Oh boy, what a classic holiday mixup. This year’s family gathering might be a little weirder than usual because I completely spaced and forgot that I fucked my cousin.
I’m on the plane flying back home, planning what I’ll say to all my relatives around the dinner table, and as my tray table slips from its latch and hits me in the knee, I suddenly remember that my cousin Melanie and I shamefully fornicated at Fourth of July two years ago.
I don’t even know how I let this slip my mind. I remember as we emerged five minutes apart from each other out of the changing tent near our family’s rented cabana on Rockaway Beach, I said to myself, “Oh man, it’ll be important to remember that this just happened, no doubt.” Funny how complacency towards incest and six red-white-and-blue jello shots will make you turn a kind ear to the carnal voice we all have in the back of our heads that is always persisting, “You should definitely boink your cousin right now.”
I’m in agony over the thought of seeing my sweet, sweet grandmother. Normally I would be ecstatic to see her kind, weathered face reach towards me with a hug and an offer of fresh-baked goods. But I just know that before I can even ask if her hip thing has gotten any better, nothing will be on my mind save for the fact that I have technically fucked her granddaughter.
My brain is riddled with the awful anticipation of a midday movie with my family on this “vacation.” My neck is tight with the idea of taking a full minivan to the mall across town, the unspoken tension brimming between me and Melanie, separated in the backseat by my idiot brother, Marcus. My stomach is already in knots at the notion of walking past a Dave’s BBQ toward the yellowing cinema and paying $9.75 for a ticket to Despicable Me 3, disregarding that our group is well past its age demographic and that it has been out of most theaters for months. I am reeling at the idea of being in a dark theater with Melanie, going to the glass concessions counter to stave it off, even for a few mere moments. I fear that as I stare into some seventeen-year-old employee’s minefield of acne, I’ll take a deep breath and very clearly order, “One large cousin-fuck please.”
How will I take a family photo? Melanie and I will have to put our arms around each other in a tight embrace, hands around waists. You know what’s connected to waists? Butts. And two years ago, she definitely put a finger in mine during our throes of passion in a four-by-four canvas tent.
Thank god it’s against the rules to talk during charades, otherwise I’d probably just yell, “Hear-ye hear-ye, I present myself who hath fucked my cousin.”
Christmas Carols? More like Christmas Melanie. I had sex with my cousin Melanie.
Although I know I’ve committed the most classic holiday snafu, there’s something about Melanie that I just can’t ignore. Something that I haven’t found in other girls. I guess you could call it a sense of familiarity. After all, the holidays are a time of being together, setting aside differences, and most of all, reflecting on you and your cousin sneaking off from Fourth of July and accidentally calling her “Mom” during climax. But hey, at least this is easier to deal with than arguing with family about politics. That would be a nightmare.
Article by Hunter Saling
Illustration by Cornelius Robbins