Twenty Cups Ch. 01

Note: Others before me have blazed (and improved) the trail that is this story's main conceit. I'm indebted to them all, and hope my attempt here does justice as an homage to their amazing stories. -FS

***

This story begins with my father passing along a genetic deficiency to me. My liver doesn't do a good job of producing Aldolase B, an enzyme that helps break down fructose. I have Hereditary Fructose Intolerance or HFI. It's fairly rare, and it's awful because fructose is in basically everything that tastes sweet. So, my father gave me HFI and then left my Mom with three young kids. I was three, Emma was four, and Lia was seven. Mom raised us by herself.

As the only boy is a household full of females, I was pampered and doted upon. It helped that I was pretty quiet and that I was always up for whatever game the girls wanted to play. Dress me up like a girl? I didn't care. Kitten tea party? Okay. I never got in fights with my sisters, but wow, did Emma and Lia fight. And Lia and Mom. And Emma and Mom.

My sisters loved me because—in their words—I was "fuzzy." Mom kept my hair buzzed pretty short, and I was a big, strong kid. Also, I loved blankets. Even in the summer, if I was inside the house, I usually had a really soft blanket wrapped around me. For whatever reason, it delighted the girls, Mom included, that I was always warm and fuzzy. When I was outside, I ran around like a madman, climbing trees, catching snakes, doing what boys do. But, inside? Fuzzy. The girls would see me and come running. They'd jump on me and snuggle.

What kind of sucked was that, as I grew up, there were absolutely no secrets about me. The girls all had secrets, but anything that was going on in my life was fit for discussion at the table. What's more is that they had these conversation about me—in my presence—almost as if I weren't even there.

For example, when I was a freshman in high school, the ladies of my house began a discussion during breakfast about which girl I should ask out.

"He should ask Heather out," Emma suggested.

Lia said, "No, I think that one girl, the volleyball player—what's her name?"

"Ariel Gunderson?"

"Yeah! He should go out with Ariel. I like her."

"No way. Heather is way cooler."

Mom interposed, "What about Jennifer Mund? She seems very nice."

My sister's guffawed at this suggestion.

On and on they went, never once seeking my opinion. I just hid behind my box of special cereal and ate in silence.

It sounds unbelievable to think the girls talked about all these things, but it's true. I was the curiosity of the house—the only boy—and I was like a good dog for the women around me: I kept my mouth shut, looked cuddly, fought for my family when I had to, and enjoyed the heck out of getting out of the house.

Mom was a nurse for years, but by the time I entered in high school, she had moved on to teaching nurses at the city college. She loved teaching, and said it was her true calling. Often, one of us would raise a question, and then Mom would switch to what we called "teacher mode." She could totally lose herself in explaining details, providing examples, and checking on our understanding. She missed nursing, she told us, but that she was now teaching nurses made it all the better.

She was fiercely active in helping me with my HFI. She almost lost me before I was diagnosed as an infant. Plus, I'd made a few mistakes in life. At a birthday party once, I ate some cake without even thinking. I had no idea there was such sweetness in the world, and it was then I realized my mistake. I broke out in a massive rash and had horrendous stomach pains for a while. HFI can kill you if you're not careful. As I grew into a young man, I began to take responsibility for myself, but that didn't stop Mom from researching and trying to find out the latest on my disease.

Her research led to this story's real beginning.

I was three months from turning 19 when I came home after finals for winter break in mid-December, I discovered that my Mom had set up a specialist appointment for me the next morning.

"Why?" I asked.

"A few weeks ago, I read in a journal article that there is fructose in semen," she explained. "It's used as an energy source, for motility. It's possible that yours may not contain any, and this may make you infertile. We need to find out."

"But, I'm not..."

She didn't let me finish. "We've all agreed. You're going."

This meant that my mother and my sisters, who were already on break from their schools, had thoroughly discussed the matter and, together, decided for me.

So, I went. Mom came with me, but I persuaded her to remain in the waiting room.

I would need to provide samples, and the standard was ten. The doctor, however, was going to be out of town over the holidays. She would not be able to see me again until early January. Apparently, as far as samples, the more, the more accurate the results. So, I walked out of there with two ten-packs of sperm sample containers.

The women interrogated me at home with the 20 lidded cups sitting in the middle of the kitchen table.

Emma asked, "So, he has to fill every one of those containers?"

"Yes," Mom answered.

"Guys can do that?" she asked, surprised.

"Not in one day, Emma! Geez!" Lia said. "And he doesn't have to fill them all the way up, I bet, does he, Mom?"

"No," my mom responded, chuckling.

"So, what is it? Like once a day or something?" Emma asked.

"Yes," Mom responded. "The same time every day—or close to it—and he's not supposed to change his diet."

"He should use a condom," Lia suggested, "That would catch everything, and no mess."

Mom said, "He can't. Condoms have spermicide on them. It would interfere with the results." Then, Mom turned to me. "Did the doctor say anything about using lubrication when you masturbate?"

"It's fine," I answered.

"Good," she declared.

"Mom, would vaginal fluids or saliva interfere with the results?" Lia asked.

Emma turned to Lia and yelled, "What?"

Lia craned her head at Emma and, glaring, retorted, "So a girlfriend could help him, Enema!" When irritated, that was Lia's name for Emma—Enema. Emma called Lia "Diarrh-Lia."

"Oh."

Mom answered Lia's question. "No, honey, they don't have any fructose in them."

"So, a girlfriend could help him?" Emma asked.

Mom turned to me. "Have you got a girlfriend here, baby?"

I never really had an actual girlfriend. I was pretty shy. I shook my head.

Mom turned to Emma. "That's probably not going to happen, Emma."

"Can he drink alcohol?" Lia asked.

Mom nodded. "He can," she said, and then, turning to me, added, "but, he shouldn't. He's not old enough."

"How do guys actually do it?" Lia asked.

"One of my nurse friends works in the fertility clinic," Mom explained. "She says they have movies and magazines in the rooms for men to use."

"Porn?" Emma asked.

Mom nodded. "I'm sure he can find what he wants to use on the Internet." A second later, she turned to me and asked if that would be okay or if I needed to pick up something.

"I'm okay, Mom."

"Oh, did the doctor say whether or not you can ejaculate more than once in a day?" Mom asked.

"One sample per day."

"I know that. I'm asking about in between providing samples. Are you permitted to ejaculate?"

I stared at her, confused.

Emma said, "But, he doesn't have a girlfriend, Mom."

"That doesn't mean he isn't going to find one, Emma," Lia responded.

Then, Mom added, "Or, he may decide to masturbate again. Young men sometimes have strong urges."

Lia turned to me. "Would you do that? Masturbate again?"

"I don't like to do it," I said.

Mom had been cutting up fruit for the girls. She stopped. "Why not? Does it hurt?"

"It's weird."

Emma said, "It's gross."

"No, it's not. It's no grosser than when girls do it," Lia remarked.

Mom, still watching me, said, "Explain this to me. I need to understand. Does it feel strange?"

"It's like I'm gay or something."

"Are you gay?" Lia asked.

"No."

"Lia, please keep focused," Mom said. She rounded on me. "Why do you feel gay when you masturbate?"

I glanced at Lia and Emma for a moment, and then looked at Mom and muttered, "It's touching a penis to make a man ejaculate."

"You, honey. The man is you, yourself, not some other man, and most men masturbate, not just gay ones."

"I know."

My Mom's face was a portrait of deep concern. "So, do you ever masturbate?"

Lia and Emma watched me closely.

I shook my head.

Mom asked, "You just let it build up?"

"It does that, Mom?" Emma asked.

She nodded to Emma, and then looked back at me.

I answered, "My body takes care of it."

The girls heard this and looked at Mom. "Do you mean wet dreams?" Mom asked.

"Yeah."

Lia and Emma's faces took on the "oh, yeah" expression.

"Why?" Mom asked.

Emma said, "Yeah, don't you mess up your pajamas?"

"And your bed?" Lia added.

"Sometimes," I responded.

Mom was still waiting for my answer to her question.

I glanced between my sisters, and said, "It's dumb, Mom. Isn't real."

Mom guffawed at this, arguing, "And your dreams are?"

"They seem real," I said. "My body thinks it's real, and I'd rather have sex with a girl in my dreams than do it to myself. It's a surprise when it happens."

All three of the females seemed to be hanging on my words, waiting for more. I never talked this much.

"I don't like playing pretend," I finished.

Mom said, "Well, now you have to do it, and I need to know that you're going to."

I nodded. "I will."

Mom blinked a few times, still staring at me, and then silently went back to cutting up fruit. Lia and Emma worked on their breakfasts.

Lia eventually asked, "Are you going to help him, Mom? Watch him, I mean."

My mouth fell open. I closed my eyes.

Mom said, "I'm considering it."

Lia said, "I think you should."

Emma snapped, "Oh, gross. Why?"

Lia explained, "He doesn't do it ever, so he probably doesn't know what he's doing. He's trying to get it all in a tiny cup, and he's holding the cup with one hand and his penis with the other. Plus, he's having an orgasm and his body will probably be shaking or something."

I glared at Lia. "I'm fine, Lia."

Mom used her knife to scrape the fruit into a big bowl. She set down the knife and gave me a stern glare. "Are you going to be okay doing this? Because I'll be darned if I'm going to pay for this procedure and have you not get it right."

I nodded.

Emma said, "Mom, what does he do with the stuff when he's finished?"

"It goes in the freezer until we've got all the samples," she responded.

Mom watched me while I finished eating.

Lia and Emma discussed what I should do if I was found to be infertile.

***

According to Mom, for there were no pictures of Dad in the house, my face and coloring were a mirror image of his. The shape and size of my body, however, weren't. I was just over six feet tall, barrel-chested and with thick legs. I had very light, very short blonde hair, and brown eyes so dark they were practically black. I was tanned and hairy, with blonde fuzz almost everywhere on my body. It was a strange look—white hair covering nearly copper skin. Someone called me "Polar Bear" in middle school, and the nickname stuck. At home, I was still "fuzzy boy" to my sisters.

My sisters took after Mom. Their skin was pearly, creamy white. I couldn't see their few tiny freckles until I got really close. They all had curly, tomato-red hair. Emma's was super curly—so much so that if it wasn't tied up in a ponytail or clipped down, it would float high off her shoulders and back, and she'd look like a pyramid. Lia's was curly, too, but less so—thinner and shinier. Mom had fat curls that bounced when she walked. Mom and Emma had blue eyes, but Lia's were like mine. They had big lips and big mouths, full of shiny teeth, always ready to smile. They were very, very cute—my Mom, too.

All three were average height, but on the plump side. They stored their weight well, with fat breasts and fat butts, but relatively narrow waists and shapely legs. My friends talked about them a lot, and I could tell that they secretly liked my sisters and my Mom. At school, I know the guys called my sisters fat. It hurt Lia and Emma a lot to hear this. Those same guys, I bet, craved my sisters' bodies in their hearts.

My sisters, like Mom, were both really smart and mature. They hadn't played the silly high school games, and both had a small number of very, very close friends. They didn't date, as far as I could tell. I don't know what they wanted out of men or sex. My sisters' secrets were kept secret. They dissected me at the table, but never themselves.

If there was a significant difference in Emma's and Lia's personalities, I would say that Lia, the older of the two, was the rule follower and Emma was the risk taker.

I guessed Mom was asexual. Of course, she wasn't built like a woman disinterested in sex, but if she was having sex, I don't know how or when it happened. In middle school, I remember ransacking her room when she was out with the girls, looking for something, anything that might clue me in. I thought I might find a some sexy underwear, maybe a see-through nightie or something in her drawers. Nothing. I looked in her medicine cabinets for condoms or lubricant or something. Nothing. Then, I went through everywhere, thinking that maybe there'd be a toy or a device hidden away. Still, nothing. My theory was that she'd had sex three times in her life: Lia, Emma, and then me.

The evening after my specialist appointment, I went to bed thinking that I'd take care of myself—get the first sample—sometime in the morning after Mom left for work.

Mom's school was on a trimester plan. Winter break was mid-term for her. She taught classes until several days before the holidays, gave her mid-term, and then had two weeks before classes started again. I didn't know what her teaching schedule looked like, but she always went in to work early, whether she was teaching that morning or not.

I woke up after eight, and I knew Mom was gone. I was hard. I was ready, except, I forgot to bring the sample containers up to my room.

I wrapped my big, fluffy white blanket around me and went downstairs. Lia and Emma were in the family room with the tv on, messing around on their phones. I looked in the kitchen, bathroom, and Mom's room. I looked everywhere.

I walked back into the family room. "Hey, do either of you know where the sample cups are?"

Emma said, "Oh, my gosh, are you going to do it now?"

I shrugged.

Lia said she didn't know. Neither did Emma. I called Mom.

"I have them here," Mom said.

"Why?"

"Because I want to make sure you're going to do this right. See you in a few minutes."

She hung up before I could respond.

Twenty minutes later, I heard snorts and whispering from Lia and Emma when Mom, sample container in hand, walked up the stairs with me to my room.

She closed the door.

"Okay, talk me through what you're going to do."

I nodded. "Masturbate and ejaculate into..."

"No, baby. How are you going to do it?"

"The normal way." I shook my fist a few times.

Mom sighed. "You know, 99% of the time, the girls are much more challenging for me as a parent than you. You're almost always a piece of cake, but there's that one percent, baby. And that one percent sometimes makes up for the other 99. Now, tell me what your plan is for doing it. Where are you going to be, et cetera, et cetera?"

I nodded. "Lay on the bed..."

"Laying down? Show me."

I hesitated.

"Not for real, baby," she explained. "Lay down and act like you're going to do it." She handed me the container.

I took it and laid on my bed. I pretended to grab my erection. "Like this."

"And how are you going to catch it when it comes?"

I held the container with my other hand on my stomach, tilting it towards where my penis would be.

Mom shook her head. "The cup's tilted. You might spill some. And, you'll need to completely cover the tip of your penis. Do you think you can do that when you're ready to ejaculate? It might be tricky."

I nodded.

"Here," she said, "stand up."

I did.

"Why not like this?" she asked. She took my right hand and made a fist of it over my crotch. Then, she took my other hand and held the cup in front of my fist. "Easier not to spill any this way."

"Not comfortable."

She sighed. "Okay, but do not spill any. Where's your lubricant?"

I opened my mouth, closed it, and shook my head.

"Baby, use lubricant. Always use lubricant. You'll damage the skin otherwise. Do you have any?"

"No."

"Wait here."

She walked out of the room. The door was wide open, and I was still standing there with my fist curled against my crotch, and the container held in front. Then, my sisters walked up the stairs, glanced at me there, and turned towards their rooms.

I heard them snort. I saw their shoulders shaking as they walked away down the hall. Mom passed them by holding a tub of Vaseline. They burst out laughing.

Mom ignored them and closed the door to my room.

I shook my head. "Too greasy, Mom."

"That's the point, baby."

"Won't come off."

She held the tub to me and said, "Soap and water are miracles of this modern world. Take it."

I did.

Mom looked around the room. "Do you have your stimulation?"

"Huh?"

"Visual stimulation?"

I hesitated.

"Pornography! Did you bring your computer home?" she asked.

"No."

"Where's your phone?"

"Mom, my phone doesn't have Internet, remember?"

"Right, sorry. Where's the tablet?"

I shrugged.

Exasperated, she demanded, "Well, what the heck were you going to do?"

To my Mom, "heck" was a curse word. I responded, "Just think, I guess. Imagine."

Mom turned away from me and opened the door. "Lia!"

I heard Lia call out, "Yeah?"

"We need the tablet in here! Bring it, please!"

"What?"

"Bring it, Lia!" Mom turned to me. "This is just in case," she told me.

A few seconds later, Lia came up to the door, holding the black device. "Mom, is he going to use this for masturbating?"

"Maybe, honey."

"That's just weird, Mom. Can he not do that?"

Mom snatched it from her and closed the door.

As it latched shut, I heard Lia say, "Make sure he wipes it down."

Mom pushed the little button on the door handle, locking it. She turned to me, handing me the tablet. She was very stern when she said, "I'm not at all comfortable with your lack of planning here. I'm going to stay and make sure you get this right."

"Mom, please."

"I will sit back here and keep my mouth shut." She pulled the chair from my desk and set it up in the little panhandle corner of my room—a few feet away from the back of my bed, and behind it. "Once I'm comfortable that you've got this, then you'll never see me again." She sat down and crossed her legs.

I stared at the floor.

I lived a life full of embarrassment. With how my private matters were constantly discussed by the girls, I'd kind of gotten used to it—at least to a point where I just kept my mouth shut and bore it.

But, this?

This was on a whole other level. I was mortified at the idea of doing this in front of Mom.

It wasn't so much about her seeing me masturbate. I've seen her lose all motherhood and slip into nurse-teacher mode. She could be distant, like a friendly stranger. I knew she would be that way here.

What I liked least was the idea that Mom would see what turned me on. She'd be behind me, watching the video I pulled up.

I wasn't some freak. I knew exactly what video I wanted to watch, and, hell, it wasn't even pornographic. It was on youtube, actually. What did I care, then?

I suppose it was the idea that my sexual fantasies were one of the few secrets I could actually keep, one of the only things that hadn't been discussed in the kitchen. Now, I was revealing one of them. I also knew that, if Mom knew, then my sisters would, too.