate from the floor.
I blushed, remembering not everyone was so used to my Fus-ro-dah dookie whispers.
“Oh my Ganon, I’m so sorry,” I said.
But Dan’s Dad didn’t even flinch. In fact he smiled.
“No-no,” he replied, with gentle understanding. “I’m glad you’re comfordable enough around me to let your cheeks squeak. It’s a sign of trust.”
I hesitated.
“Well…as long as you’re OK with it.”
I unleashed an aftershart, sending tremors up through the bar counter that rattled the empty glasses. The poot hoot traveled with extreme prejudice and velocity, knocking a server out cold as he passed behind me.
“Oops,” I laughed coyly. “I totally dragonborned that guy with my butt breath. Born from dragin' deez nutz across your mom’s face. Ha-ha.”
I laughed again. I did that when I was nervous. Also when I set up my own jokes, which was often. But Dan’s Dad laughed along. I could tell he appreciated my sophisticated humor.
We laughed together until the noxious emission made a loop back and hit Dan’s Dad, curling his nose hairs up into his nostrils. He started coughing and covered his mouth.
“Excuse me,” he said, voice coarse and strained, “suddenly I’m a little froggy.”
I stopped dead. Froggy….
The smile and blush drained from my face. My ewes went wide with a thousand yard stare as the word echoed in my head.
Froggy.
It repeated. Again. And again. And again, conjuring flashbacks of death, destruction, and one Big, fat, purple, FUCK!
My skin crawled as my post-Sonic-Adventures stress disorder flared up. My personal Vietnam had returned to haunt me.
Froggy!!
I felt like the devil himself had climbed on my back, whipping my cakes with a riding crop as he steered me to Hell.
No. I couldn’t go back. I wouldn’t.
I threw myself to the sticky, club floor, shouting like a maniac.
“No! Not him! Anyone but him!”
I curled in a fetal ball as the overwhelming urge to seppuko came over me. Only when I felt a strong, supportive hand squeeze my arm was I pulled back to reality.
“Armand!” said Dan’s Dad, the concern notable in his voice. “What’s the Marshal Mathers?!”
I looked up at him and pulled myself into his embrace. Maybe it was forward, maybe it was awkward, but I just needed it in that moment. Dan’s Dad didn’t question, he just wrapped his arms around me. He could tell I was broken. But more than that, he could tell I didn’t need fixing. I just needed to be held together.
We sat like that for a while as he ASMRed Urban Dictionary phrases into my ear. Once I calmed down, I tried to stand, embarrassed all over again.
“I’m OK,” I said. “I think…maybe I should just go home.”
I staggered as I tried to take a step. Dan’s Dad had to catch me.
“You look faint,” he noted. “Let me walk you, at least.”
I nodded and leaned against him. My first visit to the D Club and it ended in a premature evacuation. I should have felt like such a fool, but I really didn’t care. Having Dan’s Dad’s arm around me, even if it was to keep me from falling over, made it all worth it. I could still salvage the night if I tried.
We crossed town and came to my apartment.
“Welcome to my parents’ house,” I said without reservation.
In today’s economy, it was nothing to be ashamed of.
When we reached the door, I sensed Dan’s Dad suddenly grow distant. He pulled away from me, looking like he was ready to leave.
“You’re not staying?” I said, a tinge of disappointment in my voice.
“I don’t want to take a vantage of you in your venerable state,” he replied.
I smiled. I should’ve known it would be something thoughtful.
“Don’t worry,” I said, lightly tugging his arm. “I want this.”
I pulled him through the door. We playfully spun around and tripped over each other, “accidentally” landing on the couch. We laughed, but stopped when we realized our faces were only inches apart. I felt his hot, misty breath, as a mound, then a hill, then a mountain rose to prominence in his jeans. I’d scaled a Rainier, a Kilimanjaro, even a Denali in my days, but this meaty peak even a sherpa couldn’t conquer. I had to know. I had to see if I was worthy. Though ironically, it wasn’t the tip of his Everest I was after. I wanted to see if I could make it all the way to base camp.
I leaned in, till our noses almost touched.
“Dan’s Dad,” I said in a breathy whisper, “do you verbally, in sound judgment, and without coercion, consent to me kissing you?”
“Yes, Arlo,” Dan’s Dad replied. “And please, call me Daddy Sexbang.”
With that permission, I pounced. We locked lips and started slow, but soon my tungulus wormed deep into his throat, yearning to feel every inch of his digestive tract. We were no longer breathing, but swallowing each other’s oxygen in a beautiful cycle of love and symbiosis. I couldn’t even think of the Olympian teepee in his trousers anymore. All I wanted was to suck every drop of saliva from his mouth, absorb his energy, and merge every one of our cells into a single, perfect body.
So I did.
His flesh melted in a sensual mass that my skin then consumed through reverse osmosis, making us one in body, mind, and soul. All that remained were his clothes, including his awesome mpreg shirt. I felt a little guilty when it was all said and done, but I promised I wouldn't forget him. To make sure of it, he left me with a final, parting gift.
His essence was so raw, so powerful, so sexy, that I couldn’t hold it all to myself. I could feel it trying to exit my body. So I ran to the bathroom and took the biggest shid of my life. Once the screaming stopped, I went to flush and paused. There in the muck I noticed movement. I knew I had gotten rid of the ringworms, so I reached in to investigate. To my surprise, a tiny paw reached back out and grabbed my finger.
***
“When I pulled it out, I couldn’t believe my ewes. My ass had birthed a zoomorphic homunculus, a tiny man with puffy hair, pointy ears, and a ‘Leggo my Stego’ t-shirt.”
“You mean this?!” Little Danny shouted, excitedly showing off his prized dino wear.
Arin smiled warmly at his happy, homunculus offspring imbued with the life force of his assimilated lover.
“That’s right, Kitten. That’s the shirt I shidded you in.”
Little Danny’s eyes sparkled with wonder.
“Wow…. So that’s why it smells like a doo-doo dungeon.”
“Those are memories you smell,” Arin wisely explained. “The day you were butt-born was the happiest day of my life. That night as I boarded the train to Sleepytime Junction, I cradled you in my arms, softly nursing you from my tender chesticles.”
Arin sighed lovingly, longingly.
“Ahh, I miss those days. But I’m still proud as ever at the homunculus man you’ve become, even if you still sit on my lap at age 45.”
Little Middle-Aged Homunculus Furry Danny rubbed his feet together bashfully.
“Thanks, Grumpa Arin.”
“No problem, my sweet, little, love abomination. I’m always happy to tell you a story.”
Arin carefully picked up his unholy spawn and set him on the floor, urging him along with a pat on the back.
“Now leave me. The day winds down and I must begin edging. Tonight I sense a full goon rising.”
Little Danny kicked at the ground, sad to be going.
“Golly gee, I sure wish I could goon as good as you, Grumpa.”
Arin chuckled.
“You will someday, Danny Boy. You will someday.”
