A Bird in the Oven - Kata Cuic Page 0,3

dating site registries, cookies from every artificial insemination clinic in the tri-state area, not to mention a couple of very virus-infested porn sites dedicated to women’s tastes.

She really does have baby fever.

She also has a shortage of adequate candidates to impregnate her.

Guilt is added to my other physical irritations. I have always been relieved that Liv does not often bring men home to her condo next door. Only one time I heard her moans of pleasure through our shared bedroom wall, and it was an experience I immediately knew I never wanted to repeat.

That was not enough to stop me from jerking off into my own hand while I pretended I was the one creating those sounds.

To be clear, my rock-hard dick insists now would be an opportune time to finally sink into Liv and make her moan.

Unfortunately for me and my poor cock, that is a line I cannot cross. Before she notices my morning wood, I peel myself away from her and walk to the bathroom.

Aiming is rather a moot point with a raging erection. I acquiesce for not spraying the ceiling. My mood is plummeting as everything continues to irritate me and not go as planned. I have just barely tasted the minty relief of my toothpaste when a sing-song greeting from downstairs freezes me in place.

Mom.

I rush into the bedroom in a panic, but Liv has not heard a thing. She is still asleep. She has rolled onto her stomach and stolen my pillow. My t-shirt is bunched up in the middle of her back, which leaves her ass on full display. She does not even notice the chill from one cheek being out in the open. Her Marvel underwear are so far up her crack, I do not understand how she can continue to sleep with that kind of annoyance.

I take exactly point five seconds to enjoy the sight and say a silent prayer of gratitude to Captain America for this moment.

Then I rush down the stairs before Mom’s typical lack of boundaries kicks in.

She is standing in my kitchen, holding a to-go cup of coffee that smells awful even from across the room. “Oliver, did you forget about our breakfast reservations?”

“We had breakfast reservations?” Obviously, I did forget.

She frowns. “That’s my fault. I must’ve forgotten to add it to the shared family computer calendar.”

My phone is still upstairs on my nightstand. I am not going to risk getting it to check and see who forgot what. “We can still go out to breakfast! Let me get dressed!”

She cocks her head back and squints at me. “I’ve already eaten. It’s almost ten. You look awful, honey. Are you feeling all right?”

Not currently, no. My skin is prickled with sweat and that vile scent from drinking too much the night before. I have a horrible hangover combined with an increasing case of panic. If I can get out of this potentially bad situation by dragging Mom out of the house to anywhere—without showering first—then, I shall take it.

“What else were we supposed to do today?” I do not doubt my mom wishes to begin Christmas shopping early. “We can go do that.”

She studies me more carefully. Her gaze sweeps me from head to— She reaches my midpoint, blushes, then averts her eyes. “Oh! I should have called first. Is, um, Isabella upstairs?”

I glance down. The urge to vomit appears, and it has nothing to do with being hungover. I am still the unlucky owner of an erection that my sweatpants do not hide. At all.

“We broke up,” I blurt.

“What?” Mom forgets all about our shared embarrassment and crosses the kitchen to wrap me in a hug. “When? Why?”

I pat her on the back while holding her at a distance with my other arm. “A few weeks ago. She wanted to attempt a trial run at parenting with cats. My allergies foiled her plans.”

Mom steps back, her expression a familiar one of disappointment. She sighs. “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“I was born with allergies. I did not do anything to myself.”

“Really, Oliver.” She shakes her head and makes her way back to the counter to reclaim her black juice. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. I just don’t understand why you set yourself up for failure like this. You’re not getting any younger. Life is passing you by. You’ve already achieved so much. Your father and I just want to see you settled down and happy before we pass.”

“Mom, you are sixty-three,” I