Well
wasn’t that a crazy little idea?
Never
imagined that my parents would be up for it, but I threw them the concept
anyway.
And
now I think I have turned them into stoners.
Even
though when my mother asked my father how he felt about hash cookies as a palliative
medicine for his incurable cancer she was most surprised by his response: a
quiet “I’ll give it a try but I don’t see what they’ll do.”
Turns
out he thought she’d said hash browns, leading him to ponder the medicinal
properties of potato.
However,
upon being corrected he was quite amused by the thought and putting aside his
bourgeois pre-conceptions in favour of his natural, scholarly attitude towards
research, he heartily consented.
Stage
2 in the conversation concerned the acquiring of the ingredients.
My
father, who often buys in bulk for the sake of a deal, had visions of my
importing large quantities.
I
assured him it was easily obtainable on any street corner within 3 minutes walk
of my apartment and that it was available in handy and affordable fun-sized
packs.
Mother
wondered who was going to make the cookies and if there’s a particular recipe
book.
Not
sure, I say, but I don’t think it’s Donna Hay.
A
small joke re sniffer dogs has her on the verge of booking an armoured truck to
transport me and my cookies.
I
tell her I can make my own way.
“As
long as you keep the windows up and don’t stop anywhere.”
Ferrying
hash cookies from Potts Point to Hunters Hill must constitute trafficking in
her law book.
Although
I’m sure she was enjoying being an accomplice to crime.
The acquiring of the main ingredient did, in fact, prove more difficult than imagined.
Local
corners, usually peopled by feral peddlers hoarsely whispering “smoko”, were
strangely abandoned the night I went shopping.
I
did so many laps of Kings Cross I felt sure I had been pinned as either
undercover cop or sex fiend.
Just
as I called it quits I collided with a fifty-plus drunk woman who had the face
of a car wreck and the underwhelming sales technique of a lobotomised
door-to-door Christian.
I
exchanged $100 for what seemed like enough pot to dull a small nation, wiped
her breath from my face and took the dog-free route home.
I
took delight in informing mother that the illegal part of the operation had
been successfully completed.
I
felt like the rebel teenager enlisting the nice girl of the neighbourhood into
illicit behaviour and changing her forever.
As
I have never been adept at any form of baking that does not involve the sun I
felt it wise to outsource the labour for this stage of the project.
Working
with the brief that ill father would not enjoy being completely out of it,
@culinary_and_drug_savvy_friend produced several batches of flavoursome
delights.
I
sampled one from each batch.
Not
necessarily a good idea.
Well,
it would have been had I not had 3 in 3 hours.
Was
off my head.
Drug-induced
stupor had me sending a courier with the remainder to parental home, enclosing
instructions to eat half a cookie about 45 minutes before evening meal and that
if pain persists, finish it off.
It
seemed an age that I deliberated over what to write on the dotted line headed
Description Of Contents.
Felt
reasonably satisfied with “medical supplies”, then ticked the non-
illegal/explosive box.
Arrived
at parental home for dinner 2 nights later and found father asleep on sofa.
“He’s
just had half a cookie,” said mother in a loud, conspiratorial whisper.
She
and I popped to neighbours’ for quick pre-dinner drink.
An
hour-and-a-half later we merrily returned to find father stuffing his face on
cheese and biscuits.
I
couldn’t wait, he said, mouth full and eyes bloodshot.
He
ploughed his way through an enormous meal and before his plate had even been
removed he was making pudding enquiries.
The
appetite stimulating properties of marry-a-wana, as he insists on calling it,
were having the desired effect.
Other
properties also in effect: he was relaxed yet loquacious, complimenting mother
on her cooking.
He
then made several charitable remarks on her re-decoration of the dining room,
the Etruscan colour scheme making itself apparent to him for the first time. In
the following days I learned that he had been sleeping better than he had since
before the diagnosis.
Mother
also enjoying cookies, having felt it important to share the experience with
her husband.
She
did, however, say she’s feeling a little porky.
I,
on the other hand, was feeling anything but porky and was hoping that newly
discovered abs, flattened by dehydration and a total of 14 hours of serious
boogie action, would remain as such at least until 2nd date with man met in the
supermarket the preceding week.
He
had been hovering nervously near the fruit and veg.
I
looked at his trolley for signs of upturned bananas and caught his eye.
He
was very handsome, but in the manner of a TV science show host.
He
looked around shyly then smiled.
I
was smitten as he was also about 6-foot-4 and powerfully built.
I
smiled back, then he stuck out his hand in very formal fashion and introduced
himself.
Found
myself saying “how do you do?”.
He
is a school teacher and he has a penis shaped like a choc top.
Not
that he told me that in the supermarket.
I
found out 3 days later.
We
had enjoyed a wholesome meal together then walked with earnest purpose to the cinema.
We
saw a Woody Allen film, for the entire duration of which he held my hand.
He
then suggested a cup of tea at my place.
Upon
arrival he marched to the kitchen and started boiling water and searching for
tea.
He
stopped suddenly and announced that he was going to kiss me. He then rubbed his
hands together in the manner of somebody readying themselves for a brisk walk,
put his hands on my shoulders and leaned down to kiss me.
Slowly
and hesitantly at first.
And
then he was off.
Tongue
right in.
Grinding
crotch (kind of sexy although it was level with my navel).
He
then lifted me up and walked me to the bedroom.
All
the usual pre-amble happened and then he announced emphatically that he was
going to fuck me.
I
didn’t say anything – I never agree until I’ve seen it.
And
when I did, I should have been scared.
But
I wasn’t.
I was amazed.
It truly was shaped
like a choc top.
Huge domed top and a
ridged cylindrical shaft.
Decided I could get it
in.
But wasn’t so sure
about getting it out.
Surprisingly pain-free
experience ensued with no real obstacles to either entry or egress.
2nd date followed
similar course, although it dawned on me that his wholesomeness might not only
bore me but also prevent me from sharing the grittier details of my life.
I gave him a heavily
edited version of my weekend, to which he’d responded with “I don’t know where
you get the energy.”
I chose not to mention
the 6 bumps of K that had turned me into Beyoncé. Having reviewed the week I decided I needed another release.
Friends all busy or
chilling.
So I called my mother.
Told her I was bored.
Come on over, she
said.
We’re about to have a
cookie.
Seems that while I had
been sampling the delights of the cinema candy bar, my aged parents had been
acquiring another taste.
Am now suffering
identity crisis:
I’m an inner-city poof
who shares his vices with his parents, yet feels compelled to keep them
from his sexual partners.
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